Patient Blue

It’s just after three in the morning and I’m awake. The light of an aurora is casting queasy flickering patterns on the bedroom wall. Dogs bark and howl incessantly. My head aches I feel hot and nauseous from the effects of Narcostym and alcohol. Perhaps Doctor D’eath was right and they don’t mix. Nothing electrical in the house is working and the TV and radio produce only static hiss and white noise. ‘Not again, what the hell is going on?’

I make my way to the bedroom window and peer out into the spectral light. A small bat smashes into the pane inches from my face making me cry out involuntarily and stagger backwards, whilst the dead creature falls to the ground and is lost from sight. Another follows suit but manages to stay air borne flying awkwardly away its wing damaged. The creatures, prematurely woken from winter hibernation seem to be having problems with their internal navigation. They are being somehow affected by the atmospheric conditions or the dick pulse as I have taken to calling it. On the horizon I can see plumes of black smoke rising in columns. A large explosion, sounding close but likely some considerable distance away rattles the window. I pull the curtains closed and retreat into the room and back into bed where I pull the covers over my head, remove them because of the heat and fall into a deep chemical and alcohol induced sleep.

I awake again after ten feeling tired and unrefreshed, get out of bed and open the curtains. Outside things look relatively normal and unremarkable, though I can still see plumes of smoke on the horizon and there’s an acrid smell of burning that permeates the room. It feels warm, though not uncomfortably so. Out of habit I switch on the bedroom TV but get only static across all channels. Getting back into bed I try the bedside radio and manage to pick up an extended special addition of the Today program. I can barely make out anything with the poor sound quality but recognize the voice of the BBC’s favourite gay man, Evan Davis. He seems to be everywhere, even the end of the world. He also runs this show about finance called The Bottom Line and I always wonder if the BBC management, were trying to be funny when they had a gay man fronting a show called that. Maybe they just don’t get the irony, and Bottom to them, is merely a character in a Shakespeare play.

Evan is interviewing the increasingly high profile religious nutter, Owen Van Bowen and appears to be giving him an easy ride, but then again he always gives everyone an easy ride, intentional or not. I think that if I was a politician I would rather be interviewed by Evan than a hardnosed hack like John Humphrys, who really knows how to turn the screw. I can imagine the discourse if Evan was interviewing someone like Hitler.

‘Herr Hitler__’

‘That’s Mein Fuhrer.’

’Sorry, Mein Fuhrer, Some people have said that you are something of a racist. Is this true or merely, as you have stated a plot concocted by the Jews and their racially impure mongrel lackeys in the establishment, to make you look bad?

‘It’s a plot.’

‘Aah I see, well thanks for coming in.’

The interview with Van Bowen continued.

’Mr Van Bowen,___

‘That’s Reverend Van Bowen.’

‘Sorry, Reverend Van Bowen. Some people have said that you are a religious fanatic preying on the fears of vulnerable people in a time of crisis and uncertainty. Is this true or merely as you have stated, the Devil and his agents on earth, such as Richard Dawkins, filling people’s minds with evil thoughts and lies and poisoning the fragile minds of sinners so they turn against you and the Lord Jesus Christ?’

‘Do not forget that other agent of evil, disguised in his mechanical contrivance with his unearthly non human voice and his false knowledge and lies concerning the origins of The Lords great creation and manipulating those in thrall to his megalomania.’

‘Davros?’

‘No, Stephen Hawking.’

‘Some people might find that a rather insensitive thing to say about someone acknowledged by many people as a genius.’

’By deluded people only, the voice is the giveaway, the voice of Satan in disguise. They say it is operated by the movement of a cheek muscle, but have you ever seen a twitching cheek, because I haven’t. No it is the voice of Satan and that voice can say what it wants. Just suppose it said to a poor fallen woman, take off your clothes and commit carnal sin with me now. If the poor fallen woman protested and maybe even went to the press or Police, perhaps to an agent like Max Clifford. Well before Max got arrested for groping young women that is, to defend her honor, make her tragic story public. Possibly receive handsome compensation for the shock and humiliation. That voice, the Devil’s voice, would just say sorry I twitched my cheek in the wrong way, what I meant to say was, put on your best clothes the carnival is in town ‘and you know what?’

‘What?’

’Satan and his agents in the godless establishment would make sure he got away with it. Of course it is possible, unlikely but possible, that the Devil’s agent isn’t actually Hawking himself but the technician who services his computer voice. I mean he may actually be saying; God I really need to take a dump urgently, but it actually comes out as: ‘You can disprove the need for a creator God when you examine String Theory.’

Indeed food for thought, anyway Mr___

‘That’s Reverend.’

‘Sorry, Reverend, please tell me more about your rally in Hyde Park.’ I believe you and your followers have organized a special event called Rapture day. When is the event and what can we expect, The Rapture?

‘Yes.’ Hail oh Lord, hail.

‘But surely didn’t we have this type of claim before when Pastor Harold Camping predicted that The Rapture would occur on May twenty first 2011 and when it didn’t happen he ended up looking very silly.’

’Pastor Camping was a false prophet, guided by the Devil himself.

‘Stephen Hawking?’

‘No the real Devil in Hell, to give a fictitious date for the Holy Rapture just to make the whole Evangelical and Christian missions look ridiculous. My Rapture day on the other hand is the genuine thing.’

’Are you actually saying that on the sixth of May you and your supporters will ascend into Heaven and be saved?

‘Eventually, yes.’

‘Aah, eventually.’

May sixth will be the start of the Rapture process, though it may not come to final fruition until sometime later, but then again it may all begin and end on May sixth.’

‘Isn’t that hedging your bets somewhat?’

‘I’m telling it as I see it and how God has personally revealed it to me. Hail, oh Lord, hail’

The Reverend Owen Van Bowen explains that Rapture Day had caused a great deal of excitement amongst his followers and he is expecting at least a million of them to be in attendance. There will be a mass pray- in and God will be asked to take all true believers from this world of evil and deliver them to the kingdom of Heaven. Hail oh Lord, hail.

I drift back to sleep and awake with a start just before eleven. Jim Naughtie is interviewing the former Labour part leaded Tombstone Ed Milliband about the crisis. Ed, tragically for him, though hilariously for everyone else, except perhaps Labour party managers, now sounds uncannily like Mickey Mouse. Earlier he had undergone a second operation on his nose, supposedly to cure his continuing sleep apnoea. The real reason for the procedure though, as everyone knows, was to improve his voice and modify his continuing nasal twang, according to the focus groups, a vote loser, which as it turned out, was true and they were now lumbered with Red Jezza Corbyn.

Something went wrong with the operation. Now, instead of the strong statesman like voice he was hoping for he speaks in a strange, high pitched falsetto. The similarity of his voice to that of the Disney icon has been gleefully pounced on by what remains of the Murdoch press, revenge at last, and the label has stuck.

Jim is now questioning him. ‘Tell me Mr Milliband, why do you blame this government, at least in part, for the present crisis?’

‘Well Jim, they should have acted earlier, when the first signs were originally detected by scientists. By the time there was any reaction at all from them, the phenomenon had already hit, damaged and swept past the earth and reached the edge of the solar system and the outer planets affecting Pluto.’

‘Your dog?’

‘No, silly, the planet.’

Priceless, you couldn’t make it up. I turn off the radio and get up.

The next few days drift by in a haze, punctuated by devastating news on the radio of worldwide catastrophe, death destruction and crap TV. I’ve increased my doses of Narcostym and am imbibing loads more alcohol which has had the blessed, though undoubtedly temporary, effect of making the bad things go away. I may not have washed or eaten for about three days, but who can tell.

It’s the day of my appointment with Doctor Brain, great name for a shrink. Michael old boy Meet Doctor Brain, Why thank you Doctor Death I think I will. My meeting with the doctor is at her surgery near Horsham at two pm and already the pre-interview nerves are kicking in. After taking my first shower in days and eating a massive fry up I wonder what to wear. I initially think a suit might be appropriate but consider that might seem a bit formal, maybe slightly strange, loony trying too hard. I settle for a pair, my only pair, of dark Chinos, shirt and jacket I find lying crumpled on the floor of the wardrobe, smart casual.

My head feels strange, my thoughts uncoordinated and detached, vision a bit blurred. Dressing becomes a real effort. Today’s initial assessment is at the Horsham surgery, but the Sapphire House unit, should I ever decide to admit myself, is just outside Crawley. I’m glad it’s just outside as I think the town centre itself is a hideous place full of hideous people hideously dressed. Bring me your fat, your ugly, your heavily tattooed should be printed on the welcome to Crawley signs, either that or Crawley twinned with Chernobyl. In Crawley, well everywhere actually, there are many heavily tattooed women and I can’t help but wonder what the future might hold for them. A large Maori style tribal sign on a neck or back or curled round a leg and ankle, which when translated probably means go fuck yourself white devil, doesn’t look too bad on a lithe young woman, but what about when they are in their sixties or even seventies and queuing at the post office for stamps. ‘Oh hello Britney, how’s your Arthritis dear, and oh my goodness what an interesting tattoo or is it a Varicose vein?’ And then there are the grandchildren’s feelings to consider, God the embarrassment if ancient tattooed Britney turned up uncovered at sports day or class assembly. I think of part of a poem I once heard, the only bit I remember actually but it seems apt. Granny oh granny, please show us your tattoo. The dragon inked upon your tit when you were twenty-two.

The drive is uneventful and despite not being able to use the Satnav and some general confusion and light headedness caused by the Narcostym I took earlier and shouldn’t really be driving I find the surgery easily enough. It is housed in a neat single storey building and once inside I’m impressed with the general decor of the reception area with its dark blue carpet and subtle lighting. A pleasant middle aged woman smiles as I approach to enquire whether she can help. As I come closer she seems to take a sly though obvious look at my crotch. Cheeky, though I think I quite like it.

‘Hello I have an appointment with Doctor Brain at two.’

‘Name please.’

‘Michael Johnson.’

’Ah yes, Michael Johnson and name spelt just like the American athlete

’It may be spelt the same but seeing as I’m white and can’t run, there the similarity ends I’m afraid.’

‘Please take a seat and Doctor Brain will be with you shortly. While you wait can you please fill in this form, a few background details and other bits and pieces’.

I take the form and the proffered pen and sit down opposite a youngish dark haired man slouched in his seat, he is twitching. I casually glance at him and the man, presumably a patient, stares back with deep set eyes that look both vacant and menacing he also appears to register disgust. I look away and pretend to concentrate on the form. Jesus, what a weirdo I don’t like the look of him. I begin to read the questions and fill in details, aware that the weirdo continues to stare at me. Standard stuff, full name, date of birth, religion, ethnicity, sexual orientation. There is a question that asks me to estimate my weekly units of alcohol and like everyone else who has ever been asked that question by a doctor or insurance company I lie and put a ludicrously understated ten units per week. I’m asked about any history of non - prescription drug misuse and abuse and again although there have been periods of gargantuan excess I lie and just put casual Cannabis smoking twenty years ago. I thought it best not to mention all the rest that in many ways defined my misspent youth and dysfunctional adulthood.

The next questions were about health and asked about any infectious or sexually transmitted diseases. I suppose it’s feasible I may have Hepatitis C, what with some reckless activities and the company I used to keep, but that was a long time ago and I don’t have any symptoms, though I read somewhere you often don’t get symptoms with Hep C not until your Liver blew up like a balloon your skin turns yellow and your piss turns black. Still, I’ve already got enough worries without creating more.

A door opens and an attractive woman in early middle age, slim and smartly dressed, reminding me of the Psychiatrist in The Sopranos, comes towards me with her hand extended, ‘Michael Johnson, Julia Brain, pleased to meet you do come through.’

Once I’m seated in front of her desk Doctor Brain smiles and says, ‘please tell me a bit about yourself, I have your notes but I prefer to hear it from the horse’s mouth so to speak.’

‘Oh, OK, well I’m thirty five, just had my birthday in fact.’ I was hoping as always for a reaction to this news, a reaction such as no I don’t believe it, you can’t be, you look so young, but as always I was disappointed when the Doctor gave no reaction to this bombshell at all. I’m a bit down, my long term partner has left, gone off with her boss and his ready made perfect family.’

‘Was that totally unexpected?’

‘Yes, well perhaps no, things had been tense lately.’

‘Tense, in what way, would you like to expand a bit more on that?’

‘Well I was a bit grumpy, morose as she used to say. No ambition I think she thought that any future with me would be bleak and unfulfilled’

Doctor Brain leafed through my notes. ‘Ten units of alcohol a week is that realistic?’

‘No not really, more like ten units a day and then some.’ My own honesty at this answer shocks me.

‘This has continued even with your use of Narcostym?’

‘Yes.’

‘That can be dangerous and lead to psychosis and memory loss. I see that you dabbled a bit with drugs in the past, smoked the occasional Cannabis joint twenty years ago, is that true, the full extent of your drug taking?’

’No , It was more than that, I experimented quite a lot, in fact from about the age of eighteen to twenty two I was stoned most of the time and to be honest I took everything on offer. Though strange as it seems I was never hooked on drugs maybe just the lifestyle, getting out of it away from reality, it was my thing and I was perversely proud of it, a rebel that never really rebelled other than inside my head trapped inside my bedroom too scared to go out half the time. I was not one of the in crowd but fuck them anyway, sorry,

‘That’s OK’

I got stoned, they didn’t. I knew things that they didn’t. Of course while I was sitting in my room an increasingly paranoid wreck, everyone else was out in the world living, getting good jobs, screwing and travelling. I knew I was living a crap life and it had to stop and it did stop, but to be honest that mentality is still there, rebellion by self destruction.

‘What do you believe to be the underlying causes of that addictive and self- destructive behaviour?’

‘I don’t really know. Maybe mixed with the wrong crowd, followed the fashion, maybe a strong sense of self doubt, an inferiority complex that, incidentally has gotten worse as I get older. I’ve never really felt comfortable in my own skin.’

‘Do you have thoughts of suicide?’

’Sometimes, but I don’t think I would really do it. Besides I was very close to a real suicide I think it was that anyway, my twin brother Davey. Almost like suicide by proxy. He did it so I didn’t need to. It was ugly I’m too scared. I also met Rosslynne, sorry someone I loved, do still love I think, around that time, on one of my increasingly rare ventures out of the house. At an open air music festival, Reading. She seemed as damaged as I was that was her attraction, that and her stunning good looks and she showed some interest in me. Yes I loved her I still love her, she didn’t love me, she’s gone forever. I still dream about her, those dreams are destructive she comes to me like a Succubus in the night, never stays leaves me with nothing. Now along with the dreams I think I am being visited, no haunted by Davey.

Then there’s all this weird weather and destruction and end of the world speculation and stuff and although at first I found it interesting even exciting I now find it terrifying. I discovered a body in the sea, from a plane crash. I stayed with it for ages I couldn’t move and I keep reliving that. I really think I might need help. Do you think you can help me— please?’

‘Thanks for your honesty, you are troubled and the death of your brother must have been heartbreaking especially a twin. But you realize you need help and acknowledge that certain things need to change and that is a good first step on the road to the reconciliation of who you are and who you would wish to be. You have suffered with recent external traumas, finding the body and the sudden end of your relationship would only have compounded the loss and perhaps a sense of betrayal you felt at the death of your brother. But it is your internal demons that need to be recognized for what they are and controlled in order for you to move forward. Do you live alone?’

‘Yes I do now.’

‘I thought so when I saw the way you were dressed.’

‘What do you mean?’ I look down and notice for the first time that I’m wearing odd shoes, one black and one brown and my Chinos are covered in lurid green and yellow stains. I now remember that the last time I wore these trousers was at Snatcha’s. I had obviously vomited copiously all over them. No wonder the receptionist had stared at my crotch and the waiting room twitcher had stared at me in disgust, I hadn’t noticed until it was pointed out to me. Jesus I need help and I need it soon.

It was arranged, I would be admitted as a voluntary patient at Sapphire House on a trial basis for an initial period of six weeks. I can of course leave at any time I want. I should present myself in four days time. Although I can continue to take the Narcostym, I must stop using alcohol or any other drugs. In the unit I will gradually be weaned off the current high doses of medication and undergo cognitive one to one and group therapy sessions, which has apparently proved remarkably successful with many other patients who have undergone this regime. On parting, Doctor Brain expresses confidence that I will leave Sapphire house a changed man.

Change is good. I hope.