Dead Writers in Rehab. Paul Bassett DaviesЧитать онлайн книгу.
But Paddy swore the heart attack had scared the shit out of him and he was going to stay clean. And he was back on the coke within six months and he had another coronary. His heart exploded and he dropped dead.
Everyone was very pleased. Of course we were all shocked and saddened as well, and the world had lost a great talent and we had lost a dear friend, blah blah blah – but the literary landscape suddenly felt a bit less crowded, especially the field for various book prizes. But I missed him, too. He was my friend, whatever that means.
And now he was standing there looking down at me. Hello, Jim, he said, how are you? He stuck out his hand. I didn’t want to touch it. He grabbed my hand and gave it a firm shake. He was solid and real and he even smelled the same. What the fuck, I said, you’re dead. Am I? he said. And then he gave me this horrible smile. That was what did it. The smile. I jumped out of the chair and backed away and then I turned and ran, banging into the walls, and I didn’t stop running until I got back here to my room and I put my head under the pillow and screamed. And now I’m writing this and I’m dead.
From the desk of Dr Hatchjaw.
Memo to Dr Bassett.
Dr Bassett, it has come to my attention that you have intervened in the treatment of my patient FJ. I had not yet decided upon the correct moment at which to introduce the patient to an encounter session, but you have made it virtually impossible for me to prevent him from attending the next one. You know that I plan each patient’s recovery very carefully – you, yourself, have used the word meticulous – and now I find that you have undermined my strategy with regard to FJ. What makes it worse is that you appear to have done so with no thought of consulting me. I must insist that you give me an undertaking to desist from this kind of behaviour in future.
Dr W. Hatchjaw BA, RCPsyc, DDSB
Patient FJ
Recovery diary 4 (or 5)
I’ve met Dr Bassett.
I was alone in my room, gazing into a bottomless abyss of howling, existential horror. Pretty much an average day, even before I discovered I was dead. But everything gets boring if you do it by yourself for long enough so I decided to go and find someone else to do it with. I had a vague idea of looking for Paddy. It crossed my mind that if we were now both dead I could finally tell him what I really thought of him. I’d probably done that a few times when we were alive but I would have been too drunk to remember it afterwards and that’s no fun. And I was lonely.
I’d been thinking about Paula, which I always do when I feel lonely. Or maybe it’s thinking about her that makes me feel lonely in the first place. Either way, the thought of her comes with a hollow ache of solitude, and always will. Perhaps I shouldn’t have married her. Would that have changed anything? Not really. It might have changed the way I fucked it up, but not the end result. I would have lost her anyway: different route, same destination. And it was all my fault. Which is part of the loneliness I feel when I think of her: it was me alone who lost her, my decision, my choice. Out of all the paths I could have taken, I thoughtfully inspected the signpost saying This Way to Everlasting Regret and strolled nonchalantly in that direction with no comrade, guide, or tempter to lure me on. I’ve always been a bad influence on myself, and perfectly capable of leading myself astray without any outside interference. In this case there was no other woman in the picture for me, no other man for her, no false friends stirring the shit, no weird, dysfunctional families in the background dividing our loyalties or trying to break us up, no sudden elevation to a different social or professional sphere for one or other of us (to destroy fragile illusions of equality); none of that, none of the usual suspects, and nobody to blame but me. I threw away the best thing that ever happened to me and I did it all by myself. What a fucking genius. I shouldn’t be allowed out on my own.
Enough of this.
Misery loves company, and I went to find some.
I wandered out and headed for the Blue Room. As I reached the intersection I heard the tapping of high heels and turned to see a small, tidy woman striding briskly towards me from the corridor on my left. She gave me a bright smile and thrust her hand out in front of her. ‘Hello,’ she said, ‘I’m Eudora Bassett and you must be Mr James.’ I said I was and asked her, please, to call me Foster. She smiled even more brightly, as if this was the one thing in the whole world she’d been hoping for, and we shook hands.
She looked about 40. She had short, slightly curly hair and a round face with nice lips. Her body looked round, too, but in a good way. She filled up her white coat very snugly. Well-upholstered. She reminded me of Austrian women I’ve known. Everything packed into a nice, firm little package that knows what it wants, and if that happens to be you, then you’re in for some enthusiastic, dirty fun. God knows why I was thinking of sex. Maybe it was the cliché about sex and death and everyone wanting to fuck after a funeral. Clichéd but true, because I’ve had some great sex after funerals – although not my own, admittedly. Her eyes were brown and I love brown eyes. And she had a good strong handshake without making a point of it. She wasn’t one of those women who grips your hand like a lumberjack to let you know what she thinks of men and especially you, you pathetic little worm. Dr Bassett and I then had the following conversation:
| Her: | How are you settling in, Foster? |
| Me: | Okay, thanks, but I think I’m dead. Am I dead? |
| Her: | What do you think? |
| Me: | I think I must be. I’ve seen an old friend of mine who’s dead. |
| Her: | Did you talk to him? |
| Me: | Yes. |
| Her: | So, are you sure he’s dead? |
| Me: | Well, I suppose … but if he’s not dead … oh, God! Does that mean I’m still alive? |
| Her: | No, you’re dead. |
| Me: | Oh, God. |
| Her: | In a way. |
| Me: | What? What way? You just said I was dead! |
| Her: | You just said your friend was dead. But then you said he was alive. |
| Me: | Well, yes, in … in a way … |
| Her: | That’s right. |
| Pause. | |
| Me: | Look. Please. Just tell me what’s happening. Please. |
| Her: | I can’t. |
| Me: | Yes, you can. What is this place? Why am I here? What does it all mean? |
| Her: | Do those questions seem familiar to you? |
| Pause. | |
| Me: | Okay, yes, very clever, those are the big questions that people always ask about life. I mean real life, when people are alive. Right. Fine. But … (Pause.). Come on. Just tell me what’s going on. |
| Her: | I’m sorry, but I can’t. |
| Me: |
Okay, you’re clearly in a position of authority here, and I’m not asking you to violate any sort of professional ethic, but I really need help. I feel very vulnerable |