A Good Year for the Roses (1988) (17 page)

‘Do you know?’ I enquired.

‘Yes.’

‘Great, they always say the husband is the last to know.’

‘You're not her husband, Louis is.’

‘Really John, thanks for the newsflash,’ I said petulantly.

‘Don't get uptight with me Nick, just because you're still in love with your ex-wife.’

I began to protest, but he cut me off with a sharp gesture of his hand. ‘There's no point arguing. I don't care one way or the other,’ he continued. ‘Anyway, you're wasting your time. I told her to tell no-one where she was, and that includes you. Especially on the ‘phone. He suddenly changed the subject. ‘Who do you think wrote the letter?’ he asked.

‘It's obvious,’ I replied. ‘The bastards I met in Brixton. The ones that gave me this.’ I put my hand to the back of my head.’ Any news on them by the way?’

‘Not a lot,’ John replied. ‘The whole place was covered in prints. Nothing we could use. It was just a crash pad and shooting gallery for every junkie in the area. You should have seen the state of the mattress in that girl's room.’ He made a face full of disgust at the human condition.

‘I went back,’ I said.

‘Did you now?’ He looked at me through slitted eyes. ‘You're a fucking glutton for punishment, aren't you?’

I went on, ignoring the look. ‘I met a bloke called Steve, who lived downstairs, on the ground floor at the back. He told me that Patsy Bright was into heavy dealing.’

‘Of what?’ John looked interested suddenly.

‘Serious stuff,’ I continued. ‘Skag and Charley, mainly.’

‘Was he stoned when he told you?’

‘Yes.’

‘There you go then. You're so gullible, you'll believe anything you want to believe. I went back too, yesterday, and the place was empty. Whoever you spoke to has done a runner. I suppose you frightened him off. Get a bit physical did you? That's about your speed. Beating up on wigged out junkies.’

‘Fuck me John,’ I said. ‘I can't do anything right, can I?’

‘Not a lot,’ he replied. ‘Just get innocent people into trouble.’

‘There are no innocent people left,’ I said darkly. I could feel a shadow over my previous good mood.

‘Where did you read that?’ he asked sarcastically.

I didn't bother to reply. We sat and drank and John lit a cigarette. After a minute had dragged its feet by, he spoke again. ‘I want you to lie low for a while. Leave all this to me and the force. You're becoming very unpopular again. I'm not joking. There's a lot of talk about giving you a taste of porridge. Memories are long down at the nick, and tempers are short. If it wasn't for the fact that I feel responsible for you, I'd let you sink. Now for the last time, stay cut of sight, and mind your own business. Your family is safe and you're off the Bright case. Can't you just vanish for a week or so? Go and visit your Mum or someone.’

‘Perhaps you're right, John,’ I said wearily. But I knew I was in until the bitter end.

‘Just do it,’ he said, and finished his drink with one swallow. ‘I'm off now, but I'll be in touch. It would be best all round if I can't find you.’

‘OK John,’ I said. ‘Take it easy.’

He stood and left the bar with a wave to big Brenda, who simpered back across the pumps.

As he went I realised I was beginning to wonder about him. He hadn't said one word about T S's murder. Not one word.

I finished my drink slowly, thinking about what John had said to me. Eventually, I too left the pub. I received a brief nod from Brenda as I went. Obviously I wasn't her type. I went out into the hot street. The temperature was still rising, but I felt none of my previous good humour. The market was in full swing and more trucks had arrived to unload. The little man was standing by the Pontiac, directing traffic around it.

‘Perfect,’ I whispered into his ear.

‘Oh, hello Guv,’ he said with a start. ‘There you go, no one's blocking you in, see.’

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Do you want a drink?’

‘No, no. It's my pleasure.’

‘What happened to the geezer who usually parks here, then?’ I asked.

‘He's alright, he's over there, well happy with himself. I put him straight,’ the little man said, gesturing vaguely in no particular direction.

‘See how easy it was,’ I remarked. ‘I'll look out for you again.’

His face went slightly green and he swallowed. ‘Anytime, Guv, you just find me and I'll take care of your motor. Robbo's the name.’

‘Alright, Robbo,’ I said, and bared my teeth in an approximation of a smile. I unlocked the Pontiac and climbed behind the wheel. I buckled myself into the seat harness, then started the car and it roared into life with the usual gush of black smoke from the exhausts. I put her into gear and drove slowly through the crowds.

Now before we go any further, let me explain a little of the geography of the Lower Marsh to those of you who've never done a bit of shopping down there. It's a fairly long, narrow thoroughfare that runs east to west between the back entrance of Waterloo Station and Westminister Bridge Road. It is split almost evenly into two one-way sections going in opposite directions. You can enter the street by car from either the Waterloo or the Westminister end, but it's impossible to leave the Marsh from either end legally. The only way out is down little Frazier Street, an extremely narrow little road, which acts as a filter from the market into Bayliss Road that runs roughly parallel with the Lower Marsh. Confused? Don't worry about it, so are most of the drivers who get caught up in the system. It's a bit like squeezing a cream doughnut from both ends at the same time. Everything shoots out of the middle.

I was driving from the Waterloo end of the street. I had to stop at a white line, then hang a left away from the market. Any cars coming from the Westminister end would be facing me. I noticed one in particular. A bright red Ford Capri with a power bulge on its bonnet was parked on the corner of the Marsh and Frazier Street. Two men were sitting in the front seats. With a shock I recognised them as the two white men from the Brixton squat. The blonde and flared trousers. The latter was in the driver's seat. They must have followed me from home. Whilst I was doodling through the traffic, trying to look up bimbos’ skirts, they'd been tailing me to see what I was up to. That was really going too far.

As I slowed to make my left turn, the fat man started the engine of the Capri. I pulled into Frazier Street and the Capri followed me. I drove slowly down the street which was only one car wide because of all the market cars parked by the right hand kerb. I kept one eye on the interior rear-view mirror and saw the blonde poke one arm and his head out of the passenger window of the red car. He was holding something in his hand. Suddenly the mirror on the Pontiac's right wing exploded with a crash of broken glass and twisted metal. The bastard had shot at me. So much for John's advice to lie low. Yes son, I thought, tell me about it.

I floored the accelerator of the Trans Am and felt her fish tail, then the wide drive wheels gripped the road and she took off like a rocket. I smashed the gear stick into second and swung left into Bayliss Road, heading east with a screech of rubber. The Capri was right behind me. I headed down towards the Old Vic and when I saw that the lights were green at the junction with Waterloo Road, I pushed the fast pedal even further to the floor. Charlie had warned me about the sluggish behaviour of the big car below forty miles per hour, but the car accelerated like a greyhound. I shot across the lights into the Cut. I snicked the gear lever into third and felt a satisfying response from the big engine. The Capri was close behind but losing ground. It was just like driving a squad car in the old days. I started to recite the road conditions out loud, as I had done when I'd been taking a police driving course.

‘Lights coming up,’ I said. ‘Red.’

I decelerated and banged the gear stick into second again. The car slowed without the benefit of brakes. With the sort of BHP that baby had, I didn't need to use them. The Capri came up fast behind me. I spun the power assisted steering wheel hard to the left to make a turn into the Hatfields to avoid stopping at the lights. I hit a puddle of water and spray covered the windscreen. Without thinking I pushed the wiper button to clear my view.

There was a Telecom van approaching me and blocking the road, so I powered up onto the pavement and screeched around it. I took a chance that no-one was coming around the blind bend under the railway bridge towards me, so I just hit the horn and prayed. Charlie had fitted one that played the first five bars of ‘Dixie’. What a wanker. Some twerp in a Datsun Cherry tried to pull out of Joan Street in front of me. I touched the horn again and saw his terrified face as he juddered to a halt, halfway across the road. The Hatfields was clear for half a mile in front of me. I accelerated through the gears and realised that I was fast approaching Stamford Street, which meant a continuous stream of traffic, unless someone was using the zebra which crossed the road just to the east of the junction towards which I was heading.

I could only see moving traffic in front of me. The Capri was tight on my tail again, and the blonde leaned out of the window and fired once more. I saw a puff of smoke and flame from the barrel of the gun in the mirror. Nothing seemed to hit the Pontiac, but I huddled down in my padded seat nevertheless. I wished for a miracle and slammed down on the brake pedal. The tyres caught, slid, then caught again. I could smell burning rubber in the car. I skidded to halt, broadside, at the end of the Hatfields, took a quick look to my right and saw a petrol tanker grinding towards the junction. It was just yards away when I banged the car into first and pulled into the tanker's path. I shimmied into Stamford Street and heard the blare of the tanker's klaxon, but I was away and accelerating. A quick glance into the inside mirror showed me just the grille of the tanker and the angry face of the driver through his windscreen. Suddenly the Capri shot past him and dropped in behind me again. Oh shit, I thought, but that fat bastard is a good stoppo. I saw traffic stalled at the roundabout ahead, so I spun the wheel to the right and swerved into Coin Street, scattering a trio of young women crossing the street. The rear end of the Pontiac broke away, but I righted it with a tweak of the wheel. The damned Capri followed me as if it was on rails. I turned left into Upper Ground by the National Theatre then left again and up the incline to approach the roundabout at the southern end of Waterloo Bridge. The Colt was digging into my stomach, so I pulled it from my belt and threw it onto the passenger seat. For once I longed to see the familiar white shape of a Rover squad car, but there's never a policeman about when you want one. There was a bang from the rear end of the Trans Am and I checked my mirror again. Blondie's aim was improving. I knew I had to do something, and fast. I remembered Charlie telling me about the strengthened panels he'd put into the Pontiac to go stock-car racing. I skidded through the traffic on the roundabout, narrowly missing a single decker red bus, and roared onto Waterloo Bridge.

There was a taxi in the outside lane doing about twenty miles an hour, so I overtook it on the inside, then changed lanes to aim the Trans Am at the entrance of the Strand underpass. The Capri was about two car-lengths behind me. The opening of the tunnel was clear, and I must have been doing close to ninety as I hit the downward gradient. I lost control of the car for a split second as I entered the tunnel, and felt the nearside tyre touch the kerb. I swore from fear and pulled the wheel to my right and kept my foot on the accelerator. I could see the walls rushing past. The Capri was with me all the way. If Blondie could get a shot off at me now, it would be perfect for him. I was a sitting target. He stuck the top half of his body out of the car window and fired. I saw a chunk of wall in front of me explode into splinters. At that split second I hit the brakes hard. A terrible screaming sound from the protesting tyres echoed around the interior of the tunnel as the rubber bit into the metalled surface. I cringed at the thought of a blowout. At the same time as I braked I used the engine power to slow me further. I dropped into first and allowed the clutch to spring out. The car rocked and slid, and decelerated so fast that the belt harness dug into my chest painfully. The fat man's reflexes were too slow. The Capri hit the back end of the Pontiac with a deafening crash. Blondie was thrown neatly out of the car onto the road. Steam enveloped the two cars and filled the underpass. Still in first gear I accelerated, and began to pull away. With a screech of protesting metal, something pulled off one of the cars and clattered to the ground. The Capri was stalled in the tunnel with it's radiator split. Blondie staggered to his feet and raised his pistol, but he was too late. I was around the bend and up into Kingsway before he could fire. I drove sedately into Covent Garden and lost myself in the back streets before checking the damage to my car. I parked in front of a shop selling such vital items as pink leather Filofax and transparent plastic wrist watches. Personally I'd take the back of an envelope and a genuine Rolex any day. I sat in the car in the heat and watched myself shake. Eventually I got out and checked the back of the Trans Am. One rear light cluster had gone, leaving only bare bulbs on view. I must have pulled the Capri's bumper off in the crash because mine was still attached to the bodywork. Dented, but firmly bolted on. The primer paint was scratched and the metal had suffered some damage, but no big deal. I blessed Charlie and his garage. I found one bullet hole punched into the rear panel. I'd been lucky, if it had entered on the other side, it would have hit the petrol tank and I'd have been medium rare. I leant weakly against the car and wished for a cigarette. In the distance I heard the sound of police sirens and hoped that my would-be assassins were going to have their collars felt. Fat chance, I guessed. I droved home by a circuitous route and retired to my room to play with my gun collection. I couldn't think of anything else to do.

The front door bell of my flat rang at about eight that evening. I was sitting on the bed in the semi-darkness, staring at the wall in front of me, holding the Colt Cobra loosely in my right hand. I jumped slightly at the sound, then slid off the bed and went over to the window. The street outside was quiet in the gathering nightfall, and the orange lamps shone faintly against the pale evening sky.

There were no strange cars parked outside and I couldn't see anyone by the door, so I thought I'd better take a squint. I padded silently down the stairs on my bare feet, gun in hand. I didn't turn on the hall light to avoid making myself a target for any potential shootist who might be lurking at the front of the house. Being paranoid was a state I was adjusting to fast. I carefully opened the front door a crack and peered out. There was a woman standing in the shadow of the porch with her back to me, looking out into the street. As she heard the door open she swung round on her heels. I could hardly see her in the gloom.

‘Nick?’ she asked hesitantly.

I screwed up my eyes against the evening.

‘Teresa, is that you?’ I asked. She stood facing me, then put her hands on her hips in that old familiar way, and I knew that it was, for certain.

‘God, it is,’ I said disbelievingly.

‘Can't you recognise a girl in the dark?’ she asked. ‘Or do I have to smile so's my teeth shine?’

‘I don't believe it, what are you doing here?’ I asked, in that dumb way that you do, when someone you used to sleep with, and has now become a stranger again, turns up.

‘I've come to see an old friend, what else?’ Her voice had cooled by a degree or two. She was as sensitive as ever to the nuance in my voice. I stepped back and opened the door wide.

‘I've been thinking about you,’ I said. ‘I saw Em. It's just such a surprise that you're here.’

‘Pleasant?’

‘What do you think? Come in,’ I allowed her to enter, then couldn't resist a quick look up and down the street. It was completely deserted. As I stood on the drive I realised that I still had the Colt in my hand and hastily pushed it into the hip pocket of my trousers. I followed Teresa into the house and put on the hall light using the switch by the front door. I looked at her in the yellow glow from the bulb. She was exactly as I remembered her. Beautiful, perhaps even more so than when I'd last seen her at the hospital, almost two years before.

‘You look good,’ I said.

‘You don't,’ she replied, studying my face closely. ‘You look ill, aren't you sleeping?’

‘Not a lot. Did Emerald give you my address?’

‘Who else? And don't change the subject. Are you sick, or what?’

‘Or what, mainly. Anyway are you a doctor now?’

‘You know better than most what I am, what's the matter with you?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Some nothing, do you always greet visitors with a gun in your hand?’

I smiled in a half embarrassed way. Teresa never missed a trick.

‘Keep your voice down,’ I said. ‘Let's not tell the whole world. Go upstairs, my flat's right at the top.’

I followed her up the three flights of stairs, and all the way I watched her bottom as it twitched under her tight leather skirt. It looked good, like water to a man dying of thirst.

I drew the curtains at my windows before I switched on the lights. She stood in the centre of the floor and looked around.

‘Is this all there is? It's not very big is it?’ she asked, with rather more accuracy than I liked.

‘Everybody says that,’ I replied.

‘Entertain a lot, do you?’

‘Yeah, I had a dinner party for eighteen last night, silver service, you've just missed the clean-up crew.’

‘Don't be sarcastic, Nick. It doesn't suit you.’

‘Sorry, sit down.’

‘Where?’ she asked, looking around. Everyone did that too.

‘Bed or chair,’ I replied.

She sat on the edge of the bed and swung her long legs up, showing more than a little thigh, and lay back against the pillow propped on the headboard where I'd been sitting in the darkness.

‘This suits me,’ she said. I almost laughed.

‘Trust you to choose the bed,’ I said. ‘You don't change, do you?’

She pulled an innocent face and asked, ‘Don't I?’

‘You've probably got worse.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, looking guilelessly through her long eyelashes. All in all she was about as innocent as a back alley tabby.

‘Don't be coy with me Tess, I know you better, remember. Do you want a drink?’

‘Sure, what've you got?’

‘Beer, beer or vodka.’

‘Vodka, on the rocks please.’

‘Sophisticated lady.’

‘Don't take the piss,’ she said, but with a smile to soften the words.

‘If I remember rightly, I was the only one allowed to.’

She pouted prettily and I went to get the ice out of the freezer. As I hunkered down I saw the ugly plastic bag stuffed behind the ice-cube tray. I ignored it and put the chill I felt down to handling the cubes. I was glad to slam the fridge door. I threw a handful of ice into each of two tall, thick bottomed glasses and added a good slug of colourless liquid from the vodka bottle.

‘No lemon, I'm afraid,’ I said.

‘I'm sure I'll survive,’ she replied.

I handed her one of the glasses and holding mine I sat down on the armchair and rested my foot on the bed next to her.

‘How's your leg?’ she asked.

‘Fine, most of the time. It aches a bit in the cold.’

‘Have you seen the guy who shot you?’

‘Yes, a couple of times. Today as a matter of fact.’ I didn't go into any details.

‘Friends again?’

‘I think so,’ I replied. I'd been wondering about that myself as I sat alone earlier.

‘Good,’ she seemed pleased, although I didn't know why, as she'd never been particularly keen on John Reid. In the past she'd often used a particularly rude West Indian slang expression to describe him.

‘Do you still dance?’

I was surprised at the question.

‘Are you kidding?’ I asked. ‘I haven't been dancing since I got shot. I'm not exactly in condition, besides I'm too old.’

‘Never, you used to be great.’ What a diamond the girl was.

‘Thanks, Tess, coming from you that's a real compliment.’ And it was, when she got on the dance floor she set the sucker on fire.

‘Don't you remember the old motto?’ she asked.

‘Sure I do, can't dance, can't fuck.’

We shouted it out in unison and then both burst outlaughing, though I must confess mine was rather hollow laughter.

‘What did Emerald tell you?’ I asked, changing the subject-quickly.

‘Nothing much, he was very close. He said you might be in some sort of trouble.’

‘And then he gave you my address, so you could walk right into it. How thoughtful.’

She moved slightly towards me. ‘Don't blame him Nick, I practically had to beat it out of him.’

‘What with? Your suspender belt?’ I enquired.

‘Very funny,’ she said. ‘What is the matter? Please tell me.’

I knew she was worried about me, and I was grateful. But she was just another hostage to fortune, and right then I didn't need any more of them.

‘It's nothing I can't handle,’ I said, tough cookie that I was. At any moment I might beat her up, or stamp my foot on the carpet in a fit of pique.

‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I'm impressed.’

‘Did you drive over?’ I asked. Changing the subject again.

‘I still don't,’ she replied. ‘I caught a cab. It dropped me off on the corner.’

‘I'm glad I was in.’

‘I called some friends who live close by. If you'd have been out, I'd've paid them a visit.’

‘I feel like a bus stop,’ I said, with more venom in my voice than I'd intended.

‘Stop it Nick,’ she said. ‘What's got into you?’

‘Nothing Tess, I'm sorry, I'm just a little tense.’

I remembered the pistol in my pocket and went over and put it into the top drawer of my dresser, where it nestled amongst my clean socks. I left the drawer open. Under the circumstances it was probably not a discreet thing to do. Teresa watched me with wide, frigthtened eyes.

‘That sort of tense can be unhealthy,’ she said.

‘You're talking like the TV again, Teresa,’ I replied.

‘And you're acting like the TV. Who the hell do you think you are?’ I looked over at her from where I was standing by the dresser.

‘You tell me, you seem to know everything,’ I said.

‘Well I'm sorry, pardon me for living I'm sure. I think I'd better go.’ So saying, she banged her glass down on the bedside table, splashing two drops of liquid onto the polished wood where they caught the light and reflected twin bright spangles at me. Then she swept off the bed and stood glaring at me. I walked over and carefully put my glass next to hers. All of a sudden I desperately wanted her to stay. ‘Don't go,’ I begged. ‘I didn't mean to be unpleasant. It's just that there are things happening that I don't understand. You being here just complicates matters.’

She moved as if to pass me. I grabbed her wrist and pulled her close to my body. She tried to pull away, but I held her tightly. I told you I was tough. Jesus, sometimes I scared myself.

‘Tess,’ I whispered, close to her ear. ‘I apologise, honestly. I'm sorry I'm acting like a cunt. Remember me, it's Nick, your old buddy.’ After a moment she relaxed and leant up against me. I could smell the perfume in her hair, and the sharp scent of the skin beneath it. I let go of her wrist and moved back away from her. She sat down on the bed again and picked up her glass. As she drank I took a long look at her.

Her hair was as long and thick and dark as ever. Her face reminded me of a black angel. Perfect skin, brown eyes that could shine like stars or glitter in anger, high cheekbones and luscious lips coated in deep red lipstick. She was wearing a thick white cotton sweater, her leather skirt came to just above the knee, exposing black fishnets and black suede shoes with thin, high heels. The shoes were just beginning to go shiny at the ends of their pointed toes.

‘Are you in civvies tonight?’ I asked.

‘That's right, no work today.’

We sat and smiled the sort of silly smiles at each other that started the mutual remembering that was necessary to make our old friendship fresh again. As I looked at her, I saw her begin to twitch inside her clothes. I was almost embarrassed as I watched her subtly begin to turn herself on.

‘Oh Tess,’ I said. ‘What the fuck's all this about? Did Emerald send you round as a welcome home present?’

She never turned a hair. ‘It was a mutual idea,’ she replied.

‘What a fucking pair,’ I said. ‘You're unbelievable.’ I jumped up from my seat and went over and sat next to her on the bed cover.

‘Why didn't you just call me up?’ I asked. ‘You must have known I'd want to see you.’

‘I was scared. It's been a long time.’

‘Are you crazy? I was dying to see you again. But you didn't have to come gift wrapped.’

‘I'm sorry,’ she said.

‘Don't be, I'm glad you're here.’

‘But you said I complicate things.’

‘I did, and you do. I'm a bit mixed up. I don't know what I do want.’

‘You used to. Me.’

She leaned over and kissed me. The kiss tasted of warm beaches and blue skies. I felt my blood running hot and thick, like lava through my veins. As she kissed me I began to smile.

She pulled back and regarded me closely. ‘What's the matter?’ she asked.

‘I'm just smiling, you don't mind do you? It doesn't happen very often lately.’

‘Am I that funny?’

‘Shut up,’ I said, and we kissed again.

As we kissed she touched the back of my head. I flinched at the contact. She pulled me around and studied my wound.

‘What happened?’ she asked.

‘Someone tried to ventilate my brain.’

‘Why are you always trying to be so tough? It looks as if whoever it was nearly succeeded.’

‘You should see the other guy.’

‘There you go again.’

‘OK Tess, you win. I could never fool you anyway. I got hit on the head by someone who was trying to frame me on a manslaughter charge. There are some threats flying about concerning Judith. That's why I've got the gun. Now I don't want any of these characters finding out about you, that I care for you, or they might try something on. That's why you shouldn't be here.’

She sat and stared at me for a while. ‘I'll go in a minute,’ she said. Then she leaned over and kissed me again. This time I was ready for her and kissed her back. Her mouth was wet and warm and fitted mine perfectly. We kissed long and hard. Although I was beginning to enjoy all the attention I was getting, there was just one small problem, one tiny ghost in the machine. I pulled back.

‘Do you want to know something?’ I asked.

‘What?’

‘I haven't slept with a woman since the last time I slept with you.’

‘You're kidding,’ she said incredulously.

‘It's true.’

‘But that was two years ago, maybe more.’

‘I know.’

‘Are you gay now?’

‘I don't think so,’ I said. ‘I haven't tried it.’

‘Why not?’

‘I haven't met any men I fancy.’

‘Not that, stupid. Why haven't you slept with a woman in all that time?’

‘Jesus, Teresa,’ I said. ‘I didn't sign a contract that said I have to act like a bunny rabbit.’

‘A rabbit's one thing,’ she said. ‘But total celibacy is another. I just don't understand. You used to like it, hell you used to like it a lot, and you were good at it,’ she added.

My natural modesty forbade anything more than a simper on my part, but it was nice to know I was appreciated.

‘I was ill,’ I said. ‘Up here.’ I tapped my forehead. ‘I took a long time to get over it. And then I never met anyone I wanted, or who wanted me. There were too many women in my past for me to go looking. Too many memories.’

‘Was the illness serious?’ she asked.

‘Everyone I tell about it wants to know if I was certified. Well I wasn't. I had a breakdown. It happens, and one of the results of it was that I don't feel any particular sexual desire any more, especially when I'm under stress, which is exactly what I'm under right now.’ I thought about it for a minute, I felt confused about my feelings for Patsy and the girl I'd found at Terry's flat. The thought of her was too heavy and I pushed her out of my mind quickly. ‘Well I didn't,’ I continued. ‘Then I did again, but in a strange way.’ I noticed the look on Teresa's face. ‘Don't worry,’ I said. ‘It wasn't too weird.’ As if being turned on by a photograph or a catatonic girl wasn't weird enough. ‘I guess I was well on the way to being cured, or whatever you'd call it, then something happened today that knocked me back again.’