by Mo McDonald
It was her, it was Marian, and she had a knife in her hand. She was about to attack me. I knew that she was going to kill me for what I had done to her. After all, revenge would be sweet – for all I knew, I had ruined her life and her marriage. Now she was going to get me! But as my weak legs refused to run faster, a gentle hand tapped my shoulder.
‘Excuse me,’ she smiled. ‘When you bumped into me just now, you dropped this.’
As I glanced back, what had looked like a knife in her hand turned out to be no more than my own silver pencil. Somehow, it must have fallen from my jacket to the ground. As the woman moved away, I could see that she was not at all like Marian and that my mind had played a cruel trick on me. I felt so very ill. I wanted to go home, but I was afraid to. Surely I would be safer from myself if I stayed in a crowded place; what harm could my mind do to me then? The shoppers allowed me to feel invisible – I was glad of that. The noise and the density of people and things tore at my nerves. As I moved slowly now along the street, I felt a fierce, sharp pain in my chest; running had left my heart feeling as if a long sharp knife had indeed been pushed into it. I wanted to shout out. Instead, I screamed inside my head and as its own echo chased around like a magnetic track of pain in a circle, my thoughts spun faster and faster.
I wished for some physical outward sign to give dignity to my suffering. I was suffering and unable to reach out for help. If only I were lame instead of whole, there would have been some excuse, some reason for pity. The tremors and disturbances in my mind had played around with me for the past few months ever since Marian’s departure, ever since I had handed her over to her husband. Over and over again those unseen wounds attacked my body, leaving me now a broken man.
Aimlessly I wandered in and out of the shops, faking interest in books and records, holding them, looking at them but not seeing them. To anyone observing me, I must have looked extremely intent on a purchase when, in fact, I was lost inside my head. There is a certain kind of nightmare that often precedes an illness, when I dream that I am walking down a long, long road that has no end. I have to get to the end in order to deliver a pile of money, but try as I might I never reach my destination. In my sleep, sweat pours from my body as I realise how impossible the task to be.
That morning had been such a nightmare; it was as if time itself would not move. I moved heavily, labouring my every movement, trying to make the hours pass. The fear I felt was alarming. I had never experienced such distress. I remember breathing deeply and very deliberately so as to step briskly away from the shops. Somehow, I found myself back home – home? Home is where the heart is, so they say, but if that is so, I did not go home. I simply went back to the house where I lived.
My condition got worse as the day wore on, my state of mind not improved by the fever that possessed me. I must have slept throughout that day and night and most of the next day. I was aware of someone else in the room looking anxiously down at me. She had returned on the Sunday evening, leaving the children to spend half-term with their grandparents.
‘My God, what’s wrong with you? You look terrible,’ Pauline said. ‘You should have called. I would have returned earlier.’
I knew that she would have helped if I had asked, but I could not tell her. I wanted her to understand without me having to explain; that alone would have been proof of her love. As long as I held it in, let the storm go through my head, slowly, slowly, then I could be intact. It was too difficult to talk without breaking down. Words connected me with her, but I did not want that, no connection, none.
The next twenty-four hours passed in oblivion. I gave myself into her hands, allowing her to nurse me. She bathed me and changed me and gently nursed me through the fever. My body let her look after it, but I didn’t utter a word. That would have enlightened her as to my state of mind. She talked and I answered letting her think that the flu had caused my illness. On Tuesday morning, after she cleared my breakfast tray and went out of the room, I got up. The blood must have run out of my head. I was dizzy and had to hold onto the bed.
She came back in and asked, ‘Why don’t you sit down?’
I nodded. It annoyed me that I had let her see how weak I still was. If I forced my distress on her or pointed it out to her, she would have dealt with it. I couldn’t bear that. I needed her reassurance. I needed to be loved. I looked at her and knew that were she to reach out to me, not physically but really reach out to me, I would gladly surrender. I would have told all. Told her I had used her both domestically and in a lustful way, used her, used her, used her. Confession would have helped my self-pity and confusion. How gladly I would have told her about Marian and my need for her. Would have told of how I had used Marian, used Marian, used Marian. Would have told, would have told.
She turned and looked at me in such a serious manner I could tell that she was weighing me up in some meaningful part of her mind. She was thinking maybe I was in trouble. Her look told me that she regarded me as a problem and as she came towards me with outstretched arms, I realised that she was offering herself as the solution to my problem. I could not bear it. I suspected that I wouldn’t be able to survive under her pity, that I would be rubbed away in the care and the nursing. What I wanted she could not give me, no matter how kind and caring she might be. To be comforted by spiritual love was what I longed for, not to be looked after by a mother figure. I could not allow the open arms to hold me.
‘Really, I am all right, just let me get my balance.’
Pushing her away, I managed to stumble across to a chair. She hovered over me, brooding over me, wanting to talk. I remember thinking that I ought to encourage her to chatter on, then she might not notice my silence. So that I might think of something else, I prompted her to talk about the children. She welcomed my manipulation of her – as always, she allowed me to turn the key.
I let her talk while my mind raced on elsewhere. It had to get away. Had to leave my body, float around outside the room. It raced off, then stopped dead inside my head. An immense amount of time passed in those next few minutes while Pauline told me the sorts of things that little boys do. Amusing things they had said and the fun and the joy that they brought to her.
Soon, there was silence. I was helpless in my effort to make her continue so as to have sound fill the space. I had welcomed her voice, now she let the silence grow. As I listened to the sound of nothing, it hurt my ears. I closed my eyes and imagined Marian, not Pauline, standing before me, but try as I might I could not remember her face. Opening my eyes, I was filled with horror as Pauline took the three or four steps towards me. The illusion was gone.
At first she sat upon my knee, but fearing to tire me she slid to the floor, resting her head upon my knee. I feebly patted her hair and, clearing my throat, I tried hard to speak. I had nothing to say. How pathetic I found myself; reason told me how lucky I was to have such a devoted and positive wife. That had been why I had been so content to fantasise about Marian. Jung’s advice had served me well, but with Marian gone I could no longer cope with the domestic role expected of me. The mundane routine repelled me; the shame I felt made me cringe.
Looking up at me, she smiled and reached out to cradle my head in her hands. Panic made me jerk my head away, while her touch filled me with fear. I was afraid. She wanted to make love and I did not. She had mistaken my need to be loved and looked after as a sign of direct physical love. If she touched me again, I was certain I would scream. But I did not wish to hurt her, I didn’t love her, I had never loved her. I needed her.
Smiling kindly at me, she undid my pyjama top as a nurse would a patient’s and tugged at the waist of my trousers. I could say nothing as I sat like a helpless child. Face turned up, eyes down. Shyness made her tremble as she fumbled in her attempt to undress me. My mind was at odds, should I help her so as to get the deed over with? The effort caused her to pant a little and she laid her cheek against me and nuzzled there. I struggled not to shout, not
to kick. It was all so unfair and cruel on her, yet from my point of view, kind. I had made a sacrifice; I had not screamed or put up a fight! Sitting tense and upright I could do no more. Slowly embarrassment dawned on her.
‘Don’t you want to?’ she asked.
‘No,’ was my blunt reply. Then distress for her made me add, ‘I want to but I can’t.’
‘Of course you want to. You’re just tense. In a little while, you’ll be fine.’
‘No, no, there’s no point really, not today. I must feel worse than I thought. Not today.’
‘Fine. If that’s how you feel, fine.’ She smiled back at me without malice. ‘We have a lifetime together. What’s the hurry?’
As I stood up, she added, ‘Mind you, don’t lose your trousers. I undid them, remember? Go back to bed.’
Once again, she played the role of mother or nurse, guiding me to the bed and tucking me up as I lay my muddled head upon the pillow. Soon she left me and I was both relieved and scared. I wanted to be alone and yet I was afraid of my mind; afraid of the thoughts that invaded it, like uninvited visitors, intruders to my peace. Before leaving the room, she turned and said, ‘It was silly of me to act that way, when you are unwell. Don’t feel bad about it. I was silly.’
Sleep would not comfort me as I lay stiff and tense back upon the pillow. My brain and my body were threatening me. A terrible fear filled me and I was aware that I might have lost the courage to live. Many pictures passed through my mind as I watched behind closed lids, but now my skill as an editor was of no use. I was unable to rid myself of the unwanted ones and I fell victim to the suffering like a drowning man whose past life flashes before him. Faces of family and friends, people known and unknown to me, along with the blurred face of Marian between each image, as if she were struggling to get to me, haunting me even in my memory of those that I had known long before I ever knew of her existence. The flickering images would not allow me to rest as I searched through my memory, like a piece of film before the cutting process. Nothing helped me, nothing except fear of what I might become.
Time passed and the only sure message that came through to me was that I needed help, but I had no idea how to get help. I opened my mouth and tried to shout but I seemed to have forgotten how to mouth the words. Then, a terrible shiver made me lose control as my body refused to stop shaking. I thought that maybe I had been hit by lightning, so confused was my mental state. My head was suddenly bombarded with the dreadful sound of my teeth chattering. The noise became so loud I had to stuff a large lump of blanket into my mouth to stifle it.
As my body rolled uncontrollably upon the bed, the notion that I was in the midst of a mental breakdown hit me for the first time. Somehow, I knew that if I were not to be found as a babbling idiot I must will myself to take control. With a huge effort, I managed to heave the covers back and push myself onto the floor. Shaking from head to toe, I let myself fall across the room and bump my way through the door, and without knowing how I managed to reach the foot of the stairs and headed for the kitchen. It was empty but my glance rested on a sheet of paper propped up on the middle of the table. I felt apprehensive as I picked it up with a trembling hand.
Dearest Jack,
When you are ready to talk, I am at Mother’s. I decided it would be for the best. You have been very strange since that woman rang asking for her correspondence back. I thought nothing of it at the time but your behaviour ever since has made me think. She said that it was correspondence that went way back to 1980. I think you were having an affair with her and she ended it. Be honest with me. I married you knowing that you didn’t love me but I thought over the years we had grown closer. You used me once, please not again. Be fair with me. When you are ready, let me know. I love you but I would rather live alone without you, than with you, without you!
Pauline
PS At the very least, stop drinking and making a fool of yourself.
I had made a complete mess of my life whilst trying to be both intellectual and noble. I had handled the situation so very badly; justice had been done and fate had turned on me. If Pauline left me, what would become of the family I had badly tried to cling onto? In my head, I had craved freedom, but in reality I wanted the home and the family that my mind had urged me to protect. Carl Jung had encouraged me to recognise my fantasy in Marian. That fantasy was now creating this nightmare. I was too weak to stand alone without Pauline and I wanted to be a father to the boys that I loved.
Pouring myself a large brandy, I said aloud, ‘Now come on, have a big sip, come on, mouth open, head back. Now some more, just let it go down. Again, come on. Don’t give up. You’ve got to pull yourself together.’
I heard my voice as though listening to the commands of a stranger.
‘Have another sip, it’ll take effect soon. There’s a good quarter of a bottle in the glass. Go on, drink up.’
I felt a wave of self-loathing hit me as the brandy slowly helped me relax. It took over thirty minutes to empty the glass, by which time I was heavy with a dull tiredness. Then, sluggishly, I went back upstairs and got dressed, but my actions were slow as my mind rushed to be out of the house. Opening the front door, I was met by the noise and possibilities of the world outside and unsteadily I moved along the pavement not knowing in which direction to go.
Cars streamed past me and the ceaseless sound of their engines inflicted pain upon my eardrums as my body felt like strings in a racket, ready to break from the tension within. I had to fight against the flashing images that my mind was playing on me. I felt as if I were in the middle of a fight scene from West Side Story and that the passersby were threatening gangs, ready to beat me up. I stumbled as if I were a drunk who was trying to dance. It is only thinking back that I can see how silly I must have appeared to ordinary people going about their ordinary lives.
My body was rigid and my feet were tense against the paving stones, as though I was trying to push myself away from it. Somehow I had to command my body to move because it was so uneasy and the sound of my heart beating was so loud that it drowned out the roar of the traffic. As people’s eyes met mine, I was convinced that they heard the pounding and I started to cry for fear that I might shout out begging for their help. As I began to sob, I went into a shop doorway and wept. There was nothing I could do to stop it. I had had so much and lost it. That was all. There were many greater tragedies and many greater losses, but I remembered Marian and I knew then what she must have felt like. I wept out loud until I was quiet and calm. Nervously I looked around, relieved that I had been unobserved.
I sank to the ground and propped myself up against the shop door, my head hurt from crying but my body felt limp, and it was all I could do to keep my eyes open. I was aware of my chin resting on my chest and my breathing became very deep, moving my head slightly up and down as I drifted into sleep.
Then, it became clear to me. I knew what I had to do. In my weak state earlier, I had noticed an invitation on the hall table inviting me to a joint BBC and publisher’s party to be held that night. I had been invited to address the gathering and in my new calmer state of mind, the details suddenly came back to me. An idea formed itself in my head as I made my way on the tube to Kensington.
My invitation had not been replied to, but even so I was welcomed and directed to the drinks bar and the buffet. Many members of my industry were present – people from the world of broadcasting and artists across the spectrum with their agents and publishers. By then, I was clear-headed and very hungry so I contented myself with a large selection of food and a small whisky. I found a quiet corner with a chair away from most people and tucked into the food while looking around me. The room was very beautifully decorated, further enhanced by the many successful men and women who were well dressed, well spoken and very intent on talking. As I looked on, I was like a fly on the wall as each little group chatted in harmony, almost like a score of music as they stopped and started, allowi
ng the conversation to flow.
I was aware that compared to the exquisite attire of some there I looked awful and I would probably be thought to be under the influence, but no one seemed to notice me in the low lights. Most people clustered around the other end near the little stage area and what seemed like a couple of hours and many drinks later, Ben, my host, sought me out and reminded me that I was expected to give a light-hearted chat on writers and their agents.
‘You ought to come and talk to people. It is not like you to sit in the corner. Most of them came along to hear what you have to say. You are much respected by them and they all feel they need your support for their work. They admire you, too. Come on,’ he said.
I promised that I would join him but I insisted that he produce his home video camera, stressing that what I had to say I wanted recorded. My request surprised him, but he humoured me, thinking me half pissed by that time. I walked across the room looking for a suitable spot to be heard by all as a noticeable hush fell politely over the room. Ben said a few kind words as he placed me in the centre of the crowd and a welcome applause clapped me into action.
As if by magic, I suddenly became alive again, a performance in front of an audience was what made me tick…
‘Hallo and good evening. What I have to say will come as a surprise to all of you, even a shock, but it is an important lesson in psychology. As a writer and somewhat of a champion of the Arts, psychology plays an important part in my work. Indeed, Art is concerned with Man’s mind and his/her human emotion, so please bear me out.