gross tableau. Fuck it. The situation is deteriorating … menacing vibrations … a need to hunker down and regroup here. And no inclination to gouge out my own entrails so you can read the auguries … throw the dice …
I don’t know what kind of twisted game you’re playing, and I never bet against the house. But I’ve come up with a new angle, just to break the savage, unremitting tedium of all this weirdness, and I’ve devised a game of my own.
It’s pretty laid back … nothing ominous … no ante required, no dress code at the tables. I start the play by making a confession: I’ve been breaking the rules of this establishment. But you already know what I’m talking about. You want to make something of it? Hell, you’ve got my written confession right here. But if you try to use it as evidence against me … some kind of grim kangaroo court … it proves you’re reading this. I’ve flushed you out, and I win. And if you don’t bust me – well, maybe you’re not reading it. Or maybe you are, but you don’t have the balls to do anything about it. Either way it means I continue playing by my own rules – and I win again.
However, let’s keep things friendly and relaxed … maintain protocol … don’t give way to a shark ethic. We certainly don’t want this stand-off to get brutal. But however you look at it, I have all the leverage here.
Those are the kind of odds I like.
From the desk of Dr Hatchjaw.
Re: Patient FJ.
Residential Note 1.
The patient has emerged from his room, briefly, but did not venture as far as the end of the corridor. A Collective Encounter was in progress in Blue Annexe, and the patient seemed apprehensive as he approached it, and returned to his room. I must confess to some disappointment, as I was hoping that he would be tempted to investigate, and thus could be introduced directly into a group process which, I believe, would expedite his orientation. However, as I mentioned in my Admission Note 1(b) it is my policy to allow this patient to proceed at his own pace. Incidentally, I suggest that we use Blue Annexe more frequently during these long summer evenings. The quality of the light, shining through the azaleas outside the French windows, and bathing the room in a rich, mellow glow, creates a particularly tranquil atmosphere, and I have observed that this tends to enhance the mood of the group, and modify some of the habitual expressions of hostility.
Hatchjaw.
NB: Please see the memo that follows.
From the desk of Dr Hatchjaw.
Memo to Dr Bassett.
Eudora, please forgive the petulant tone that I adopted in our recent exchanges. My behaviour has been infantile, and I must take responsibility for my own emotional responses. As we constantly tell our patients, I can’t change you, I can only change how I feel about you. Of course, I wish you felt differently, but it’s futile to argue with the truth. Please accept my apologies. I assure you that you continue to enjoy my utmost respect and esteem both personally and professionally.
Dr Wallace Hatchjaw
From the desk of Dr Bassett.
Memo to Dr Hatchjaw.
Wallace, thank you so much for your sweet note. You don’t know how much it pains me when you become cold and distant, and how relieved I am when that icy demeanour begins to thaw. I always feel that I’m waiting for the storm to pass, and to see those big, brave eyebrows of yours lift like clouds to reveal the sunshine hiding in your eyes, which slowly warms me again as you allow it to beam forth. I like it so much better when you’re happy, Wallace, and I’m glad you acknowledge that I can’t be responsible for your happiness. As you know, the situation is complicated. I can’t always be the way you want me to be. So, let’s be friends, really good friends, and accept things the way they are for the present. But if you’d like to come for a sherry later, it might do us both good. No strings, no promises.
Eudora
From the desk of Dr Hatchjaw.
Memo to Dr Bassett.
Eudora, you are right, as usual. Yes, let’s be grateful for the friendship we have. I note that you say ‘for the present’, which suggests the possibility of change. But I expect nothing, I demand nothing. Except a sherry! Which I will gladly accept. Certainly an improvement on the offer of a cup of tea, as far as I’m concerned! I look forward to it very much and I’ll drop by after I’ve completed handover to the Night Obs unit.
Wallace
Patient FJ
Recovery Diary 2
The bastards. My friends, those bastards. And at least one bitch of a wife could be involved, almost certainly my first, as I’m pretty sure the second one wouldn’t go along with something like this. Unless someone managed to convince her she’d be doing the right thing, and genuinely helping me in some unfathomable way. That’s always been the trouble with Paula: she’s far too trusting. But there again, she’s not naïve, and people who assume her sweet nature is a sign of gullibility are making a big mistake, especially if they try to use her to hurt me. But they might have convinced her to play along, the people responsible for putting me in here, whoever they are. My friends, colleagues, rivals, enemies – all of the above, or none – this is their doing. The bastards.
Okay, I accept that both those other times, when it was all over, I could see they’d been right. I hated it at the time of course, especially the first one, when the whole concept of an intervention made me physically sick as they cornered me in the kitchen, in my pyjamas, and explained it to me. I was probably going to be sick anyway, given my condition, but ever since then I can’t hear that word, intervention, without feeling the bile rising in my throat. I stood there with my back to the sink, gazing at them like some poor, dumb, bewildered badger about to be torn to pieces by a pack of slavering hounds who’ve somehow learned to speak a special smug, sanctimonious language all about denial and responsibility and co-dependency.
But they were right. It probably really did save my life. Especially the first time, when I woke up in what turned out to be The Priory. The second time was a bit different, as I knew what was happening and where I was being taken (which turned out to be a less expensive facility, because I wasn’t selling so well by then, and the TV series hadn’t been recommissioned, and the screenplay had been given to someone else, to be ‘improved’ in the way that a heretic is improved by being burned at the stake).
But that was rehab. This time the bastards have put me in a fucking nuthouse.
Why? I’m not nuts. I’m not even drunk any more. Clean and sober for five years. During which my behaviour has been exemplary, by my standards. It’s been a long time since I had a fight or broke something valuable, like a Ming vase or a marriage, or caused a major embarrassment in public or told someone what I really think of them. I’m still a cunt but that’s just me. In fact there’s a good case for not giving up any of your bad habits, because when you do you’ll discover you’re just the same only now you’ve got nothing to blame it on. However, I gave it all up, and whatever makes me intolerable now isn’t drink or drugs. And not mental disorder, either. I’m probably the sanest person I know. So what’s all this about? Who has put me in here and why?
After my encounter with Hatchjaw I went back to sleep.
When
