A Cure for All Diseases

Any road, I blustered a bit for the show of things but soon caved in. When I told Ellie Pascoe I thought she’d have been dead chuffed, but she seemed right disappointed I weren’t going to the Cedars. Even when I assured her I wouldn’t let Cap be out of pocket here, she still didn’t seem too pleased.

Women, eh? You can fuck ’em but you can’t fathom them.

But Cap were happy and that meant I felt pretty pleased with myself when a couple of weeks later she drove me here to Sandytown.

I soon stopped being pleased, but. Cap had hardly set off back to the car park to drive home afore it was being made clear to me that the Avalon weren’t like a 5-star hotel with the guests’ wishes being law.

‘Convalescence is a carefully monitored progression from illness to complete health,’ explained the matron. (Name of Sheldon – calls herself Chief Nurse, but with tits a randy vicar could rest a bible on while he preached the gospel according to St Dick, she were a shoo-in for the role of matron in one of them Carry On movies!)

‘Oh aye,’ I said, taking the piss. ‘And visiting hours from three to quarter past every third Sunday!’

‘Ha ha,’ she said. ‘In fact no visitors at all to start with until we’ve had time to observe you and assess your needs and draw up your personal programme – diet sheet, exercise schedule, medication plan, therapy timetable – that sort of thing.’

‘Bloody hell,’ I said. ‘Schedules, timetables – makes me feel like a railway train.’

She smiled – I’ve seen more convincing smiles in a massage parlour – and said, ‘Indeed. And our aim is to get you puffing out of the station as quickly as possible.’

I could see she liked her little joke. But I didn’t argue. I just wanted to sleep!

That were a couple of days ago. Spent most of the time since then sleeping ’cos every time I woke up there were some bugger ready to pinch and prod and poke things into me. Assessment they call it. More like harassment to me!

Third day, matron appeared all coy and girlish, straightened my sheets, plumped my pillows and said, ‘Big day, today, Mr Dalziel. Dr Feldenhammer himself is coming to see you.’

And that’s when I first set eyes on Lester Feldenhammer, head quack at the Avalon. I could tell he were a Yank soon as he opened his gob. Not the accent but the teeth! It were like looking down an old-fashioned bog, all vitreous china gleaming white. Bet he gargles with Harpic twice a day.

‘Mr Dalziel,’ he said. ‘Welcome to the Avalon, sir. Your fame has preceded you. I’m honoured to shake the hand of a man who got injured in the front line of the great fight against terrorism.’

I thought he were taking the piss, but when I looked at him I could see he were sincere. They’re the worst kind. Never trust a man who believes his own crap.

I thought, I’ll have to watch this one.

He shook my hand like he wanted to make sure it were properly attached and he said, ‘I’m Lester Feldenhammer, Director of the Avalon, also Head of Clinical Psychology. I think we’ve just about got your programme sorted, but the greatest aid to speedy recovery must come from within. I’ve taken the liberty of putting a little self-help book I’ve written in your bedside locker. It may help you to a fuller understanding of what’s happening to you here.’

‘Gideon Bible usually does the trick,’ I said.

‘We like to think of them as complementary,’ he said. ‘I’m really looking forward to monitoring your progress, Mr Dalziel. On matters physiological you will, of course, have access to our specialized medical staff. On all other matters, I’m your man. Anything you want to know, you have only to ask.’

‘Is that right?’ I said. ‘So what’s for dinner?’

He decided this were a joke and laughed like an accordion.

‘I can see we’re going to get on famously,’ he said. ‘Now, there’s something I’d like you to do for me.’

He pulled out this little shiny metal thing.

‘I’m not swallowing that,’ I said. ‘And if tha’s thinking of getting it into me by some other route, tha’d best think again.’

This time, mebbe because it were a joke, he didn’t laugh.

‘It’s a digital recorder,’ he said. ‘State of the art, practically works itself. What I’d like you to do, Mr Dalziel, is keep a sort of audio-diary. Make a record of your feelings, your experiences, anything that comes into your mind.’

‘You mean, you want me to start talking to myself?’ I said. ‘Like the nutters do?’

‘No, no,’ he said. ‘Not to yourself. Just talk as if you’re speaking to someone who knows absolutely nothing about you.’

‘Like you, for instance?’ I said.

He gave me a smile I could’ve played ‘Chopsticks’ on and said, ‘I do in fact know a little about you. And I shouldn’t like you to think you’re addressing me specifically. In fact, let me assure you, Mr Dalziel, I shall never listen to any part of it without your permission.’

‘So if you’re not going to hear it, what’s the point?’ I asked.

‘The point is you saying things, not me hearing them,’ he said. ‘You can keep a record of all those interesting little thoughts we so easily lose track of. Also you can ask yourself some of the really Big Questions. Think of it as part journal, part self-interrogation. I’m sure a man with your skills will be able to detect truth through no matter how cunningly woven a web of evasion and deceit. Will you do that for me?’

I said, ‘Mebbe. But if I don’t get some grub soon, I may just swallow it anyway.’

He went off, laughing. And that’s how I come to be lying here, talking to myself like a loony. Took another couple of days afore I dug Fester’s little toy out. Man in bed’s got to play with something. Nowt else to do. Newspapers these days aren’t fit to wrap chips in. Telly’s worse, and they don’t feed me enough grub to enjoy a good crap!

Can’t even do a runner. First, I’ve got no clothes. Spoke to Cap on the phone and she says she’ll bring me some soon as they let her visit me. Second, got to face it, my leg’s getting there, but I’m not back to running mode yet. I dumped them poncy elbow crutches they gave me at the hospital and got Cap to buy me a stout walking stick. I’m OK for short bursts, but after a couple of minutes, I’m ready for a sit-down.

Got to keep reminding myself, there’s a world out there, a real world with people in it, and pubs, and it’s likely full of scrotes pissing themselves laughing ’cos I’m stuck in here, talking to a machine.

Let them laugh.

I’ll be back.

Sure as eggs.

4 (#u59003b9b-0c4f-5e4c-8c34-06aa4adbc1f4)

Hi!

Nothing from you – maybe your teaky bronzy doc is keeping you busy – nudge nudge.

Ive made it to Sandytown – just finished unpacking in Kyoto House – built on a cliff top to catch all them healthy breezes – very eco-friendly – solar panels – wind driven generator – etc etc. Lovely room – looking out over the North Sea – all blue & sparkly just now – but I hope we get a storm before I go. Funny that – only other time I was here I prayed for warm sunshine – this time I want thunder & lightning!

The journey first – we stopped off at Willingdene as planned – to meet Gordon Godley – the healer.

I quite liked him – nutty as a fruit-cake – but sort of nice with it.

Hard to say how old – 45? – 55? – not helped by a mad black beard threaded with silver – like a bramble bush on an autumn morning – but v young v gentle grey eyes – a nose like a flying buttress in a dolls cathedral & a lovely smile. I could see the unclaimed treasures of the area queuing up to have his hands laid on their aching joints.

Dont think he took to me though. Tom didnt help – introducing me with a version of my thesis proposal that made me sound like the witch-finder general – out on the rampage! Mr Godley wouldnt meet my eye – answered my questions with monosyllabic grunts – so I soon gave up.

However – he listened to Toms pitch with great courtesy – tho I got the impression – using my finely honed analytical powers – that in fact he already knew a lot more about the Sandytown project than he was letting on. In the end – to shut him up I think! – he accepted Toms invite to make a visit to see if he felt called to bring his ministry there – Toms dead keen to get him on board for what he calls the Festival of Health – scheduled for Bank Holiday weekend – Ill be long gone – thank heaven! –

Finally – at Marys request – Gord laid his healing hands on the sprained ankle.

As we left Tom claimed his injury was much improved.