Dead Writers in Rehab. Paul Bassett Davies
permit me to direct you to the commissary,’ he said.
I stared at him. He was a short, balding man with peculiar little glasses and an immense, bushy beard. He was wearing a kind of frock coat made of corduroy, with a waistcoat to match, and a pair of chequered trousers.
He walked up to me and held out his hand.
‘May I introduce myself? I’m Wilkie Collins.’
I shook his hand. ‘Foster James. Pleased to meet you.’
‘The pleasure is mine, sir. You are newly arrived among us, I believe?’
‘Oh, yes,’ I said, grinning inanely, ‘fresh meat.’
He frowned and seemed about to ask me something but then his face cleared. ‘Fresh meat in search of fresh meat!’ he said, and laughed. He had rather a nice laugh, for a raving lunatic.
I laughed back at him politely, terrified that he might turn violent. He suddenly thrust out his arm and I sprang away from him, nearly falling over a low stool. He shot me an odd look. ‘Allow me to escort you,’ he said. He bent his elbow and waggled it at me. I understood what was expected of me so I took his arm like a shy debutante and allowed him to guide me to the door opposite the one I came in through. As we left the room I heard someone mutter something in which I caught only the word ‘asshole’.
As the nut job who thought he was Wilkie Collins led me along another corridor and towards the smell of food, he kept up a constant stream of pseudo-Victorian chatter about ‘assuaging the pangs of hunger’ with ‘revivifying comestibles’ and ‘fortifying refreshments’. I must say he did it all very well, and not just the language; his whole deportment, which was formal but chummy, seemed completely authentic, and much more convincing than most of the actors you see in films or TV adaptations of Victorian classics. He even smelled slightly musty.
After the bit about ‘fortifying refreshments’ he stopped abruptly. I stopped abruptly too, as my arm was still linked to his. He turned to me. ‘I must tell you,’ he said earnestly, ‘that you shouldn’t expect to find anything in the way of beverages that tend to intoxicate if taken unwisely, or, indeed, any unwholesome stimulant.’
I told him I knew far too much about this kind of place to expect to find any booze here. I was an old hand at this game, I said. For some reason he seemed very impressed by this remark. He narrowed his eyes and tilted his head back, as if taking the measure of me. After a moment he nodded sagely, patted my hand, and we set off again.
We reached what was clearly a dining room of some kind. There was a serving counter with steel shutters behind it, which were closed. The smell of cooking came from behind the shutters. I sighed.
‘Another hour or so until we lunch, sir,’ the little madman said, ‘but fear not; help is at hand for the hungry vagabond.’ He pointed to a large vending machine in the corner. We wove our way towards it between the tables and chairs that filled the room. The tables were round and each one seated four. There were about a dozen of them.
The machine contained soft drinks, chocolate bars and pre-packed rolls and sandwiches. ‘Fresh every day, I can vouch for it, sir,’ my new friend said. ‘Quite remarkable.’ He beamed at me behind his little steel-rimmed oval spectacles. His eyes were grey with tiny flecks of amber in them. I rummaged in my trouser pockets and came up with some change, but he put out his hand to stop me. ‘I see you are unaware of the system in place here, sir. Permit me.’ He reached into his coat pocket and produced a small, round token of some kind. It was vivid purple. He came up with another, smaller one that was green. He handed both the tokens to me. ‘That should suffice for a sandwich and a cordial.’
‘Thank you very much. Very kind.’
‘I trust you will repay me when you’ve become acquainted with the system.’
‘Absolutely,’ I said.
He put his hand on my arm and gave me a worried look. ‘I’m sorry to press the point, but I would be obliged if you do so at your earliest convenience.’
I looked at him. He was serious. This was definitely a loan. I nodded and treated him to a reassuring smile, then I got a cheese and tomato roll and a can of Diet Coke out of the machine. I unwrapped the roll and took a bite. Not bad. My companion watched with satisfaction. He bounced up and down on his toes a couple of times. His boots creaked. ‘Would you care to take a stroll in the grounds?’ he said. ‘I’ll gladly show you around.’
He watched me expectantly as I chewed another large mouthful. I swallowed it with a big, painful gulp. ‘No, thanks,’ I said.
He looked crestfallen. After glancing around quickly, he lowered his voice. ‘As a matter of fact I believe a confidential discussion between us would be of mutual benefit. We can talk as I show you around; that will also serve to allay suspicion.’
I took a swig of Coke. He frowned at me, and I was suddenly aware I was being rude, even if he was a lunatic. The little man’s formal courtesy, assumed or not, made me feel like a lout. I inclined my head briefly and placed my hand on his arm. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ I said, ‘but I’m rather tired now and I’d prefer to go back to my room. But I’ll take you up on the offer another time. Thank you.’
‘Very well. Can you find your own way back?’
I nodded, with my mouth full again.
So they’ve put me in the loony bin. I knew it wasn’t a normal rehab. Some of these joints have pretty strange ideas, but the whole point is to get some kind of grasp on reality. A man who’s firmly convinced he’s a dead Victorian writer, and has got the whiskers to prove it, is delusional and belongs in a mental institution. Which is obviously what this place is. Which means I must have done something that made whoever put me here believe I was insane. Which is very worrying because I still can’t remember a fucking thing.
It’s interesting, though, that Wilkie Collins was a notorious opiate hound. Addicted to laudanum in a big way, like a lot of the Victorians, including Victoria herself, according to some people. It’s certainly true that for most of the nineteenth century half the House of Commons and most of the Lords, including a lot of the bishops, were laudanum addicts, along with thousands of doctors, lawyers, teachers, governesses, and a vast, twittering army of spinsters who’d faint at the merest hint of depravity but found great relief from all manner of maidenly ailments in the little brown bottle of comforting medicine. To say nothing of the poor, if they could get it. So, if there had been such a thing as rehab in Wilkie’s day he would have been a good candidate for it. I wonder if the nutter who’s impersonating him here has gone to the extent of developing a real-life opiate habit. Not that I plan to ask him. What I plan to do is to get out of this place.
But what if I can’t? What if whatever I did was serious enough for me to be sectioned, and detained under the Mental Health Act?
Unless it’s more sinister than that. What if someone wants to get me out of the way, or punish me? An old enemy taking revenge. Christ, there are enough candidates. It could be a conspiracy, and they might have paid this place to certify me and when I try to leave I’ll find I’m a prisoner. Fuck, what am I saying? That’s basically the plot of a Wilkie Collins book. Get a grip. As soon as I feel a bit better I’m going to walk out of here.
Patient DP
Recovery Diary 15
Dear Diary, I feel so awfully jolly and bucked up that I may get through the whole day without bashing my head against the wall.
Will that do, kids? No, I know it won’t. But a blank page is worse than an empty glass. At least you can gaze at an empty glass and imagine what might fill it. Maybe that’s the idea: they set a task that gives you such a dandy headache you forget about any other pain that’s making you feel sorry for yourself. It’s just the kind of scurvy trick that doctors will play in their determination to help you, despite your unwavering ingratitude.
It