10.15 p.m.
So here we go again, Mandi. God, every time I say your name that Barry Manilow song pops into my head. ‘Oh Mandy, you came and you gave without’ …something, can’t remember the lyrics. Was it really about his dog? Sorry, this isn’t really the place to be flippant, but you did say to let go and say whatever came into my head, and it takes my mind off, you know, Stephen. The crash. Fucking everything.
(A sob)
Sorry. Sorry. I’m fine. It happens sometimes, I think I’m coping and then… So. Day six since Jess came home. It’s still like the slate has been wiped clean–her memories about life before Black Thursday are still spotty, and she has no recollection at all of the accident. She still does her morning ritual, as if she’s disconnected from the real world and needs to remind herself of who she is: ‘I’m Jessica, you’re my Uncle Paul, and Mummy and Daddy and my sister are with the angels.’ I’m still a bit guilty about the angels thing, Stephen and Shelly were atheists, but you try explaining the concept of death to a six-year-old without bringing heaven into it. I keep reminding myself that Dr Kasabian (God, the other day I slipped up and called him Dr Kevorkian–don’t put that in) said that it’s going to take some time to adjust, and changes in her behaviour are normal. There’s no sign of brain damage as you know, but I did some more Internet research and PTSD can do strange things. But on the bright side, she’s far more communicative–more so than she was before the crash, if that makes sense.
A funny thing happened this evening while I was putting her to bed, but I’m not sure we can use it for the book. You remember I told you we were reading The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe? Jess’s choice. Well, out of nowhere, she goes, ‘Uncle Paul, does Mr Tumnus like to kiss men like you do?’
I was floored, Mandi. Stephen and Shelly had decided that the girls were too young for the birds and the bees conversation, never mind anything more complex, so as far as I know they hadn’t discussed the fact that I’m gay with the twins. And I don’t let her see the papers or go on the Internet, not with all that crap they’re saying in the States about her and the other two kids. Not to mention the bile fucking Marilyn and the Addams family keep spouting to the tabloids about me. I thought about asking who had told her I ‘liked to kiss men’, but decided against making a big deal out of it. It was possible a hack had got to her and the hospital had covered it up.
She wasn’t going to let it go. ‘Does he, Uncle Paul?’ she kept asking. You know the book, right, Mandi? Mr Tumnus is the first of the talking animals that Lucy bumps into when she goes through the wardrobe into Narnia–a little goateed fellow with deer’s legs, a faun or something. (He actually looks a lot like that trauma counsellor who came over just after I heard the news about Jess.) And to be honest, in the illustration Mr Tumnus does look as camp as fuck with his little scarf tied jauntily around his neck. I suppose it isn’t outside the realms of possibility that he’d just been off cottaging with some centaurs in the forest. God. Don’t put that in either. I think I said something like, ‘Well, if he does, that’s his choice, isn’t it?’ and carried on reading.
We read quite far, and I was a bit nervous when we came to the bit where Aslan, the talking lion, gives himself up to the evil queen to be slaughtered. Stephen told me that when he read this to the girls last year, they’d sobbed and sobbed and Polly had even had nightmares.
But this time around, Jess was dry-eyed. ‘Why would Aslan do that? It’s just stupid, isn’t it, Uncle Paul?’
I decided not to explain that Aslan’s death is a Christian allegory, Jesus dying for all our sins and all that bollocks, so I said something like, ‘Well, Edmund has betrayed the others, and the evil queen says she’s going to kill him. Aslan says that he will take Edmund’s place because he’s good and kind.’
‘It’s still stupid. But I’m glad. I like Edmund.’
If you remember, Mandi, Edmund is the selfish spoiled lying bastard child. ‘Why?’
And she said: ‘He’s the only one of the children who isn’t a fucking pussy.’
Christ, I didn’t know whether to tell her off or laugh. Remember I told you she’d picked up a slew of bad language when she was in hospital? It must’ve been from the porters or cleaners because I can’t imagine Dr K or the nurses effing and blinding around her.
‘You shouldn’t say things like that, Jess,’ I said.
‘Like what?’ And then she goes: ‘It doesn’t work like that. A fucking wardrobe. As if, Uncle Paul.’ This thought seemed to amuse her, and she fell asleep soon after that.
I suppose I should be grateful that she’s talking and communicating at all. She doesn’t get visibly upset when I mention Stephen and Shelly and Polly, but it’s early days. Dr K says I should prepare myself for some emotional fallout, but so far so good. We’re still a ways from sending her back to school–the last thing we need is for the kids there to tell her what’s being said about her–but we’re inching towards making a normal life.
So what else? Oh yeah, tomorrow Darren from Social Services is coming to check ‘that I’m coping’. Did I tell you about him? Darren’s okay, a bit beardy and sandals and granola, but he’s on my side, I can tell. I might need to think about getting an au pair or something like that, although that old busy-body from next door, Mrs Ellington-Burn (how’s that for a name!), keeps nagging me to let her look after Jess. Mel and Geoff say they’re also happy to babysit. What a pair of troopers. Thinking you could say something like: ‘Mel and Geoff continued to be my backbone, while I struggled with my new single father status.’ Too arsey? Well, we can work on it. You did a great job with the first chapters, so I’m sure it will be cool.
Hang on, let me get my tea. Fuck! Shit. Spilled it. Ow. That’s hot. Okay…
No nutters phoned today, thank God. The group who are convinced Jess is an alien stopped after I asked the police to give them a warning, so that just leaves the God squad and the press. Gerry can handle the movie people. He still thinks we should wait a while and auction Jess’s story. Seems a bit greedy, specially with the insurance money, but Jess might thank me when she’s older if I set her up financially for life. Hard call. Can’t imagine how that American kid is coping, the attention must be insane. I really feel for his grandmother, although at least she’s in New York and not one of those Bible Belt states. I suppose it will all die down eventually. I told you another chat show in the States is trying to get The Three together, right? One of the big ones this time. They wanted to fly Jess and me to New York, but there’s no way she’s up to that. Then they suggested a Skype interview, but it all fell through when the father of the Japanese boy and Bobby’s gran said no way. There’s plenty of time for all that. I wish I could turn the bloody phone off some days, but I need to be available for social services and other important calls. Oh! Did I tell you I’m booked on Morning Chat with Randy and Margaret next week? Do watch it and tell me what you think. I only agreed because the booker just would not give up! And Gerry says it’s a chance to set the record straight after all that crap about me in the Mail on Sunday.
(The sound of a ring tone–the theme to Dr Zhivago)
Hold on.
Fucking Marilyn again. At this time of night! Not answering that. Thank you Caller ID. They’ll only harangue me about when I’m going to bring Jess round to see them. I can’t put them off forever as they’ll only run to their favourite Sun hack and blab, but I’m still holding out for an apology for that Chat magazine exposé about me being a basket-case. I hope you’re not taking all that crap seriously, Mandi. Do you think we should say more about it in the book? Gerry says we should play it down. There’s not much to tell, to be honest. Had a little slip-up, ten years ago, big deal. And I haven’t been tempted to have another drink since the day I got the news.
That should do for now. Nighty night. I’m going to bed.
3.30 a.m.
Okay. Okay. It’s cool. Breathe.
Something fucked-up has just happened. Mandi… I…
Deep breath, Paul. It’s just in your head. It’s just in your fucking head.
Talk it out. Yeah. Fuck. Why not. I can delete this, can’t I? Narrative psychology, Dr K would be proud.
(laughs shakily)
Christ, I’m soaked through with sweat. Sopping. It’s fading now, but this is what I remember.
I woke up suddenly, and I could feel there was someone sitting on the end of the bed–the mattress was sagging slightly as if there was a weight on it. I sat up, felt this huge wash of dread. I guess I knew instinctively that whoever it was was too heavy to be Jess.
I think I said something like, ‘Who’s there?’
My eyes adjusted to the dark and then I saw a shape at the end of the bed.
I froze. I’ve never felt fear like it. It… fuck, think, Paul. Jesus. It felt like… like a load of cement had been injected into my veins. I stared at it for ages. It was sitting slumped, motionless, looking down at its hands.
And then it spoke. ‘What have you done, Paul? How could you let that thing in here?’
It was Stephen. I knew immediately from his voice it was him, but his shape looked different. Warped. More hunched, the head slightly too big. But it was so real, Mandi. Despite the panic, for a second I was absolutely convinced that he was actually there, and I felt a huge surge of joy and relief. ‘Stephen!’ I think I yelled. I reached out to grab him, but he’d gone.
God. I’ve just played that back. It’s so strange, isn’t it, how dreams can seem so real at the time, but fade so quickly? Must be my subconscious telling me something. I wish it would hurry up and get light though. I can’t decide if I should send this to you or not. I don’t want to come across as a nutter, not with all the stories going around about me as it is.
And what did he mean, ‘How could you let that thing in?’