A Night with Damien Spur

Chapter 33

Damien was flying to the moon on sedatives. He had the undivided attention of three other men in the Dolphin Ward at St Pancras Hospital, who were fascinated by his sonorous outbursts in Latin. The two glamorous women by his bedside added the eye candy.

‘ Genua placet peullis .’ He lifted his hands and gently patted Sophie’s and Claudia’s heads.

‘Can you please translate?’ Sophie asked.

‘Maidens, please kneel,’ he said. ‘You are strangers in a strange land.’

The women exchanged nods and knelt at either side of his bed.

‘Feed me the grapes, please. When in Rome…’

Sophie plucked one from the bowl on the bedside table and popped it in his mouth.

‘I’m waiting,’ he said to Claudia.

‘Oh, Caesar, I am your willing slave, but first I will peel the grape,’ she said, carefully stripping the pale green skin. ‘There.’ She delicately slipped it between his lips.

‘After you’ve finished with him, could you both come over to me?’ asked the cheerful plumber in the adjacent bed.

Happy to provide the entertainment, even in his weakened state, Damien had managed to charm the nurses into giving him extra attention.

He was good at feigning pain. Clutching his head and moaning produced a couple of paracetamol, admittedly a poor substitute for the codeine, but what he really looked forward to at night were the sleeping pills.

Even in his weakened state, he had managed to sign the form giving Sophie full authority to discuss his medical condition.

‘Just don’t sell me down the river,’ he had said to her. ‘I don’t want to find myself in some goddamn awful rehab in a padded cell doing cold turkey. I’m a man who needs weaning, Sophie.’

***

Four days later, Damien was ready to be released from the ward, and Sophie was summoned.

‘The hospital has treated Mr Spur for hypothermia,’ the psychiatrist said. ‘But according to his mental status examination he needs intensive drug and alcohol addiction therapy before he can be given psychiatric help.’

‘I understand,’ Sophie said. ‘So what would you suggest?’

‘I’d like to give you this list of rehabilitation centres, some of which are covered by insurance. He would really benefit from a residential programme. If you wish me to do so, I would be happy to give Mr Spur a referral.’ He handed her the sheet of paper.

Sophie slipped it into her bag. ‘Thank you so much. I’ll go through the list with him and try to sort things out as soon as possible.’

‘That’s good.’ He gave her a serious nod. ‘But meanwhile, and this is key, he shouldn’t be left alone for any length of time. Will someone be staying with him?’

‘I will,’ she said. ‘At least for a few days until we can sort out a rehab programme.’

***

Damien sat on the edge of the mattress, clutching a Waitrose bag with his belongings.

The plumber smiled at Sophie. ‘Taking him home?’ he said. ‘Can’t say I’m sorry. He’s such a plonker, shouting and swearing all night.’ He eyed the tangerines and a couple of bananas on Damien’s bedside table. ‘Anyway, if you don’t want the fruit… can I have it? Shame for it to go to waste.’

Damien, the sexy intellectual, darling of countless women who would lay down their arms and gladly surrender to his advances, had been reduced to a plonker.

‘No, you slimy little bastard. I wouldn’t even give you my spit,’ said Damien.

Sophie swept away Damien’s hand as he tried to grab the fruit. She gave it to the man.

‘Do you have a pen and paper?’ the man asked Sophie.

‘I’ve got a pen.’ She took it out of her bag and handed it to him.

‘Right then, give us your wrist,’ he said.

Sophie looked at Damien and giggled.

She stretched out her arm.

‘If you ever need your drain fixed, give me a call. Don’t forget to write it down before you wash it off,’ he said.

***

Sophie had tried to make sure that Damien was safe. She and Claudia had cleared his stash of tranquillizers and opiates, but his mind was still playing tricks.

He saw things at night. His mummy, standing by his bedside wagging her finger. ‘Pull yourself together,’ she said. ‘You’re a big boy now.’

But usually it was Nanny who came to him. She was kind. ‘You’re a clever chap. Just try to keep your nose clean.’

And one very special night his beloved father came to him.

‘Remember, my son, the words of Confucius,’ he said. ‘ Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall .’

The next morning, Sophie’s call had irritated the Voice.

Damien had been so excited about the visit from his father that he had forgotten to put his mobile on silent. The ring had woken him from his pleasant sleep.

Well, we know who that is, don’t we? groaned the Voice. Nurse Sophie. She really gets on my wick. Always interrupting our chats. Wouldn’t mind if she was interested in you as a brilliant man rather than as a poor, wounded eunuch. That’s the problem. She turns you on. She makes you grumpy, cos you want some rumpy-pumpy.

Damien stretched out his arm. Blindly patting his hand on the bedside table, he knocked over a glass of water.

He picked up the dripping phone, flipped it on loudspeaker and threw it on the duvet cover.

‘Damien, where are you?’ Sophie asked.

‘Dammit! I’m at home in bed! Where else would I be? And now I’m soaking wet. Knocked a glass of water over. Thanks, Sophie. Why do you have to keep on checking up on me?’

‘I’m sorry. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.’

‘I was – until you rang. Now I’m stuck. Haven’t got the strength to get up. Can’t change the sheets. Cleaner isn’t coming.’

‘That’s all right. I was going to pop in anyway. I’ll change your bedding.’

Sophie was outside the Italian deli. She had bought him some fresh pasta, a jar of pesto sauce and a slice of tiramisu.

When she arrived at Damien’s house, she phoned him first.

‘Hi, Damien, it’s only me. I’m here.’

She let herself in with the spare set of keys he had given her.

He had to admit that it felt good. Made him feel secure. He trusted her.

He pretended that he had gone back to sleep. Let her wake him. He liked that.

‘Damien,’ she whispered. He could feel her warm breath on his neck. He wanted to turn round and kiss her, but he didn’t.

Come on, old boy, go for it , said the Voice. Aren’t you fed up with the nursey bit?

She gently shook his shoulder.

‘I’ll change the sheets,’ she said.

Sophie calmed him nearly as much as the Voice did. Even when he’d been overcome by his demons, the boom-boom cocaine and enough whisky to sink a ship, she had somehow managed to cool his head. Talk him down.

Damien got out of bed. She deftly stripped the damp sheets and replaced them with fresh ones from the ottoman.

‘You can stay forever if you like,’ he said in a jokey-serious sort of way.

Sophie kissed his forehead. ‘That’s quite an invitation. But not necessarily the best timing. I can’t see myself as a full-time nurse.’

Yes, but she’s a good mummy. Probably why you’re drawn to her. Poor, starving little lamb. You just want a bit of TLC.

He was seven years old again. Standing in the garden, watching his mother making small talk after the funeral while he tried to be a big boy. Trying not to cry. Daddy’s dead. Be brave. Or Mummy will ignore you.

Come on, Damien, the past is done.

Sophie flitted about, served his lunch. Spent the day with him. Filled it with light chatter.

But the Voice was getting jumpy.

I need to talk to you, Damien. You should be getting on with your screenplay, but it’s difficult with Sophie always being here. Best thing, why don’t you send her shopping?

‘She hates leaving me. Worries that I’ll do something terrible.’

Go on, speak to her. Tell her that you fancy some edamame beans. And she could also buy you some orange pekoe tea! the Voice said.

It was Sunday afternoon. The Voice knew that the supermarkets closed early, but there was a rather smart delicatessen in World’s End that stocked unusual items. It stayed open till 6 p.m.

At least , the Voice said, we’ll have an hour by ourselves.

‘Sophie,’ Damien shouted from his bed. ‘Can you come here, please?’

‘Edamame beans?’ she said, wide-eyed at his request.

‘Yes, please. And the tea.’

‘Well, I’ll try. Not sure about the beans, though.’

‘Thank you so much, Sophie,’ Damien said. ‘I really appreciate you looking after me. I’m sure you’ll be able to get the tea, but if there’s a problem with the edamame you could get a portion from the Japanese restaurant in Parsons Green.’

‘I see. Okay!’ she said brightly. ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’

‘Of course, Sophie. I enjoy my own company.’

***

‘Who am I?’ When he was at last alone with the Voice, Damien looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. The face stared back with glassy fish eyes, ash-grey skin, a tight white mouth.

Look, you miserable fucker, pull yourself together , said the Voice.

‘Can’t,’ Damien said. ‘I’m gone, like Writing in the Sand , washed away.’

No, you’re not. The cold water woke you up when you tried to top yourself , the Voice said. Not worth dying for a woman who doesn’t love you.

‘You’re right. I need to fight my monsters, clear that witch Elizabeth out of my head,’ Damien said.

The phone rang.

‘Guess who?’ Elizabeth crooned.

Would you believe it? said the Voice . She’s bloody psychic. You say her name and – bang – she’s ready to torment you all over again. Now, Damien, don’t get sucked in.

‘Why are you calling me?’ he said.

‘Claudia told me that you tried to kill yourself,’ she said.

What’s it to you? the Voice whispered in his head. Go on, say it, say it.

But the words didn’t come.

‘Damien… are you there?’ Elizabeth said.

‘Not all there.’ He watched the man in the mirror shake his head. ‘But I’m going to say something that you should hear. I just have to wait for good advice.’

‘Who’s there with you?’

‘A friend who makes sure that I’m okay. My minder.’

‘Shall I send Chang?’ Elizabeth said. ‘He can make sure you’re all right.’

Why should she send her servant? She should come herself. Tell that cold fish to go to hell , said the Voice.

Damien smiled at himself in the mirror.

‘Elizabeth, you icy bitch, go to hell.’

***

Damien opened his iPad and looked at the beginning of the screenplay. He scanned the words – but his mind was elsewhere.

He unlocked the drawer and took out Laura’s letters. So many he had read when they’d first wed. So much love.

And then her pain, when he’d slept with Anne, Miranda, Rosie…

And here amongst the fragments of unhappiness, the debris of their lives, was the last letter, unopened, dated 11 September. The one he couldn’t bear to read.

She had, in true Laura style, waited for a significant day to kill herself. A day that Damien would remember forever: their wedding anniversary.

Come on , the Voice said, it’s time to read the last chapter. All good thrillers must come to an end.

Damien slid a paper knife across the edge of the envelope and opened the neatly folded page.

I have started this letter again and again. It’s not easy for me to confess my deepest secret that no doubt will cause you pain. But maybe what I am going to say will in some way justify your dalliances. You have always said you loved my mind and indeed, if we were disembodied souls, I am sure that we would have lived and died together as faithful as swans. But you and I have ended in the trash heap. If only I had been honest, it might have been different. But you took all the blame and I feel so ashamed.

Damien paused.

Read on , the Voice said .

‘Okay, stop nagging me.’ Damien held the letter up to the light. ‘It’s hard to read. The ink has faded.’

But the truth is, Damien, you didn’t desire me – only my mind. I want a man to fire me, to free me of my thoughts. I wanted lust in the bedroom, not your worship.

There you go , the Voice said. Fragile little Laura just wanted a bit of the ol’ rumpy-pumpy . Ready for some more?

‘Wait a second.’ Damien went to the coat cupboard and took out the silver hip flask from his Barbour. ‘Might be a spot left.’ He unscrewed the top and gave it a shake. Not a drop.

Stop procrastinating. Get on with it , the Voice said.

‘Okay! Don’t hassle me. I’m not sure I want to know what’s coming next.’

Remember when you were in LA – “playing” – and I went to Skiathos to stay with my girlfriend Raliya? Well, one night we went to a taverna. That’s when I met Andreas. He was playing backgammon, tavli as the Greeks call it. He looked at me and smiled. A strong, handsome face, warm eyes. He asked me to sit and watch him play, and he won.

‘You bring luck.’ He kissed his fingers and patted my cheek. Then we chatted a little. He spoke bad English and I spoke bad Greek. All the better not to try and make polite conversation.

After a couple of glasses of wine, I was caught.

I can see your shocked face in my mind’s eye, Damien. But it doesn’t mean that I didn’t love you. It’s just that Andreas flipped my switch.

He was a farmer. Salt of the earth. When we made love, he took me. Claimed my body. Set me alight. I lost my mind. I didn’t have to pretend, as I did with you.

I stayed with him for two months while you were away. I lied to you when I said that I had been offered a temporary position teaching history at the university in Athens.

I was pregnant, Damien. For two years we had tried and nothing happened. And yet with Andreas… fire and earth. The first night.

You just didn’t turn her on , the Voice said. No chemistry. Pray continue…

I was going to have an abortion, but when I arrived back home, you refused to come with me to therapy and then you left for America again and I went back to Andreas.

I lied when I told you that the university had extended my position.

It seemed that there was nothing left to keep us together, so we agreed to divorce.

And then, it all started to go wrong with Andreas. Every night he went to the taverna and sometimes he didn’t come home till dawn. One morning he came home blind drunk and woke me up. He shook me so hard that I thought he had dislocated my shoulder. He said he’d lost a lot of money playing tavli and that I had stopped bringing him luck. That I was a chain round his neck.

To tell the truth, I missed you, Damien.

I was six months gone. Andreas’s family were kind. But I wasn’t having an easy time. So I made a plan.

To have the baby and take the newborn back to England, even if we weren’t going to be together. However, the best laid plans…

But then one night he came home drunk again. He was so cruel. Said I was his problem. He told me that he needed his freedom, wanted to be with a simple Greek girl. That he didn’t understand my British ways.

I told him I’d take the baby back to England and he could have his freedom.

He went berserk. Threw me against the wall. I was so frightened I couldn’t see straight. I just wanted to get away. And that’s when I fell down the stairs and hit my head. I started bleeding.

He was really scared and called the ambulance.

I went to the hospital. They gave me a c aesarean. But the baby boy was dead.

Oh, Damien, I am so unhappy. How can I live with myself? I had a baby in Athens – mine, not yours.

I just can’t take it anymore.

Forgive me,

Laura

Well, at least she didn’t sign off with love , the Voice said.

‘I need a drink.’

Damien moved to the mirror and stared at his reflection with fresh eyes, scrutinising this semblance of features that didn’t seem to have a soul. He looked like the ghoulish marionette with a long face and deep-sunk eyes that his father had brought him back from Prague when Damien was a boy.

No, you don’t look like that. Get some perspective. She betrayed you. Shoved your adoration down the plughole. Wanted a bit of rough. You had every right to have affairs. At least you didn’t pretend, like her, with her high and mighty intellectual claptrap. And look who she took to her heart. A Cretan bull… Damien, wake up. Go get straight. You’re vindicated. Don’t fuck it up. Tomorrow is the first day of your new life.

When Sophie returned, Damien was asleep.

She gazed tenderly at his dear face and graceful body, all curled up in his bed. The duvet cover wrapped around him, save for his fine muscled arms, long and pale, which hugged a pillow to his chest. It was hard to imagine that this beautiful man had been to the bottom of the pit, his life nearly snuffed out. His long, elegant toes were peeking out from under the cover. She touched them. They were ice cold. When she rubbed them, he giggled.

‘Nurse Sophie,’ he said, all silky soft, ‘what a good sort you are.’