Читать книгу Dead Writers in Rehab - Paul Bassett Davies - Страница 33

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 right now. I feel so … I’m in a real mess. Sorry, this is a bit strange for me. I probably shouldn’t say this, but to be honest I find you … no, never mind. But there’s something about you that really makes me feel … that I can trust you. And I know you can help me.
Her:	Keep your hands to yourself, please, Mr James.
Me:	I haven’t touched you!
Her:	But you were thinking about it.
Me:	Christ, what are you, telepathic now?
Her:	I don’t need to be telepathic.
Me:	I suppose I’m just … craving some kind of intimacy, just the simple physical reassurance. Because of feeling so freaked out by all this. And you’re an attractive woman, you know.
Her:	Thank you, I’m flattered, and stop it.
Me:	Okay, yes, sorry. Sorry.
Her:	The point is, I’m afraid there are some things I just can’t tell you.
Me:	Oh, come on. Why not?
Her:	Because I don’t know.
Me:	What do you mean you don’t know?
Her:	I mean there are some things I don’t know. Don’t look at me like that. Listen, Foster, we hold communal meetings which are very useful, very supportive. Small groups in which we share our experiences. I expect Dr Hatchjaw has told you about them.
Me:	No. But I heard one. Shit, I knew that was what it was.
Her:	Look, I know you must be feeling very upset at the moment, but you’ll feel better soon, even if that seems hard to believe right now. Go to the meeting. And now if you’ll excuse me I must run. Goodbye, Foster, I’ll see you again soon.

She shook hands with me again, and flashed me another smile, which revealed a tiny fleck of lipstick on one of her teeth, and then she was tapitty-tap-tapping away along the corridor. I waited until she turned another corner but she didn’t look back. Nice legs.

So that was Dr Bassett. And she said I was dead. And so is everyone else here, possibly including her and Hatchjaw. So the little nutcase who thinks he’s Wilkie Collins actually is Wilkie Collins. And now I know why I thought I recognised the grumpy geezer with the beard. It’s Hemingway. And a few minutes ago a tall man wearing sunglasses and a hat loped past my window, and he definitely looks familiar. It’ll come to me. I’m also pretty sure I recognise the quiet little woman with the big eyes. And I can easily find out who she is, because we’re all in this together and we’re all dead. What fun.

Actually, it could be fun, in a horrible, post-mortem way. The quiet woman hardly looked at me but there was something about her, and something that passed between us, that tells me she’s up for it. The lurking beast is stirring yet again. And the great thing is that I can try anything. What’s the worst that can happen? It’s already happened. I’m dead. We’re all dead.

In a way. Bassett said I’m dead ‘in a way’. Does that mean there’s a hope I may still be alive? Or perhaps dead but eligible for resurrection? I don’t think so. I think she means I’m in a process, not a state. I’m dead, but that’s not the end of the matter. It can’t be, otherwise I wouldn’t be in this place, whatever this place is. And the best chance I’ve got of finding out is going to the ‘communal meeting’. And I know what that means. It means the dreary, balls-aching orgy of solipsistic navel-gazing, petulant resentment, impotent rage, whimpering guilt, denial, and lachrymose self-pity that is the wonderful healing miracle of group fucking therapy.