Die of Shame (6 page)

Tony raises a finger. ‘As Robin says, there’s a difference between whatever triggers addictive behaviour and what might be underlying causes that are much deeper. That’s what we’re exploring at the moment.’

‘So, it’s all about something in your childhood, is it?’

‘Not always, but for the shame to have its roots in childhood is certainly not uncommon.’

Chris shakes his head, begins speaking in a hoarse whine. ‘I’m a junkie because I used to piss the bed. I’m a junkie because a big boy called me names. It’s all a bit convenient, if you ask me.’

‘Nobody is asking you,’ Heather says.

Caroline leans towards Robin. ‘I’m sorry for asking about your son,’ she says. ‘I didn’t know it was something you weren’t comfortable talking about.’

Robin smiles at her. ‘It’s fine. I should talk about it, I know. I think, because it’s the reason I started taking drugs, I’m just scared that if I let myself go back there… you see?’ The smile withers when he turns his eyes back to Chris. ‘Anyway, it’s not you I could happily strangle right now.’

‘I really wasn’t having a pop at you,’ Chris says. ‘It’s not your story I’ve got a problem with, it’s this whole shame thing.’

‘So, have a pop at
me
,’ Tony says. ‘I’m the one who suggested we investigate it. And I’m not actually allowed to strangle my clients.’

‘Bet you’ve wanted to,’ Caroline says.

Diana laughs and leans towards her. ‘If we’re anything to go by, I bet there’re times he’s wanted to murder some of them.’

‘Have you?’ Heather asks.

Hundreds of times, Tony thinks.

‘Only very rarely,’ he says.

‘I just don’t think he could face it,’ Diana says. ‘After telling that story, you know? Poor bloke looked knackered at the end.’

Heather and Caroline nod their agreement. ‘He told me he had an appointment, same as last week,’ Heather says. ‘But I think you’re probably right, he just needs to be on his own for a while.’

The three women are sitting in the same part of the pub as the previous Monday, and for the second week in a row Robin has apologised for being unable to join them.

‘Servants,’ Caroline says. ‘How messed up is that?’

‘Different time,’ Diana says.

‘I think I could handle having a servant.’ Heather grins as she pours herself another glass from a large bottle of mineral water.

‘Really?’

‘Oh, definitely. I’m guessing social services are going to have to stump up for him, mind you.’

‘You might win the lottery,’ Caroline says.

‘Unlikely.’ She looks at Caroline, waits for the penny to drop.

It takes Caroline a few seconds to remember that Heather had mentioned a gambling addiction the week before. She says, ‘Idiot,’ and shakes her head, then mimes putting a gun to it and pulling the trigger.

Heather waves it away and says, ‘Not a problem. Couple of years now since I was nutjob queen of the scratch cards…’

‘So, tell us about this servant,’ Diana says. ‘I presume he’s stripped to the waist, nicely oiled up.’

‘Oh yeah,’ Heather says. ‘And doing a
lot
of bending down to pick things up.’ She remains deadpan as Caroline and Diana laugh. ‘I wouldn’t take the piss, obviously. Just get him to pop to the shops for me now and again, run me a bath, iron my pants.’

‘You should try having kids,’ Diana says. ‘Throw in cooking and being an on-demand taxi service and that’s pretty much your whole life.’

‘Maybe I won’t bother then,’ Caroline says.

‘There are
some
good bits.’ Diana swallows and moves fingers through her hair for a few seconds. She finally smiles. ‘I can’t think of any right this minute.’

‘Liars and thieves, the lot of them.’ Heather leans into the table. ‘Remember Robin’s story. Mind you, some of us don’t grow out of it.’ She lifts up her glass and turns to look at Chris, who has been pumping coins into a high-tech fruit machine since they arrived. She might be talking to herself when she says, ‘Used to piss away plenty on them an’ all.’

‘Where’s he get the money from?’ Caroline asks, looking towards Chris. ‘I don’t get the impression he has any kind of regular job or anything.’

‘I doubt very much that he’s ever had one,’ Diana says.

Heather turns back. ‘Oh, I think he has, just not the kind you’d approve of.’

‘Cash in hand, you mean?’

‘All sorts of things in his hand.’

Caroline sniggers. It takes Diana a few moments to get it.

‘Have you known him longer than everyone else then?’ Caroline asks. ‘I mean, it sounds like you have.’

‘A bit longer,’ Heather says. ‘Not a lot. I think I understand him a bit better though.’ She turns to look again and Chris notices that they are all watching him. He pulls a face, sticks up two fingers at them. It’s camp and comical.

‘I understand him perfectly well,’ Diana says. ‘He’s self-destructive and immature.’

‘Well, he is that bit younger.’

‘He just doesn’t know when to shut up.’

‘Look, I’m not arguing.’

‘If he didn’t say such nasty things he wouldn’t have to say sorry quite as much as he does.’

Heather holds up a hand. ‘You should tell him all this, not me.’

‘I will,’ Diana says. ‘I do…’

She watches as Chris ambles back to the table. Heather shuffles along to make room for him and he sits down next to her.

‘I wish pubs still had those quiz machines,’ he says. ‘I used to make a fortune out of them. Go from pub to pub, emptying the bastards.’

‘What was the scam?’ Heather asks.

‘No scam. The truth is, I am just shockingly intelligent.’

‘Well I’m certainly shocked,’ Diana says.

Heather laughs and Chris pulls a face and then the others join in. Chris seems relaxed and happy, the tense exchanges of an hour or so before at the session seemingly forgotten. It’s not the first time Caroline has been struck by how quickly his temperament can change. She had said as much to Heather the previous week.

‘He’s quite… mercurial, isn’t he?’

Heather had looked at her. ‘Is that a clever word for moody?’

‘I suppose.’

‘Well, yeah then, he is.’

Chris is telling a story about some friend of a friend who tried to fake a urine sample by strapping a water bottle to the inside of his leg, but forgot that he’d filled it with orange juice. He’s a great storyteller, doing the voices, acting out each part perfectly and clearly relishing the reaction he gets.

When he’s finished, and before he has a chance to start another routine, Caroline says, ‘So, what’s the story with Robin’s son?’

Heather and Diana turn to look at her. Chris rolls his eyes and says, ‘Oh please, let’s not go there.’

‘I’m just curious, that’s all.’ She pulls her tomato juice towards her. Her mouth hovers at the tip of the straw. ‘He’s dead, yeah?’

Diana nods. ‘That’s about all we know, though.’

‘I think he killed himself,’ Heather says.

‘Really?’

‘Well, it must be something bad. I mean, worse than just some illness or something.’

‘Robin will tell us when he’s ready,’ Diana says.

Caroline says, ‘Yeah,’ and sucks at her drink.

‘I’m sure there’s plenty of things the rest of us haven’t opened up about yet.’

Caroline grunts her agreement, sucking until the juice has all gone. She straightens up as a barman stops at the table to collect the empties. She half smiles at him, but he doesn’t respond.

‘Maybe he topped himself because of Robin,’ Chris says, when the barman has gone.

‘You’re an arse,’ Heather says.

Chris yawns extravagantly, stretching his arms out so that one snakes across the back of Heather’s neck and laughing as she cringes from it. ‘Maybe Robin just bored him to death.’

‘Oh,’ Caroline says.

‘What?’

She nods towards the door through which Robin has just entered and they all turn to look. He waves and hurries over, breathing heavily. His silver hair, usually carefully styled and lacquered, is all over the place. It looks as though he’s been running.

‘I thought you couldn’t come,’ Diana says.

‘I put my appointment back.’ Still panting, he takes off his coat and folds it across his arm. ‘Couldn’t miss this, could I?’

Diana gives a small cheer.

‘We’re a group, aren’t we?’

‘Right,’ Heather says, looking around. ‘We just need to find another chair…’

Robin shakes his head, bends down and squeezes in next to Chris. ‘Listen… I want you to know that whatever gets said at Tony’s has nothing to do with… this.’ He gestures towards the others. ‘With
us
, I mean. Naturally people are going to get upset in there and emotions are going to run high, but that’s part of it. All part of the process.’ His face is just inches from Chris’s. ‘It’s all useful in the end, OK? No hard feelings on my part.’ He puts a hand on Chris’s arm and rubs. ‘That’s all I wanted to say. Family, yes?’

Chris stares straight ahead, unblinking, one finger drumming rapidly against the edge of the table, but when it becomes clear that Robin will not move until he’s had an acceptable response, he says, ‘Yeah.’

Robin closes his eyes for a few seconds, then turns to the others and claps his hands together. ‘Right, then, who wants a wholly satisfying non-alcoholic beverage?’

A few seconds after Robin has taken orders and gone to the bar, Chris stands up and walks back to the fruit machine in the far corner. He jams in a few coins and begins stabbing at the buttons.

The three women watch him.

‘What’s the matter with him now?’ Caroline asks.

Chris leans against the machine, that finger still drumming.

Heather says, ‘He doesn’t like being forgiven.’

Resolved issue with Chris and Caroline. Usual tricks from Chris throughout and my suspicions about his abstinence, or lack of it, are getting stronger week on week. He continues to play a ‘role’ – archetypal fear of authenticity – preferring to be disliked for who he pretends to be than who he really is. Suggested some more one-to-one sessions, but he didn’t seem keen.
 

Exchange about cost of sessions initiated by Heather. Talked about fee differentials/support of outside services. Interesting exchange between Robin and Chris about ‘equality’ among addicts. Worth pursuing at a later session, I think.
 

Robin’s S. Africa story was extremely revealing. Catharsis powerful and obvious. Chris still has doubts about relevance of shame in recovery process and was aggressive with Robin afterwards. Raised issue of Robin’s son which heightened tension further. Good to see Robin on the offensive for a change. Empowered by his own revelations? More convinced than ever that this is a worthwhile exercise.
 

Did not ask for volunteers for next time. Would be good to draw Caroline out a little in future sessions, so may put her on spot. Thinking that spontaneity might be way forward. Given a week to prepare their stories, is it easier to self-censor?
 

Tony puts the radio on to drown out the music from the floor above him; the repetitive thumping only marginally worse than the smell. The associations that go with the smell.

He tunes to a phone-in, sits back and closes his eyes. The same station has a show on a different night which he listens to on catch-up if he can’t be at home when it goes out. A therapy phone-in. Some cut-price Frasier Crane dispensing faux pearls of idiocy that might just as well have come from a Christmas cracker. It annoys him, but he listens nonetheless, enjoying the anger as it builds and comes to the boil.

How can you love others if you don’t love yourself?
 

You need to get closure and move on.
 

Try smiling more often.
 

Jesus…

It’s envy of course, pure and simple. He wouldn’t be much of a therapist if he couldn’t recognise that, though he doubts very much that the moron on the radio show could. He knows it’s the kind of show he should be doing himself, knows how good at it he would be. He has some media experience, after all, and he was always very good in front of an audience. Well, perhaps not at the end, but by then he had a hard time remembering which city he was playing in.

Good evening, Birmingham.
 

Coventry, you twat
…
 

A nice radio job would be handy in terms of money as well, no question about that. He thinks back to the session, his discomfort during the discussion about money. It was more than just the awkwardness he always feels when clients try to elicit personal information. They had touched a nerve, the five of them sitting in that conservatory paid for by his wife. The
house
largely paid for by his wife. He enjoys his work, values it, but he does not like being supported.

He particularly dislikes being reminded of the fact.

Some nice, ulcerating shame of his own.

‘Get in touch with them then,’ Nina says, whenever he mentions the radio show. ‘Send a CV instead of moaning to me about it. You need to push yourself a bit more.’

She’s always telling him that he isn’t pushy enough, that he should ‘sell’ himself more and that it all comes from spending too much time listening to other people. He knows she’s got a point. Trouble is, somewhere in whatever she’s telling him, however encouraging she might sound, he can always detect a seed of doubt. Some sharp and tiny seed he imagines she’s taking great care to plant, and nurture. If the subject of his past life ever comes up – if he happens to mention an old song of his, or a gig he once played – Nina always seems to find a way to pour cold water on it.

A few months ago, a singer he had worked with years before – who had supported him at a handful of shows – was playing at the Hammersmith Apollo. Tony had suggested to Nina that they go along, told her he was sure he could organise tickets and backstage passes. She had sounded keen, but only for a day or two.

‘Wouldn’t it be a bit… embarrassing though?’ she had asked eventually. Her hand on his arm. ‘Afterwards, I mean. Eventually, he’s bound to ask you what you’re doing now.’

He’d gone on his own in the end and enjoyed it. Paid for his ticket like everyone else and come straight home afterwards.

The radio host gives out the number for the phone-in again and Tony reminds himself that he needs to talk to Heather about the messages. He had been about to put it into his notes, but had stopped himself when it occurred to him that Nina might look at what was on his computer from time to time.

You know exactly who I’m talking about
…
 

He’s probably being stupid. Because he’s becoming convinced, more so by the day, that his wife doesn’t really care a great deal.

The one who looks like a boy.
 

Thinking back on their conversation in the kitchen a week before, it seems obvious to him that Nina was amusing herself. The pained accusations and the fake jealousy.

When a caller starts ranting about how the Polish have taken over Earls Court, Tony leans across and turns the radio off. Without being aware of it, his fingers begin tapping at the edge of his desk in time with the beat from Emma’s room above him. He looks up and sees the central light fitting moving gently over his head. A month ago it was reggae, which he could just about cope with, but this is mechanistic, ceaseless. It’s like a furiously racing heartbeat and the smell tells him that his daughter’s heart is almost certainly keeping time with it.

Thumping against her skinny chest, up to twice as fast as normal.

Tony gets up and opens his door, breathes it in. The same burned sweetness that was once the way his own world smelled. Him and his friends and every place they went. On his clothes, in his hair.

Now, it just smells like waste.