Rehab Blues

by Adrian Laing

  Helen was slightly apprehensive. “Do you remember the session with Paul, you know Paul Jones the hypnotherapist?”

  Annie had to pause, and think. “I remember the beginning, Helen. It was just after the freak-out session or whatever you call it with Gootsy. I was already sort of beaten up, emotionally, when Paul came in. It’s a bit of a blur, quite frankly.”

  Helen and David had to consciously avoid looking at one another.

  “Listen, Annie. I think you’ve come a long, long way. But you’re not quite ready to leave, yet. Nearly, but not quite. I think it’s time for another session or two, and then see how you feel. We always say that our guests know in their hearts when they’re ready to leave The Place and it seems to me you don’t really want to leave right now. Is that fair enough?”

  “I guess it is, Helen. What have got in line for me next? Something special, I hope.”

  David smiled. “We sure do, Annie. Wait till you meet Aaron, now he is special.”

  There was a polite knock on David’s office door.

  “Look, Annie we’ll catch up with you later. We need a few minutes with a new guest, you’ll like her, Annie. You’ll be sharing with her in fact, hope you don’t mind. Maybe you’ve heard of her? Does the name Mandy Haddock ring any bells?”

  Annie’s face lit up as if she had just heard some amazing news. “Mandy Haddock? Really? How interesting.”

  David stood up and opened his door, letting Annie pass by Mandy, exchanging a brief ‘hi’ to each other.

  “Mandy, please sit down, anywhere on the sofa. We’ve a lot to discuss. Great to see you.”

  Mandy Haddock looked every inch the brassy, lippy, cockney soap star that she had become associated with in the public’s mind. The journey to television fame had left many a deep scar on Mandy’s psyche whose chiselled features betrayed just too much unwanted history.

  “Cut the crap, David. We all know why I’m here. It was either this place or Holloway prison. This looks marginally better. Just give me a good report; I’ll make sure your bills are paid. But none of this therapy crap, OK?”

  Helen seemed to gain an inch or two when she straightened up and placed her hands on her lap.

  “Mandy, you’re here by choice. You’ve already made an important decision. We understand the dilemma you were faced with. I’ve seen the transcript of the judge’s comments. You’re back to be sentenced in a few days. I recall he said, what was it? Oh yes: ‘As far as I’m concerned, all options are open. You may be a celebrity in your world but you’re a common thief in mine’, something like that, wasn’t it Mandy? I guess you wouldn’t be in so much trouble if it wasn’t for that suspended sentence hanging over you.”

  Helen stood up looking rather miffed, but dignified.

  “I’m going to leave you with David to sort out some details. In the meantime, Mandy, remember that you’re on a knife edge. You’ve made one choice, but over the next few days there’ll be other decisions to make. The first is this: treat all of us who are responsible for The Place, and all the guests and therapists here, with the same respect as you expect from us. David will explain what we mean by our ‘Darcy Rule’. And you can put those cigarettes away, there’s no smoking in this office. David will also explain the drugs policy. Now Mandy, is there anything I’ve said that you want to challenge? You are perfectly free to walk back out the door, no one is going to try and stop you. Or, you can agree to show a bit of respect and for a short time abide by our rules. Which is it, Mandy?”

  Mandy reluctantly placed the cigarette back into the packet and gave Helen a steely gaze. “I get you, Helen. OK. You win. Happy?”

  Mandy turned to David, fluttered her false eye lashes and placed her hand on his knee.

  “Now, David, what do you want me to do?”

  12

  Aaron Westernson was by any accounts a strange looking guy. It wasn’t just because he was on the portly side, that wouldn’t be fair. It was more to do with his shock of white brillo-style hair which stuck out from the sides, but not the top, of his otherwise bald, shiny head. The thick-rimmed, black-framed glasses gave him the air of an absent-minded professor, or perhaps a long-term inmate from some institution, it was difficult to call.

  “Now, Annie you’re familiar with this room, I understand.”

  Annie picked up a faint trace of an eastern European accent in the rather high-pitched voice that came out of the ambiguous figure in front of her.

  “Yeah, I feel I’ve been here many times,” said Annie cautiously.

  “Really? Oh that’s very good, very good indeed. Now my name is Aaron, Doctor Aaron Westernson. Have you heard of me? OK, maybe not. You know Annie what I do is very special. I am a trained Jungian analyst but I’ve been told I have a gift for what is sometimes called ‘Regression Therapy’.”

  Annie was getting the point that all of these therapies, in their own way, were special. Annie had taken a quick look at her ‘Special Programme’ but barely registered the words ‘Regression Therapy’ before heading down to the Encounter Area. Annie had no idea, at all, what this might mean and even less idea as to what relevance was supposed to be attached to the description ‘Jungian analyst’.

  Annie looked around and was surprised as to how much the atmosphere of the room could change with so little effort, rather like the stage of a small theatre. Today the curtains were drawn over the mirrors and the lights were on the low side, but not to a disturbing degree.

  Unusually, there was just a rug on the floor in the centre of the room and on this rug were two comfy armchairs facing each other, and that was it. Annie was now embedded in one chair, facing the Hobbit-like Aaron Westernson in the other, equally comfortable armchair opposite.

  “Now, Annie. Have you been hypnotised before?”

  Annie had a passing thought of being a bit cheeky and saying ‘how would I know’ but decided quickly against the flippant approach. This guy was really serious.

  “Er, yeah, the other day, right here actually, well more or less. That nice guy, Paul. He asked to hypnotise me, but I was a bit flaked out at the time – you know with the Gootsy fella and all that screaming. It’s funny you should ask because I can’t say if Paul hypnotised me or not. I don’t know, it didn’t feel right.”

  Annie realised she was only talking out of nerves and tried, unsuccessfully to shut up.

  “OK, Aaron, what’s the form – you know – what do I have to do? Have you got a swinging watch thingy or something? I can’t even remember what Paul asked me to do, exactly.”

  “No, Annie, I don’t have – or need – a ‘swinging watch thingy’. Just listen to my voice. Tell me a bit about yourself, Annie. Do you ever have feelings of déjà vu? Have you ever felt some connection with a figure in a past life? Helen told me you were once the most popular person on Planet Celebrity. The last person to hold that title was probably Helen of Troy, Cleopatra, or… the Queen of Shebah, Boudicca, Queen Elizabeth the First… Marie Antoinette – ring any bells?”

  Annie sighed and for a moment felt quite hopeless. This was going to be an A1 disaster she thought. Aaron however was not giving up on Annie, not by a long shot.

  “Now, let’s start with the real you. This ‘Annie Young’ name is a prop is it not? Your real name is Fannie Tucker? Do you mind if I call you Fannie, Annie?”

  Annie closed her eyes. This was going to be a long session.

  “OK, you can call me Fannie. So, like… let’s go, Aaron. You know, when I think of it, there was one person I read about some time ago and I did feel some sort of ‘connection’ as you put it.” Annie took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Aaron’s presence was somehow reassuring; she felt safe and secure despite some reservations about what on earth was going to happen next.

  “That’s good, very good. Tell me more, there’s no rush, take your time, we’ve a long journey ahead of us Fannie, a long, long journey back into a
time and space where there are only thoughts, intuition, memories… feelings. A long, long time ago… ”

  Annie closed her eyes, took another deep breath, dug deep and tried not to think of Fanny Craddock.

  ***

  Mandy was lying on her bed, wondering what Annie Young was really like. Mandy had been encouraged to have a light meal brought to her room and get to sleep early. She had heard Annie creep into her bed in the middle of the night and decided to leave her alone. Even in the semi-darkness it was obvious that she was exhausted and ready for bed.

  But curiosity and impatience got the better of Mandy and she looked over to see if there were any signs of life coming from her roommate.

  “Hi, Annie. Annie. It’s me, Mandy. We met yesterday when I arrived? You awake? Do you want to talk?”

  Annie turned over to face Mandy, her head still resting on a pillow.

  Mandy and Annie took a long hard look at each other, out of mutual curiosity. Mandy recalled seeing Annie perform on television in a Christmas edition of Songs of Praise years ago, but the image in front of her bore little resemblance to that Annie. But despite there being no wig and no make-up Annie looked surprisingly content and relaxed, happy even.

  Annie, likewise, sized up Mandy whose wild and reckless real life competed constantly with her soap star character, Sharon. The tabloids never seem to let her be, partly because there was such fun to be had comparing Mandy’s real life with the life of her on-screen character. The dividing line often seemed so blurred that it was difficult to keep track. Even Mandy’s current real life predicament, facing a possible jail sentence for repeated shoplifting, mirrored a story line from the soap opera. The producers had become so concerned that Mandy in some bizarre manner was being overtaken by her on-screen character they had delayed killing her off in case Mandy committed suicide. They were working on a happy ending for Mandy, but that was proving quite a challenge. The whole point about the Sharon character was that she was there to suffer, in biblical proportions.

  “So, Annie what’s it like in here? I mean, really.”

  Annie smiled and took her time. “It’s what you want it to be, I guess. I’ve had some really weird experiences Mandy but, you know, worthwhile. And to be fair some real laughs, I can tell you. But last night was really, really weird.”

  Mandy was intrigued. “Well, go on, what happened?”

  Annie tried hard to focus and put together the sequence of events. “There’s a lot of therapies that go on here, Mandy. They – you know Helen and David and David’s boy, JC – call them activities – that’s true enough. Last night I was with this nutty professor-looking guy called Aaron something. He’s into regression therapy.”

  “What the hell is that – do you like howl at the moon or what?”

  “No, Mandy the howling and screaming stuff is something else, I’ll tell you about that later. No this is like finding your past life.”

  “Your what?”

  “You know, your past life. Everyone is born with memories, Mandy. Think about it. Somewhere in your head is a chest of memories going back… forever, back to… to… cosmic dust.” Annie paused for a moment and looked over at Mandy who had a concerned look on her face. “Don’t worry Mandy, I know I probably sound a bit like this Aaron guy, but you have to go through it, to get it.”

  “Annie, listen. You don’t suppose they’ve just hypnotised you into believing all this? I mean who do you think you are, right now?”

  “Mandy, no, you don’t get it. I know who I am. I’m Fannie Tucker.”

  “Fannie Tucker? Bastards. Jeez, couldn’t they have given you Cleopatra or something a bit more exotic than Fannie Tucker! I mean what did this Fannie do? No, don’t tell me. Bastards.” Mandy sounded pretty angry.

  “Mandy, listen. My real name is Fannie Tucker. My manager got me to change it years ago. When I started off there was only one Fanny, and that was Fanny Craddock.”

  “Who the hell is Fanny Craddock?” Mandy was completely lost.

  “Look, Mandy that’s not the point. My mum spelt the end of my name with ‘ie’, not ‘y’, you know so I wouldn’t be confused with Fanny Craddock. Anyway, after I sort of came around, last night, with this Aaron guy, I remembered a whole life. It was so real. You know like one of those dreams that just seem as real as real life.”

  Mandy felt she was beginning to understand. “Yeah, OK. I mean was your dress undone or anything?”

  Annie laughed. “No, nothing like that. No I remembered living in ancient Greece, it was so real.”

  Mandy shook her head. “Oh gawd, so they did go for Cleopatra. I could have told yer.”

  “No, Mandy not Cleopatra, she lived in Egypt, you know like Cleopatra of the Nile. My name was… was Aspasia, that’s it… Aspasia.”

  Mandy leant back on her bed. “Aspasia. Could have been worse. You know like a frigging witch being fried alive on the stake; a sort Barbeque of the Bitches: Live and Exclusive at The Place, sort of night.” Mandy shivered at the thought. “They better not ask me to go through that shit, I can tell you. So, you gonna tell me about Aspasia? I mean you must know a lot about her, if you know what I mean, Fannie, I mean Annie.”

  “Yeah, I will, later. I’m so hungry Mandy.”

  “Come to think of it, so am I. What do they do about feeding you here? For the money they take I’d expect a five star service 24/7.”

  “Just pick up the phone and ask for what you want, Mandy that’s all there is to it.”

  “What, anything you want, and like it just arrives?”

  Annie laughed. “You ever done your shopping online? What you ask for and what you get isn’t always the same. I mean the other day I asked for chocolate cereal and was given some muesli. Ask for beer and they’ll give you alcohol free organic ginger beer. It’s a bit of a game. If Helen feels a special occasion is in order we eat together in the Encounter Area which doubles-up as a dining room. Doubles-up as a lot of things that Encounter Area, come to think about it.”

  “Right,” said Mandy, “I know what I want” and picked up the phone and shouted her demands as she did when on holiday, sounding ever more like her soap opera character Sharon, than Mandy Haddock.

  Mandy held the phone out at arm’s length and turned to Annie.

  “Regression therapy? Jesus. What next?” Mandy asked.

  “What next, Mandy? On my ‘Special Programme’ looks like we’ve got something called ‘Pap Therapy’ coming up, God knows what that involves.”

  13

  Deep inside the offices of the Sunday News, Simon Hall read the on-screen draft of Ralph’s expose on his Mac computer with some interest, giggling and smirking throughout.

  “Oh, I like this Ralph. Oh yes. Great strap line:

  ‘The Wisdom of the Unholy Trinity’: why JC, God and the Pope can cure your woes – at a price, of course’.”

  Simon licked his lips and carried on.

  ‘Today we expose the three stooges who run one of the best kept secrets of our celebrity age. When we see our favourite celebrities break down, freak out, crash – spectacularly – under our noses, in front of our very eyes, we often wonder where they wake up the next day. Today we tell you. It’s not always the local police station or their best mate’s sofa or a park bench in Brighton. No, they’re just as likely to open their weary eyes at the rehab joint called ‘The Place,’ a discreetly-placed, modern-looking building next to Hampstead Heath in north London. From the outside the magnolia-coloured sandstone building looks serene and quiet, inside it’s another story.’

  Simon read on silently pausing only occasionally to let rip another exaggerated roar of laughter until he came to the end.

  “And the photo spread is fucking ace by the way, well done to Judas I mean Henry. Priceless.”

  Simon’s smile disappeared in an instant, to be replaced with the scowl of the bastard he had become.


  “OK, Ralph, it’s squeaky bum time. It’s best if I deal with them, I’ll start with God, as one should, and see if I can get any more out of him once they’re given an opportunity to respond. Forty-eight hours seems reasonable in the circumstances, don’t you think, old boy?

  “Very reasonable, in the circumstances, Simon, very reasonable.”

  ***

  Helen was particularly keen on encounter therapies. She liked the unpredictability and creativeness, the spontaneity and above all, the fun. Moreover these sessions actually worked. Helen wasn’t entirely sure exactly how or even why they worked, but work they did, every time, without exception. It was also, as Helen knew, something to do with the way she defined success.

  Today the Encounter Area had been subtly adapted for one of Helen’s favourites which she insisted in conducting personally, ‘Pap Therapy’.

  All guests were present and accounted for: Annie, Huck, Toni, Betty, Davy and Mandy.

  “OK, this morning we’re having some ‘Pap Therapy’. Have a look around.”

  In the centre of the room was a door, well what looked like a real door. As to how it managed to stay standing was a moot point but no one cared about that. It looked pretty shaky but it was a definitely a door. David and JC were dressed up looking like spivs from a 1950s musical; it was surprising what a fancy coloured waistcoat, shiny shoes and a fedora could do for a man.

  ”OK” said Helen excitedly, “here’s the game. Each of you – I’ll give you a running order in a moment – will go behind the door, wait for the signal from me, then come through the door and be ‘papped’ by the waiting paparazzi. Sounds easy, doesn’t it?” Helen smiled, betraying deliberately the possibility that there was slightly more to this ‘challenge’ than at first appeared. “Now, if you’re not being papped, or a member of the paparazzi, you’re a fan, OK. Not difficult this one.”