Seeing Other People (13 page)

I looked at him warily. ‘What does that mean?’

‘What that means is that this young man is more likely than not having some sort of psychotic episode. Is he a substance abuser by any chance?’

‘Not even the odd swig of Benylin,’ I replied. ‘He’s just not the type.’

‘How about a trauma? Has he been in any kind of accident?’

‘There was a sort of accident,’ I said, thinking back to the mugging, ‘but he’s not even certain it actually happened. His memory of that night is hazy to say the least.’

‘But he hasn’t seen his GP?’

‘Well, no, because he couldn’t find any actual evidence of having been in an accident. There wasn’t a scratch on him so he assumed that he must have dreamed it.’

‘Dreamed it?’

‘Also, there’s another odd thing about this case. Every time he sees his dead ex-girlfriend not only is she twenty years younger than she should have been but there’s also a smell that follows her, a perfume – Poison by Dior, to be exact. Is that unusual?’

Dr Frank raised his eyebrows. ‘Very.’ He gently massaged his temples as if trying to alleviate an oncoming headache. ‘This case really does sound quite peculiar. Are you sure I can’t meet this person?’

‘No chance,’ I spluttered, ‘absolutely not! He’s . . . he’s got a very important job. If it got out that he was seeing things it could ruin him for life.’

‘Well,’ said Dr Frank, ‘this is all rather unusual and I’m not quite sure what it is you’d like me to say. Maybe you could point me in a particular direction?’

‘It’s not like that,’ I replied. ‘I genuinely want your actual opinion.’

‘In that case I’d have to say that this person is not very well at all.’

I nodded. This wasn’t helping me. ‘Right. I get that. But what should he do about it? Take a couple of paracetamol, lie down in a darkened room, what?’ Dr Frank’s face fell and I immediately apologised. ‘I’m so sorry Dr Frank, I don’t know what came over me. I think I’m just worried about this chap, that’s all.’

‘The first thing he should do is see his GP because it’s impossible to get any real sense of what’s going on without an examination. Then hopefully once he’s done that his GP will refer him to a psychiatrist who will possibly commence a short course of antipsychotic drugs to get the problem under control.’

‘Antipsychotics,’ I repeated. I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to be able to get them over the counter at Boots. ‘What if he’s not psychotic but just really stressed.’

‘Is he really stressed?’

‘Very stressed indeed.’

‘With work?’

‘Relationship problems.’

‘I see. And he won’t see a GP?’

‘I could ask him again but I’m pretty sure he won’t go.’

‘Do you feel that he’s a danger to himself or to others?’

‘I’d stake my life that he isn’t.’

‘And it’s only happened twice so far?’

‘Correct. And in between he’s as right as rain. Not a problem.’

‘Well if he categorically refuses to consult a medical professional the only thing I can really suggest is that you advise him to relax and de-stress as much as possible and hopefully the hallucinations will disappear as the stress subsides.’

‘So in short you’re saying he should just chill out a bit?’

‘Absolutely,’ smiled Dr Frank. ‘What this young man needs to do is try his very best to – as they say – kick back and relax.’

As I left my meeting with Dr Frank assuring him that I’d contact him the next time I needed any advice, I wondered quite how I was going to properly ‘kick back and relax’, when all I had to look forward to was another night in Bed and Breakfast Hell. What I really needed was for Penny to forgive me and ask me to come home but given the fact that she hadn’t replied to a single one of my texts or phone messages I couldn’t see that happening any time soon. So it was that evening as I headed back to the St Joseph’s Guest House that I found myself taking a detour ending up in front of a block of graffiti-scrawled local authority maisonettes next to a small shopping precinct with a row of grille-covered shops, one of which was a mini-market and off-licence. Not only was I hungry, lonely and in need of my own toilet paper, but it also occurred to me that I could do with a drink. A drink might relax me. A drink might stave off any more hallucinations. It was, I was fully aware, a twisted logic given what I’d read about hallucinations and alcohol abuse, but I wasn’t planning on becoming an alcoholic, just having a drink or two to help me sleep and anyway, right now it was all I’d got. After waiting for a group of youths to pass by I wandered into the mini-market, picked up a basket and walked the aisles in search of anything that caught my fancy. A short while later, satisfied that all my basic needs were covered by the contents of my basket – a packet of bourbon biscuits, some cheese strings and a bottle of vodka, I joined the long queue at the till and it was here that something rather odd happened.

At first it was a feeling that I was being watched, closely followed by the certainty that this was indeed the case when I looked over my shoulder to see a tall, bald man wearing a denim jacket, leather trousers and cowboy boots staring at me from the booze aisle. My eyes met his and I immediately looked away. The last thing I needed right now was to be stabbed to death by some drug-addled lunatic spoiling for a fight and I steadfastly refused to look in the man’s direction again even though the feeling of being observed continued. I told myself that I’d just get my things, leave the shop and run back to the B&B at full tilt.

The shopkeeper rang my goods through with a dead-eyed efficiency that spoke volumes about the kind of area I was in. Not for him the smiles and small talk of the jovial local shopkeeper; he didn’t care who I was or what story I had to tell, all he wanted was my money and as quiet a life as possible.

Still aware that I was being watched, I took my bags and made as if I had forgotten something in the canned food aisle before quickly doubling back so as to fool my shadow but then as I reached out to grab the door I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to see the tall bald man grinning widely in my direction. ‘You’re Joe Clarke, from the
Correspondent
,
aren’t you?’

The man’s Antipodean accent sounded oddly familiar.

‘You’re . . .’

‘Van Halen,’ he replied. ‘You interviewed me a while back for your magazine. The Divorced Dads’ Club article.’ He beamed at me with a slightly manic glint in his eye and gave me an over-enthusiastic man-hug. ‘It’s so good to see you, dude, it really is.’

‘For a minute there I thought you were some sort of nutter the way you were staring at me.’

‘I get that a lot,’ said Van, ‘especially since I started chemo.’ He pointed to his bald head and the alarming lack of eyebrows that made him look completely otherworldly.

‘You’ve got cancer?’

‘Of the balls. Only finished the treatment a month ago. Would’ve been lost if it hadn’t been for, you know . . .
the guys
.’

‘Which guys?’

‘You know, Stew and Paul, the guys from the article.’

‘You mean you still see each other?’

‘Every week. I know it sounds weird. On paper it doesn’t work at all. I mean Stew’s a bit of a slob, Paul’s a real brain box, and well, I’m me, but we all get on really well together. I guess that’s the thing about being a single parent, it’s the great leveller, isn’t it? Doesn’t matter who you are when you haven’t seen your kids for a while and your ex hates you, you need mates around you who know what you’re going through.’

‘Listen, I’m really pleased that you all get on so well,’ I replied. ‘It’s nice when that sort of thing happens but anyway, I’ve really got to—’

‘I’ve got an idea! Mate, you’ve got to come out with us sometime! The guys would be absolutely mad for it. Paul even has your article framed on the wall in his bog, mind you I think he only does it to wind his ex up – he’s not been too good since she announced her engagement. Still, at least his kids live with him full time.’

My life was crazy enough as it was. There was no way I was ever going for a drink with him and his mad loser friends. ‘I’m sorry to hear about Paul, and obviously about you being ill and everything—’

‘What am I doing? I haven’t given you my number yet. Where’s your phone?’ He pulled out his and handed it to me saying, ‘And don’t bother making one up because I know where you work!’

He chuckled so hard at his own joke that he failed to notice me deleting the fake number I’d started to type in. Even after chemo this guy was still big enough to snap me in two without breaking into a sweat.

Van stared at his phone seeming genuinely chuffed.

‘That’s brilliant, mate, expect a call from me and the boys real soon.’

He shook my hand and I left the shop and immediately I was swallowed up by an overwhelming feeling of loneliness. For a moment I almost headed back into the shop to take Van up on his offer because what I really needed right now was a friend, a comrade, a drinking buddy. Someone with whom I could offload all my problems, who’d put everything into perspective, who’d show me that the light at the end of the tunnel wasn’t necessarily a train coming the other way.

The problem was however that I hadn’t heard a single word from any one of my so-called friends for a long time, and while I appreciated the fact that they had busy lives to lead involving work and partners and the raising of children I was surprised not to have heard from my closest friend Mitchell, especially as his partner, Katie, was close enough to Penny for me to be in no doubt at all that news of the split would have reached his ears by now. Why hadn’t he called? I’d been there for him when he and Katie went through a rough patch over his reluctance to start a family a few years back. I’d taken Mitchell out to the pub, acted as a sounding board for him as he worked out how he wanted his life to be, and when they finally did start a family and found themselves in need of godparents it had been me and Penny they’d turned to. We were friends for life. I was sure of it, and as a sign of just how much confidence I had in this fact I made the decision to turn up at his house and invite my old friend Mitchell out for a beer.

13

It was after eight o’clock as I reached Mitchell and Katie’s Victorian two-bed terrace in Finchley. The last time I visited their house had been back in the summer with Penny and the kids for their daughter Molly’s third birthday party. We’d all stayed over because both Penny and I had drunk too much to be totally sure that we weren’t over the limit. The following morning we’d all had a lazy breakfast together before taking the kids to the local park for an hour on what turned out to be one of the sunniest days of the year. The thought struck me as I rang the doorbell that I might never enjoy a weekend like that again.

Mitchell was barely able to hide his surprise when he saw me standing on his doorstep.

‘Joe, what are you doing here, mate?’

This was the point at which I was going to have to lie if I was to keep even a shred of dignity. ‘I was in the area interviewing someone for the paper. Thought I’d drop in on the off chance you’d be free for a quick beer.’

‘No can do, mate. Katie’s out at her Zumba class. You could come in for a drink though. We can have a proper catch-up.’

I followed Mitchell into the kitchen and took a seat at the large wooden table that reminded me of my own at home – right down to the magazines, children’s drawings and unopened bills piled up at the opposite end.

‘How are the kids?’ I asked as Mitchell rooted around in the fridge in search of beer.

‘Couldn’t be better,’ said Mitchell, pulling out two cans of Stella. ‘Molly’s just started at pre-school and after a bit of a bumpy start – she hated being away from Katie – she’s finally started to settle in. As for Cameron, he’s great. He’s really getting into his reading. It’s like a lightbulb has suddenly gone off in his head and he gets it. He’s reading everything. Signs on bus stops, advertising hoardings, in fact only last week I caught him reading the back of a pack of tampons that had fallen out of the bathroom cupboard. Had a few awkward questions to dodge after that, I can tell you!’ Mitchell took two glasses from a cupboard and brought them along with the beer to the table, pausing to clear a box of crayons and an abandoned Furby from his chair before he sat down. Reverentially, he poured out the beers into the glasses, making sure that each had the perfect amount of head, and then we clinked glasses and both took a sip.

Mitchell wiped his mouth and set his glass down. ‘Listen mate, I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch. Obviously I’ve heard about . . . well, you know, and I know I should’ve at least called or sent a text and it’s bang out of order that I haven’t.’

‘It’s fine,’ I replied, somewhat relieved to know that I wouldn’t have to go through the whole process of telling Mitchell what had happened. ‘I know how it is, life’s busy.’

‘Yeah, it is actually. Katie’s eight weeks’ pregnant.’

‘Congratulations, mate, I didn’t even know a third baby was on the list.’

Mitchell laughed and took another swig of beer. ‘Technically it wasn’t but now the little blighter’s on its way I couldn’t be happier. Anyway, enough about me, how are you faring?’

‘As good as can be expected. When did you hear?’