by Bateman
‘A week?’
‘Yes, normally it takes—’
‘A week? I’ve been here a week?!’
‘Yes. Didn’t you know?’
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph?! How could I have been here a week?!’
He raised his hands in a calming gesture. It did not help.
‘It’s okay,’ he said, ‘it’s nothing to worry about. You were unconscious for most of it, at least when you weren’t vomiting and screaming. But it has done you a world of good, and certainly the electro-convulsive therapy has helped to return you to factory settings. I’m really—’
‘You . . . what?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Electro . . . you gave me electric-shock treatment?’
‘Yes, it’s one of the procedures we—’
‘Jesus! I mean – Jesus.’ I jumped up. My whole body was trembling. I began to hyperventilate. I needed a pill. Any pill. ‘You gave me . . . while I was unconscious, you gave me . . . without so much as a . . .’
‘Your family agreed.’ I stood there, staggered. ‘Please. Sit down.’ I did not. ‘It was all discussed. You had so many drugs in your body, all working against each other, the medical staff here were frankly surprised that you didn’t expire years ago. I saw the toxicology reports myself, and they were mindboggling. The consensus . . .’
‘My family agreed?’
‘Yes, of course. Although it was our preference, we wouldn’t have done it without family approval. Your partner – Alison? – we went through it all with her and she took some considerable time to decide, but she agreed in the end. Legally, it’s a bit of a grey area, you not being married to her, so it was also put to your mother, and she saw the wisdom of it straight away. She was very approving. So . . .’ He showed me the palms again.
I stood there. He opened a drawer and took out a brown paper bag.
‘Breathe into it,’ he said, reaching it across. ‘You’re having a panic attack.’
I took it, and crushed it into a ball, using all my strength, and hurled it behind me without looking.
‘Close,’ said Dr Robertson, ‘but ultimately off-target.’ He smiled benevolently. ‘Look, I can see that this has been a bit of a shock – no pun intended – but honestly, it was for your own good, and I can see the benefits already. And please understand – you’re thinking about old electric-shock treatment. That’s the problem we have with it to this day: the public see it as barbaric and inhumane, mostly because of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. That was basically torture. That was shock therapy, delivered without an anaesthetic. This is entirely different. You’re unconscious, there’s no pain at all, and it’s just a nice, gentle pulse. Honestly, it’s been showing wonderful results, and by the time you get to the end of the treatment, you’ll be an entirely new man.’
‘The end of . . .?’
‘Yes, every other day for two weeks. At the end of that I’m quite certain you’ll be back to work and happy as Larry. In a good way. Honestly. Please. Trust me. By the time this is finished, you won’t know yourself. And nobody else will either.’
26
I was in my room, in my bed, with the covers over my head; and then I jumped as something that felt like a hand was brought down on my thigh and I threw it off and Bertie was standing there, looking concerned.
‘Don’t touch me!’ I hissed, and he stepped back and apologised but said he’d spoken to me three times and I hadn’t responded and he was just checking I wasn’t dead and I said no such luck.
He said, ‘Don’t say that. Life is a gift.’
‘It should be returned unopened.’
He smiled. ‘I like that. Returned unopened. As long as you have the receipt.’
‘What do you want?’
‘JMJ sent me to get you. We’re having a session.’
‘You can tell JMJ to fuck off.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘I just did. And you can fuck off too.’
He blew air out of his cheeks. ‘Please. You really have to come,’ he said. ‘JMJ won’t start without you. If you don’t come, your privileges will be revoked.’
‘Privileges? In this place? That’s a laugh.’
‘All of our privileges. And we’ll just sit there, till you come.’
‘Well, I’m not coming.’
I pulled the covers back up. I had been electrocuted. They had burned part of my brain away. I would never know what information had gone with it. Johnny Cash had once sung ‘I Forgot to Remember to Forget’, or at least, I thought it was him. I had allowed Bertie to sneak up on me where once my Spider sense would have alerted me to his presence. I jammed my eyes tight closed and tried to remember as many classics as I could: Patricia Highsmith’s Strangers on a Train, William McGivern’s The Big Heat, Geoffrey Household’s Rogue Male, Edward Anderson’s Thieves Like Us, Derek Raymond’s I Was Dora Suarez, Donald Westlake’s The Ax, Dorothy Hughes’s In A Lonely Place . . . and then, and then I had the title – Too Many Cooks – but I couldn’t remember the author; it was there but I couldn’t quite grasp it and I knew that the reason I couldn’t was because Dr Richardson and JMJ and my girlfriend and Mother had conspired to fry my brain. If I couldn’t remember the author of Too Many Cooks, what was the point of me?
‘Please,’ said Bertie. ‘She’ll keep us there till midnight. And we’ll miss visiting time.’
I lowered the cover, slightly, just enough for my eyes to peek out. ‘Visiting time?’ Bertie nodded. ‘How do you know if someone’s coming to see you?’
‘You don’t. Please come? Please?’
JMJ said, ‘So glad that you could join us.’
There were six of us loopers on chairs in a circle that began and ended with JMJ. Bertie said that the whole twelve was too many to manage. Besides Bertie and me there was young Patrick, the writer, and Andy, the silent one, and Joe, the footballer who had once, apparently, had a trial for Leeds, and Pedro, the unlikely Spaniard. JMJ introduced me and asked if I’d like to tell them all something about myself and I said no, and she coaxed me and I said no, so to encourage me she turned it round and asked the others to talk a little about themselves and Joe went down the Leeds route before JMJ cut him off and suggested that he might want to talk about why he liked setting fire to things and he just sniggered and stared at the carpet.
JMJ said, ‘Yes, Joe, and the supermarket you burned down most recently, was that funny? Was that a bit of a laugh?’ Joe shook his head. JMJ looked at me. ‘Three firemen fell through the roof, one of them died. No, not funny, Joe.’
Pedro said, ‘I have brain damage.’
‘Tell us how you got that, Pedro,’ said JMJ.
‘In the Civil War.’
Bertie rolled his eyes. ‘The Civil War in Ballymena.’
‘The Spanish Civil War. I was shot in the head when we took Seville.’
‘Your milk-float crashed, you cretin,’ said Bertie.
‘That’s enough, Bertie,’ JMJ said firmly. ‘Why don’t you tell us about your own predilections?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Why are you here, Bertie?’
‘I’ve been depressed. I’ll be back to school in no time.’
Patrick said, ‘Yeah, right, Bertie. Good luck with that.’
‘I’m on a sabbatical,’ said Bertie.
Patrick nodded at me. ‘He was caught . . .’ and he made the international sign for wanking ‘. . . a fourteen year old.’
‘That’s enough, Patrick,’ said JMJ, ‘we’re all of us here for a reason.’ She regarded me anew. ‘Perhaps now, you’re ready to tell us what . . .?’
‘I like to garden,’ I said. ‘In the middle of the night.’
‘In the dark?’ Joe asked.
‘I use a torch.’
‘But not your own garden,’ said JMJ, ‘other people’s gardens.’
‘Why would you do that?’ Patrick asked.
‘Because they need prunning,’ I said.
‘Ri
ght,’ said Patrick. ‘So why are you locked up with the rest of us and not downstairs with the volunteers?’
‘There’s been a conspiracy.’
‘Involving . . .?’ JMJ prompted.
‘Everyone.’
‘You think the whole world is against you?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘Do you think I’m against you?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘And what about Andy, who wouldn’t say boo to a goose, is he against you?’
I looked at Andy, who was staring at his hands.
‘It’s the quiet ones you’ve got to watch,’ I said.
‘Do you not find,’ JMJ asked, ‘that that sense of paranoia is fading a little, now that you’re here, and your treatment has begun?’ She smiled around our group. ‘Do you not find the atmosphere . . . convivial?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘Well, tell us how you do find it.’
‘Electric,’ I said.
Patrick stood in my doorway. I was perusing a Reader’s Digest compendium. It was the only type of book allowed on the ward. He said, ‘Electric. I saw what you were doing there, but she didn’t get it. She’s stupid.’
‘I doubt that,’ I said. ‘She just lacks humour.’
‘If I ran into her outside,’ said Patrick, ‘I’d fuck her up.’
I nodded. I studied the book. I had to remember where I was. These were not normal people.
I said, ‘How’s the novel coming along?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘I’m just interested, I see you working hard at it.’
‘Are you trying to steal my ideas?’
‘No, of course not. I own a bookshop. I’ve met a lot of writers. I might be able to help you with—’
‘I don’t need your help.’
‘Okay.’
‘I’ve written one hundred and seventy thousand words.’
‘That’s a lot of words.’
‘I’m nearly done. It’s going to win the Booker Prize.’
‘Excellent. Good luck with that.’
‘I don’t need luck.’
‘Okay. That’s good.’
‘It’s going to win the Booker Prize.’
‘So I understand.’
‘It’ll be the first crime novel to win the Booker.’
I sat up. And then I sat down again. And then I sat up again. I said, nonchalantly, ‘It’s a crime novel?’
‘Yes. Do you have a problem with that?’
‘No, I . . . it’s just, my bookshop is a crime-fiction bookshop. I am a world-renowned expert on crime fiction. Really, seriously, if you want me to read your book and give you my opinion, I’d be more than happy to.’
‘Do you know what I’m in here for?’
‘In Purdysburn? Yes, kind of.’
‘Kind of?’
‘Yes – whatchamacallit . . .’
‘Whatchama . . .?’
‘Kiddyfiddlin,’ I said.
He laughed. ‘Who the fuck told you that?’
‘Bertie.’
‘Aw, fuck, Bertie thinks everyone’s at it, but he’s the only one. No, I was done for stabbing someone.’
‘Oh,’ I said.
‘The last person who tried to read my book, in fact.’ He pointed a finger at me. ‘So consider yourself fucking warned.’
He turned on his heel.
I lay back on the bed. Then I sat up again.
Rex Stout.
Author of Too Many Cooks.
27
I was in the rec room with lanky Scott. He was no longer wearing his Barcelona football strip and had changed into what was apparently known as a West Ham outfit.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘looks like it’s you and me are the only ones not getting visitors.’
They had called them, one by one, the orderlies standing at the door to the rec room and barking out the names. Bertie and Raymond and Patrick had gone together, then Jock, reading his Kindle as he went. Joe went. Then Malachy and Michael. Andy was called but was nowhere to be found. Morris the skinhead paced and paced and muttered and muttered and looked miserable until his name finally came up and his whole face beamed. Pedro was the last to go, mumbling in Spanish and glancing at his watch.
Scott said, ‘I don’t have anyone. My parents are dead. I don’t have friends. Nobody ever comes.’
I patted his arm gently.
The orderly said, ‘Scott, your wife’s here.’
Scott bounced up and away.
I rolled the balls across the pool table. It had not yet been repaired. I have never played a game of pool in my life. It is a little too energetic. But now I picked up a cue and tried to pot a ball. I missed, and tore another hole in the baize. I glanced around, but there was nobody to notice. I wandered out of the rec room and along the corridor, past JMJ’s office to the security doors that led to the other parts of the hospital. Andy was standing close to them, peering out.
I said, ‘They’re looking for you, you have visitors.’ He did not react. He was an older man, with bedraggled hair and many, many laughter lines, and I thought that once, he might have been the life and soul of a party, the way I had never been. I said, ‘You seem to spend a lot of time watching a TV that isn’t on. You should try audio books. I run a Christmas Club. There are many fine crime authors you could listen to. Call in one day. I will give you a discount.’ He just kept staring out.
I moved closer to the door. I had not yet observed the access code being keyed in, but when I did I knew it would not be hard to memorise. I have a photographic memory – or had, before the electric shock. The jury was still out on that. The difficult bit would be the card that had to be swiped as well. It would have to be purloined. I told Andy I would let the orderlies know where he was and patted him on the shoulder before retracing my steps along the corridor.
JMJ was in her small office; the door was open – there was another woman with her. She was large, in upper middle age, with a green jacket over a blouse and long skirt; she had on a hat, and looked as if she was on her way to church. As I lingered, they both got up and moved into the corridor. JMJ saw me and asked what I was doing and I said nothing. She told me to go and do it somewhere else.
As I nodded and wandered on, JMJ said to her companion: ‘I don’t know how you have the patience. He never says a word. He hardly even blinks.’
‘I feel there’s a good soul in there,’ said the woman, ‘it just needs a little encouragement.’
They moved away, back the way I’d come. I followed at a discreet distance. They got to the security doors and JMJ swiped her card and then punched in her code. As the door opened, JMJ said: ‘God bless you, Nicola, and if you’ve five minutes on the way back, let me know how you got on.’
Nicola smiled and departed. JMJ made sure the door was secure again and then turned back to find me immediately behind her. She looked startled.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph! What’re you doing sneaking around like that?!’
‘Nothing, I—’
‘You’re not supposed to be down here. Now back up to the rec room with you.’ I turned, but before I could even move she said, ‘Hold on. Turn around.’ I did as I was told. She studied my face. She said, ‘Have you been crying?’
‘No.’
‘You are tear-stained, and your eyes are bloodshot. Is there anything you want to tell me?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘I’m perfectly fine. I’m allergic to perfume. Your friend was wearing Chanel No. 6.’
‘Chanel only does No. 5.’
‘That’s just what they want you to think.’
Her mouth opened slightly. Then she seemed to shake herself. ‘Oh, I don’t know why I listen. Go on, away with you!’ She added a wave of her hand to confirm her dismissal.
I wandered back to the rec room, thinking about the large woman who was clearly going off to see Gabriel and what I would have given to be a bag of boiled sweets in her handbag. When I got to the rec room one of the orderlies was standing o
n the far side, looking exasperated. Then he spotted me and said, ‘There you are! Visitors!’ and I involuntarily lit up.
I had it under control by the time I was ushered into the visiting lounge for I really was not happy to see Alison. For that matter, I was not happy to see Jeff either. She was a coward and he was a spoon. They looked scared, and embarrassed, and like the guilty dogs they were.
I pulled out a chair and sat down. They were on the other side of a freshly wiped table. It smelled of Mr Muscle Toilet Cleaner, which was a criminal misuse of the product. The other tables were all taken. Everyone was chatting away, with the exception of Andy, who was staring at his own table and ignoring the good-looking twins opposite him. Michael had his earphones on, and I could hear the beat. His parents were talking away, and he was nodding, but their voices were not loud. Patrick was holding hands with a Goth girl.
I brought my eyes back to Alison and snapped: ‘Where’s Page?’
‘Page is at home with your mother.’
‘With my . . .?!’
‘She’s had a change of heart. She’s like a new woman.’
‘Because I’m in here?’
‘No. Yes. I don’t know. It’s all very confusing. Look, I’m sorry if—’
‘So how are you, Jeff?’ I asked.
‘I’m okay, thanks. How are you?’
‘I’m okay, thanks. Thanks for asking. Okay as anyone can be who’s just been stabbed in the back!’
‘Really? Who . . .?’ He looked at me, then suddenly went, ‘Oh. I really didn’t know until—’
‘Shut up, Jeff.’ I studied Alison. ‘All you ever say to me is don’t be so paranoid. And now fucking look at me!’ My fellow patients, and their loved ones, looked across. ‘You conspired against me, you and him and Mother and Nurse Brenda and DI Robinson and—’
