Making Beds in Brothels

by Adam Brock

  But living with Mitchell was a nightmare. He had developed a serious drinking problem by now and his day revolved around staggering back and forth to the corner shops to buy cheap four-litre bottles of wickedly strong white cider, which he drank from a Champagne flute. He started drinking first thing in the morning and finished late at night. Surprisingly, considering his alcoholism, he had a man on the slow rinse, just like in the old days.

  Phil allegedly did something in financial services, although I wasn’t convinced and I don’t think Mitchell believed him either. Mitchell wasn’t in a good way and probably didn’t have his full senses about him, because he was usually more circumspect. Phil lived with his mother, Yvonne, in a large bungalow not far from Mitchell’s home. I’m not sure where the money was coming from, but Phil kept Mitchell in the money that allowed him to drink all day.

  He was living between his home and Phil’s house, meaning I occasionally got some space. I would go over to Phil’s with Mitchell, but not often as there was something ‘off’ about Phil’s mother. I’m not saying I didn’t like her, although an alcoholic she was nice enough. Rather, she seemed drugged; her manner was ‘off’. She would sit, eyes dilated, muttering to herself. And she looked sick. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was something wrong about that whole set-up, something was setting off my survival sirens, and I didn’t want to be around any of them.

  After I moved out, Mitchell called me late one night to say they had come home to find Yvonne dead. I went over to see him, concerned about his welfare. This would be traumatic for even a strong person and it was the second time a similar thing had happened. I was worried about the impact it would have on him.

  He was blind drunk when he answered the door and although it was late he was wide awake so I stayed with him, talking all night. As dawn broke, he muttered something about “…not being able to stand seeing her looking like that”.

  I attended her cremation, one of only half a dozen or so mourners. Mitchell wept all the way through the service, which was the first time I ever saw him cry, he hadn’t even cried at the burial of his beloved Aunt Patricia.

  They massively over-catered for the wake. A sideboard was weighted down under a huge quantity of food, enough to feed dozens. Hams, quiches, piles of chicken legs and vats of salads that no one was touching. It was very peculiar.

  Phil was overly jovial, giggling and cracking jokes, as Mitchell sat there looking distraught. The whole atmosphere freaked me out, and I fled. I didn’t spend much time with Mitchell after that. Something had changed between us.

  Chapter 23

  The next few years passed in a blur. My drinking and drug use, once recreational, was spiralling wildly out of control. I lived with a series of ‘sugar daddies’ who, in return for sex, gave me somewhere to live, and kept me drunk and high. It wasn’t quite prostitution, but not far from it. I was at the lowest ebb of my life. I could see no escape route.

  I took any drugs I could get my hands on, anything to bring about the oblivion I needed from the misery I was in. I would walk into Manchester in the morning to get the packets of white powder I snorted. There were places in the trendy Northern Quarter for my morning fix and a place in the Gay Village for my evening supply. I needed to polish off entire bottles of neat whiskey to bring myself down from the drugs long enough for a few hours’ sleep. That was my life. I was an absolute mess

  It came to a head in the first few days of 2013. I was seeing a guy called Spencer. Spencer worked in management at a call centre, earning a decent wage. He was overweight, bearded and, importantly, generous with the drink and drugs. Dressing up in rugby shirts and football shorts for the sex sessions he enjoyed seemed a small price, if he kept me topped up. I was so gone by this stage that any shred of dignity had evaporated. We had been partying since New Year’s Eve and I had been awake continually for four whole days. We had a huge row, Spencer called me some terrible things, screaming into my face and triggering terrible memories.

  In a drugged haze and terrible mood, I retreated to my digs with a quantity of drugs I had purloined from Spencer, and continued snorting them. That morning, suffering from drug-induced psychosis and under the impression I was under attack from demons waiting outside my door, that something that I could hear laughing and cajoling me with murderous intent in their voices was about to enter the room and consume me, I defenestrated myself, in spectacular fashion, hurtling myself out of the third story window, and falling in a shower of broken glass. I felt no fear as I flew through the air, toppling towards the concrete below. I recall no flashing of my life before my eyes, just relief that I was away from whatever waited behind that door. The fall should have killed me, I should have died that morning. It’s a miracle I’m here today to tell my story.

  I recall the agony of the journey to the hospital, the blinding lights making me think I was being abducted by aliens. I recall how every jolt, every slight movement made me scream out loud in agony. The hospital felt like the depths of hell. It sat gaunt and dark on a hill in North Manchester overlooking a cemetery. A century earlier this very same building had been the city workhouse. A wretched place that was notorious for the maltreatment of its residents. In the more recent past it was home to a centre for aversion therapy. Electric shocks, and other appalling ‘treatments’ had been prescribed as a means of ‘curing’ the homosexual impulse of men sent here by the courts. The inhumanity of this place, the misery and suffering of those lost souls was palpable. And on some cosmic level I believe I tuned into it.

  I was surrounded by voices of the dead who screamed into my ears, arguing whether I should live or die. I swear that, at that point, I felt as if I was overhearing a conversation taking place around me. That these spirits and others would decide my fate. In such trauma, and believing myself close to death, it seemed as if the borders were brought down that protect us from another plane.

  Thankfully, I was given morphine for the pain and a sedative. This was immediately calming. I stayed awake long enough to be told I had broken my back in three places and shattered the bones in my face.

  Over the next six weeks in hospital I had frequent visits. People from my childhood turned up, my few friends, brothers, my mother and her partner. Deborah came and she recorded in her journals that I was still hallucinating.

  My old friend Rachel, was a most welcome visitor. As the morphine was suppressing my appetite, I couldn’t eat anything and the weight was dropping off me, so Rachel brought in food to tempt me: fresh fruit, soups and other treats that I normally loved. Rachel’s support really helped me through those weeks.

  Mitchell sat by my bed chatting and sipping neat whiskey from a fruit juice bottle, and the smell of it knocked me sick. Still, I was moved that he pulled himself together enough each day to come see me.

  One of the most surprising visitors was Spencer. I thought he would want to get as far away as possible, forget he had ever met me. Not so, he turned up every day, driving through the snow and blizzards that crippled Manchester that January. Spencer was guilt-ridden, and he spent the next two years trying to make up for what he believed he was responsible for. If he had any blame, it was only partial; the responsibility was largely my own. It was Spencer who pushed me towards education, who found me a place on a foundation course to lead me back into education and ultimately turn my life around. I have a lot to thank him for. I often wonder where I would be now if we hadn’t met.

  I was in bed under strict orders of no movement whatsoever. After six weeks it was time to assess the damage I had done to my back. I was wheeled off for scans every day and I recall laying still as the huge MRI machine clunked and thudded, with me inside. It wasn’t clear if I would walk again after such chronic injuries, and regular scans checked my progress.

  The nurses were careful to tell me not to build my hopes up, and I worried incessantly that I would spend the rest of my days in a wheelchair. After six weeks of being motionless, I set my mind to the task of walking. Those first moments on my f
eet were sheer agony. Even with the generous amount of morphine I had been prescribed, my bones and muscles screamed. Those first few months of my recovery were tough, and I got around on my crutches only with the aid of strong painkillers. I lifted myself onto my crutches and put one foot in front of the other. There was no stopping me. I gripped tightly, and walked.

  One day Mitchell called, asking if I fancied a change of scenery. I was living with Spencer full time now; he had taken on the full responsibility of my rehabilitation. Spencer’s flat was high up in a tower block and I was quite isolated. It wasn’t easy for me to get out, so I accepted Mitchell’s offer with gratitude.

  After an enjoyable evening putting the world to rights, and with the aid of painkillers and a few glasses of wine, I passed out cold. Dead to the world. I woke up in the morning in desperate need of a piss.

  Reaching round for my crutches I was confused not to be able to find them. I pulled myself up, looking around the room, but they were nowhere to be seen. I called out to Mitchell, thinking he must have moved them, but there was no rely.

  I pulled myself up and, using the furniture as support, searched the house. Thinking he might have passed out cold upstairs, I dragged myself up on my arse, one step at a time, my backside chaffing on the bare floorboards. The house was empty, and my crutches were gone. Unbelievably the bastard had stolen my crutches as I slept.

  Somehow, I got back home. Ringing him up later, he answered the phone blearily, as if I had woken him. “What crutches - what are you talking about…?” he said at first, but soon realising the implausibility of that line of denial, he changed tactic and decided on the truth. “Sorry Adam… Ellen had her doctor’s review for her incapacity benefit… we needed some crutches… Tell you what, I’ll drop ’em off later.” It dawned on me that he had probably invited me over with the sole intention of taking them, that this had been his intention from the start.

  That was typical of him, to always have his eye on the bigger game. But what kind of person steals the crutches from a man with a broken back? I was incandescent with rage and I hung up on him. After all the years of shit, that really was the proverbial final straw. I put down the phone, and that was the last time I ever spoke to him.

  Chapter 24

  I was so sick of everything. Sick to the stomach with myself. I was sick of Mitchell, of everyone. I no longer wanted a part of any of it. I’d had enough, and I wanted out of that life for good.

  I prayed to God, earnestly, to tell me where I had gone wrong. That was the first time in my life that I prayed and meant every single word of it. I had nothing left: no self-respect, no belongings, no home, no friends. I was physically and mentally traumatised. There was no one left who I could speak to. Then I’m not certain there had ever been anyone in the first place. The only thing left was God, and I didn’t even see God as something I could trust. Still, I had no one else, everyone had had enough of me. God was the one thing I had left in the end.

  Years later I attended the Alpha Course, an evangelical pathways meeting founded in 1977 by the charismatic Charles Marnham as an introduction to the Christian faith. For years I had seen Alpha advertised around Britain, usually on boards outside of churches. And I had been curious about attending but rather fearful of its apparent evangelical credentials. It looked rather cultish to me with its promise of questions answered, a ‘new way’ of seeing life and the multitude of smiling happy followers. Frankly I didn’t trust anyone who approached me smiling. I didn’t trust anyone full stop. I have a quality of red and black, like the colour certain moths develop that says, ‘I will leave a nasty taste, so leave me be’. Like I didn’t desire to be the subject of attention I didn’t seek it either and certainly not with religion thrown in the matrix, I was still very sceptical about any organised expression of faith after my experiences with the Jehovah’s Witnesses.

  Walking to my office one morning I saw a banner on the building opposite advertising the course and my inquisitiveness got the better of me, it being so close and according to the sign it would be taking place at lunch time so I couldn’t feasibly talk myself out of it. I can remember walking in feeling nervous, however the enthusiasm of the young people running the course was infectious and oddly enough, they were blasting out Motown and soul music, which I love and took to be a good omen. I was invited to join them for a delicious vegetarian lunch, I hadn’t realised that the sessions revolved around a shared meal and I was charmed by their simple hospitality. Obviously, there was a religious element, prayers and singing, however the focus was a recorded homily given by Marnham himself, usually on some topic such as sin or forgiveness, followed by testimonials.

  It was these recollections that caught my attention. They were often very serious criminals, men who had spent decades in and out of prison for horrendous crimes, terrible acts of violence. Others had overcome terrible odds, shown amazing forgiveness in spite of everything. I felt a kinship with these marginalised individuals. I’m certain many would view me in the same light. They too had often come from a place of no faith, of little hope, until one day something shifted, something woke in them and they turned their lives around. Retrospectively I recognised that movement away from my former life as being like theirs, although their change often seemed to come with ease in the film clips, I suspect that if was probably a rockier road than it appeared to be. And I started to think back to the process I had gone through in my own spiritual recovery.

  I would take myself to the Church of the Holy Name in Chorlton-on-Medlock, kneel stiffly at the altar and beg for understanding, beg him to show me the way back. I pleaded for forgiveness, for anything that would bring peace from my inner turmoil, I felt as if I was being torn into pieces. I wanted things to improve straightaway, and when they didn’t, when the expected miracles failed to improve my life overnight, I would rant at God venting my internalised angst, “Is this your fucking ‘will’ being done? Is this what you require of us, our fucking father?”. I was furious. It poured out of me in a primal scream, a projectile purge of decades of pent-up anger. I would rock on my heels, feeling my back scream as I wrestled with my demons and with God, right there on the church floor, sometimes with the pain of my internal struggles so great that they blocked out the creaking agony of my back.

  I didn’t give up. I carried on praying and pleading, begging on my knees. I wanted answers and I became stubbornly focused on persuading God to listen to me. Again and again, I internally pleaded, Listen to me, help me. I’m begging you. Again and again, Listen to me, help me, I’m begging you please. This became my mantra. After what felt like months, God heard me. Without a question it became crystal clear that God had heard me and, not only that, he was going to grant me fully the understanding I had requested.

  Be careful what you ask for. Had I known what was coming, its likely I would never have prayed in the first place. As C.S Lewis wrote ‘no man knows how bad he is until he’s tried very hard to be good’. Slowly at first, then with increasing power, God’s grace rolled over me with the force of an avalanche. It smashed me wide open, crushing me existentially in the process. I was beaten black and blue and I thought the strength of it would destroy me. In the midst of this I heard a voice clearly say, Don’t give up Adam, I will not test you more than you are able to endure, and things will get better. It formed in my mind with such clarity that I didn’t doubt for a second that it was God speaking to me.

  Everything I had experienced over the last thirty years started to bombard me. Every day I was faced with memories of what had been. Clear recollections of every penny I had stolen. Every single unkind word spoken in anger. Every deception and lie. It was flooding in on me in a tsunami of memories, crashing down on me. I had wanted to know what had brought me to this state, and I was being given the answer in one painful blow after another. It became very clear that the responsibility was mine. The explanation for why I had fallen so far, for every terrible thing that had been done to me, was about the choices I had made. It wasn’t the answer
I wanted. I had been looking for someone else to blame.

  Such was the deluge that I sincerely thought it was going to drive me out of my mind. Every day came another revelation: a boyfriend beaten in a drunken rage; someone’s treasured possession smashed out of jealousy and anger; the lies that I had spun for money; items I had stolen; petty, vindictive insults thrown at people for no reason. Suddenly my mind was clear. I was given the clarification I had asked for, and it was mind blowing. The most painful lesson you will ever learn is to understand that it is you yourself who is often the chief architect of your own misery.

  Anyone who goes through such self-revelation, who has lived the life I had, made my choices, ended in the condition I was in now, and does not see themselves clearly for the first time is probably beyond help. To endure that, then look back at yourself and think I’m fine, yet still believe the world owes you something, then perhaps nothing can be done to help you.

  I understood that only massive change was going to save me. Yet again I was in a fight for my life, but this was worse by far than anything I had battled through before, and the person I was battling was myself.

  And God, I got so tired. Tired to my bones. So tired I could not imagine going on, my mind was in such a bad way. Everything I saw or thought took on dark and portentous meaning. During my time in hospital three people died. None were more than passing acquaintances, peripheral to my life, but still, they were three young men around the same age as me; three loved ones, sons, brothers, uncles and friends. One died from a heart attack, another hanged himself and the final one accidently overdosed on GBH, the fashionable party drug. They all lived complex and problematic lives, and ungenerous souls might say none were a great loss to society. But I sometimes wonder if there shouldn’t have been four; I certainly wouldn’t have been mourned by many. Perhaps death has a quota that needs to be met, and my chance survival has put me on death’s list of escapees. Sooner or later, in some other guise, death comes creeping back to claim his due. This fear is pervasive; it colours my waking moments and taints my sleep. No, that’s not wholly accurate. My fear is indecisive; I don’t fear the reality of death, I’m resigned to it. The fear of death does not keep me awake at night, but the unknown does, what comes next. Not for me because I don’t focus on an afterlife. I have a similar outlook to the Jews, not sure if there is a heaven or hell. There seems no need for a fiery hell elsewhere anyway, because many of us already dwell in it; many are born into hell, and we only have to look around to know it. And as for heaven, well, it’s hard to remember a time without suffering, let alone imagine a place of eternal joy and peace.