Dead Writers in Rehab. Paul Bassett Davies
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asking you to write whatever comes into your mind about your feelings, and any relevant reflections on your past that doing so may evoke.’
‘Reflections or recollections?’
‘Whichever you think is the more appropriate term.’
‘But there’s a difference, isn’t there? Recollections are an attempt to recall past events that actually happened, while reflections could be more speculative.’
Hatchjaw’s expression didn’t change but I noticed a slight tremor in his cheek, which he seemed to be trying to control. Finally he spoke. ‘If you wish to speculate about your past, and you find that process fruitful, then please do so.’
‘Perhaps you’re asking me to write fiction, essentially.’
‘Please don’t put words into my mouth.’
‘No, of course not. Sorry. It’s just that there’s a bit of a paradox in what you’re suggesting. You see, many of the behaviours, as you call them, that have contributed to my current predicament – whatever that is – are beyond the reach of my memory by their very nature, in that they invariably resulted in me getting totally shitfaced, and waking up without being able to remember a single thing I’d done.’
Hatchjaw spent a couple of moments considering this, while breathing heavily through his nose. Then he swallowed, and spoke through a thin smile that may have cost him some effort to maintain. ‘I’m sure you’ll resolve the paradox, Mr James. You’re a very intelligent man. Shall we leave it at that?’
‘Are you saying I can make it all up if I want?’
‘Just write!’ he snapped. ‘That’s what I’m saying!’
I treated him to my most boyish grin. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I will.’
‘Thank you.’ Hatchjaw turned on his heel and strode away.
I was right about being in the country. I opened the curtains in my room and discovered it was a summer evening and I was looking out across a lawn that sloped gently down to some woods, with fields and hills visible beyond the woods, rolling gently up to the horizon in the far distance, all bathed in a clear, rosy sunset glow. All very nice. I hope I’m not paying for it, but I expect I am.
As I turned away from the window I thought I caught a glimpse of a figure at the edge of the woods. But when I turned back and scanned the treeline there was no sign of anyone. The low sunlight made it difficult to see anything, and after a minute I gave up reluctantly and turned away again.
I stopped in my tracks. I felt a sudden sense of danger. I have a pretty reliable instinct for the presence of any threat to my welfare, and it’s enabled me to emerge relatively unscathed from a number of situations which I probably didn’t deserve to survive at all. But right now I couldn’t tell whether the danger I sensed was imminent, or if I was having a flashback to an ordeal I’d been through in the recent past. After a while the sensation faded, leaving me feeling merely unsettled and apprehensive.
Patient EH
Recovery Diary 17
In the night the pain returned and kept me awake for an hour or a little more. It passed and then I slept well and woke when I was ready. There was a chill at first light but it burned away and the day was long. These days at the end of summer linger and it is the lingering of one who should leave when love is over. It is best to finish things quickly. I get these goddamned cramps in the night and my legs are an old man’s legs. You get the clarity back and it’s good to see straight and feel things real and true again but part of what is true is that your legs feel like hell and your hands ache.
A new man joins us. His body is whole but he bears scars of that other battle known to each man here. And to those women who have gone to pieces in the same way, and they are made men by their scars. And some here have also wounds that are visible, caused by the ways that men fall in that battle.
This man staggers a little in his walking but he rolls with it like a sailor on the deck and he is not new to his pain.
There is a woman here who is one of the good ones and she sees it all cold and clear and has no illusions about these things. She is a hell of a fine woman with a pleasant body and I hope I am getting to know her at least a little. Her duties may take her to attend to the new man and something rotten stirs in me at the thought, but the hell with it.
He sensed me watching him and then he was gone. The buck knows in his blood that the cross hairs are on him, and your finger on the trigger in that moment. I left him to find his own path. And screw him anyway if he’s another British prick who thinks he’s better than everyone else.
Patient HST
Recovery Diary 13
I don’t buy that devious horseshit about nobody else reading this, and you know it.
You people are depraved psychic vampires. Describe my feelings? Do you seriously still think that’s going to happen? I know what’s behind the feeble-minded psychobabble. The lost souls howling and drivelling as they back you up against a wall, crazed by the need to explain themselves, frothing at the mouth, eyes skittering spastically, convinced everything will be just fine if someone will only listen to them. A very 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,