I drop it on my desk. No. Please, no. Who has sent this? What are you trying to tell me? Why now? The articles are as old as my story. Is this your idea of a bilious joke? Ahead of your appointment? Shaky hands shove it back in the envelope, out of sight, temporarily out of mind. I don’t have the space to think about it now.
Fifty-five minutes later, I show the doctor from my room, pondering about his lucid exchanges. He’s a self-referral, seeking help for a severe alcohol addiction, but I’m undecided if he wants to be helped, more, he knows he should pursue help. The pretence of taking action enables him to fulfil his consultancy at the hospital. A consultancy he clearly struggles with, partly due to the addiction, partly due to the stresses and unfair demands of the job, but mostly because of the turmoil both of these have caused at home. Yet for all his candour, morality and obvious intelligence, he lies. He lies to me, he lies to his consultancy, to his wife and family; but most of all, he lies to himself. In love with his addiction but doesn’t wish to be realised as an addict. But for his alcohol dependency to be an accepted member of his life and family. Smacked by the king of motivation, a huge dopamine release, each time he even contemplates alcohol.
Ruan follows in soon after him, swooshing the air with both hands.
‘Quick, help me get this window open. It stinks in here.’ As I grapple with the heavy sash window. ‘He assured me he hadn’t touched a drop this last week. But I’m already inebriated on the fumes. How long have I got?’
Ruan stands back from the open window, grinning towards Reception. ‘About ten minutes, I guess.’
‘For Christ’s sake, that’s all I need. I’m going to be branded as the clinician who’s partial to a little intoxication.’
‘Matches?’ suggests Ruan, on the hunt towards Reception, then he returns. ‘Here, light the candle thing, always works. That’s what I used to use at home.’ He laughs. ‘Let’s just hope I’m not about to blow us up.’ He lights the candle.
I snatch the matches from him. ‘Glad you find this so amusing. Go out into the street, then come back in.’ I give him a gentle push.
‘What? Why?’
‘To make sure you can’t smell the stale alcohol any more. We’ve probably just acclimatised to it.’
He rolls his eyes as he heads off out onto the pavement in a theatrical manner then bursts back into the reception. ‘No, it’s definitely okay. We’re in the clear. Can I put this down as valuable work experience? You know, tricks of the trade, kind of thing? The art of discretion? Why didn’t you just tell him straight when he denied it – he reeks of the stuff?’
‘You perhaps need to work on that art of discretion. No. I didn’t, of course not.’ I’ve already asked some clients if they’re happy for me to discuss their cases with Ruan, whilst he’s gaining work-experience hours. This is one of them.
‘Does he think you’re stupid or what? I mean, does he even pay attention to what you say?’ He throws himself into the tub therapy chair, a leg hanging over the side.
‘Ah, well, he listens with interest, nods and agrees. But no, I’m not convinced he really hears me or engages. He’s a smart guy. He uses selective hearing with a “this doesn’t apply to me” attitude.’
‘So what’s the point in him coming?’
‘Good question. He needs to be seen to be doing something. But he’s not ready to give it up yet; believe it or not, he doesn’t believe it’s a problem. As others do, he uses it to fill many voids, you see.’
‘You’re kidding? Not a problem? I thought I had a drink problem. So what did you talk about?’
‘Willpower, how addictions of any guise cannot be defeated with willpower alone. We talked of stresses, coping skills, sleep cycles and unfulfilled needs; all being fed by the alcohol. The thing is, he tackles his bucket of stress with inflammatory alcohol. But as it’s a depressant too, talk about inappropriate legions. It’s also a chronic disturber of sleep, a booster of cortisol. He wonders why, despite knowing he can’t possibly feel better or even consider a life beyond it.’
‘So if it can’t be beaten by willpower?’
‘More often than not, it’s the expectation of what the addictive behaviour provides rather than the actual behaviour that keeps the person addicted. The brain is coerced by the behaviour to feed lies. For the addict, the expectations are then always positive and rewarding, the harmful reality of the behaviour is boxed away.’ I look at Ruan, swinging his leg, taking it all in. ‘The truth is ignored.’
He nods. ‘Yeah, makes sense. Who wants to think about the bad stuff?’
‘Exactly, so the lies need to be uncovered, acknowledged, then challenged. But it’s almost impossible if the individual refuses to accept responsibility, doesn’t want to see the lies. Refusing to consider the reality of misuse, not what it gives them but what it takes away.’
‘So many addictions are fought on willpower, though, aren’t they? If you think about it. Even all these weird diet clubs. It’s always willpower.’
‘Hmm, but willpower can rarely succeed against lies, against little pots of hope and expectation. The doctor knows this really, but he’s not ready to hear it or ready to accept it. I wonder how far he has to fall before reality hits.’
‘Why would you? You know, lie to yourself like that?’
‘Life, Ruan. Sometimes people get themselves into situations. Before they know it the boundaries between lies and truths are too blurred. Telling lies to get to the truth, whatever that is. We’re not here to judge, though, are we?’
‘Me? Never.’
‘Did you have any joy, by the way, with that name I gave you, Milly’s mum’s boyfriend?’
‘Oh, yeah, I knew I’d something else to tell you. Sounds like he’s quite a local dodge pot. Mevagissey’s answer to Mafioso, by all accounts.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing online, I could find. But my mate’s mate’s mate’s dad – well, he runs The Black Sheep pub in the town. He knows of him all right. In fact, he barred him last year.’
‘Go on?’
‘Let’s just say, he has things in common with the kiddy catcher, or the Pied Piper, or the—’
‘Okay, Ruan, I’m getting the gist. He’s bad news.’ I look at the clock on the wall. ‘This will have to wait.’ I’m aware of my heart quickening. ‘I need a few minutes before my next one, if you don’t mind.’
‘Sure thing.’ Ruan retreats to Reception, leaving me to think some more about the envelope. Before long, I’m snapped away from my daze at the sound of the front door, opening and clunking shut. I freeze; I’m five years old again. I’d really expected a no-show. Actually that’s not true; I’d hoped for a no-show. I hear Ruan acknowledging him, as a deep masculine voice hums in response. I strain to decipher the tone of his voice but the walls are just too thick. Is it you? Direct confrontation was not your style. Certainly not with an unknown audience. At least it didn’t used to be. I creep across the room to listen from behind my slightly ajar door. Shunted up against the bookshelf, I urge my feet to step forward, but they don’t respond. I hear my heart thumping, feel my mind haze, but I can’t move my feet.
Eventually, Ruan peeps around the door. Arching his eyebrows, he whispers, ‘What are you doing, Eve? He’s here, your next appointment. Why you hiding behind the door? You okay?’
‘Shhh.’ I gesture for him to come in and shut the door behind him.
‘What’s up? What are you doing?’
‘Who is that?’ I ask, jerking my head in the reception direction.
‘What d’you mean? You know who it is. Your next appointment, William Adams. You know, the PTSD referral, the one—.’
‘Yes. I know who he says he is. I mean, who is he? What does he look like?’
‘What the hell’s going on?’ A look of puzzlement shapes his face. ‘Oh, God. D’you think it’s him? Jack’s dad?’