Rehab Blues E-Book

Adrian Laing

• Herausgeber: Gibson Square
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

Behind an unassuming door in the leafy Hampstead suburb of London, far far away from the flashing light-bulbs, is The Place -planet celebrity's best kept secret. When actors, sportsmen and TV presenters fall apart, The Place is where they are put back together. Where else can you have paparazzi therapy, primal-scream treatment, swap gender, or just be rebirthed in complete privacy? You'll meet, for example, Martin, the sex-obsessed footballer, Tracey, the shoplifting soap-star, Huck, the cross dressing cage fighter, and Toni, the incontinent rock-star. They are all drawing on the The Place's good vibes channelled by its groovy, off-beat staff. Will the secret of its success last? Come inside and take a peek...

Leseprobe

Previous Praise:

‘Delicious story… disturbing lucidity.’

The Times

‘Well-written.’

Daily Telegraph

‘Remarkably sympathetic.’

Literary Review

‘Makes you keen to know more.’

Scotsman

‘[R.D.] Laing would have loved…his son’s book.’

Herald

Behind an unassuming door in the leafy Hampstead suburb of London, far far away from the flashing light-bulbs, is The Place – planet celebrity’s best kept secret.

When actors, sportsmen and TV presenters fall apart, The Place is where they are put back together. Where else can you have paparazzi therapy, primal-scream treatment, swap gender, or just be rebirthed in complete privacy?

You’ll meet, for example, Martin, the sex-obsessed footballer, Tracey, the shoplifting soap-star, Huck, the cross dressing cage fighter, and Toni, the incontinent rock-star. They are all drawing on the The Place’s good vibes channelled by its groovy, off-beat staff.

Will the secret of its success last? Come inside and take a peek...

‘Therapy’ may well have been the first word Adrian Laing spoke. His mother and father – a celebrity psychiatrist – thought a family was like group therapy. He was rebirthed by his father at age twenty one. Rehab Blues is his first novel, he lives in London and works in publishing.

rehab blues

A Novel

Adrian Laing

gibson square

Contents

Foreword

Title Page

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

1

“OK, you know the drill. Stay close, and don’t panic. If anything goes er… wrong, give JC or Helen a shout right away, is that all clear? I’ll be staying here ‘til you come back. I’ve other matters I’ve got to deal with. Sorry to miss out on this challenge – please have some fun. See y’all later.”

David Cooper’s tone came across as a bit authoritarian but was understandable in the circumstances. Jason, David’s son, still wasn’t convinced.

Looking around at the assembled small group of guests JC, as Jason was fondly known, wondered if they could possibly get away with this one. Today was supposed to be some kind of psychodrama but all JC could see was a bunch of seriously committed cross-dressers about to go out to a really wild party in Swansea or maybe California, one or the other.

Helen Pope, the Medical Director of The Place, in her infinite wisdom, had announced the night before that the current batch of in situ celebrities – Tracy, Huck, Richard, Annie, Toni and Betty – would engage in some ground-breaking and innovative ‘Gender-Reversal-Therapy’. This would involve each guest being dressed up by Helen as a member of the opposite sex. The entire troupe would then follow a secluded path leading from the rear exit of the gardens of The Place, down a private lane which lead to a discreet entrance to Hampstead Heath and then on to single-sexed bathing ponds. The challenge was for Huck, Toni and Richard to have a ‘quick dip’ in the ladies-only pond and Annie, Betty and Tracy to take a quick dip in the men-only pond.

It was a testament to Helen’s authority – ‘Le Pose’ as she called it – that no one, not for one moment, questioned the intended purpose of this exercise; it was clearly for their own good.

Huck ‘the Micro-Psycho’, a vertically-challenged cage fighter by day and a cross-dresser by night, was in his element. Huck looked so happy and excited; his raw enthusiasm was quite infectious. The group had assembled in the rear patio area of The Place usually reserved for ‘The Graduation Ceremony’. It was not yet 10 a.m. on a clear, crisp spring morning and the group had been preparing for nearly two hours.

As a small but perfectly-formed trained martial artist, Huck had developed well-proportioned and alarmingly flexible kicking legs which he was quite keen to show off. Huck twirled to and fro in front of the full-length mirror, making sure that just enough leg was on show and his butt looked hot, “You’re as hot as your butt” being Huck’s favourite pre-evening-out war cry. The shapely and newly shaven legs were exposed up to his knees until guarded by the mid-length skirt which, combined with a tidy tight-fitting jacket, worked surprisingly well Huck thought. The late addition of the tiny purple bell-boy hat was – as all present readily confirmed – quite inspired. Huck stood sideward and studied his profile in the mirror, flicking the hair of his full length wig across his ears whilst pushing around his make-shift boobs this way and that.

“Your tits are fine, Huck – I’d swop them for mine any day. At least they’re both the same size. If you think of a drunken chef trying to fry two eggs at the same time you’ve got an insight into my boobs, Huck. You don’t want to know what I’d do to my surgeon; I’d make you look like a pussy. Not my pussy of course, that’s another story you don’t want to know.”

Annie – ‘Botox Annie’ to friends and foes alike – was determined to have a ball, pushed Huck away from the mirror with one swing of her hips and took a long gaze at the image she was bravely standing in front of.

Placing a bald head piece over Annie’s thinning real hair in combination with some loose-fitting workman’s overalls and heavy boots was all that was needed to give the plausible impression of a male, of sorts. Annie was taken aback as to how effective the transition worked, with so little effort. She studied her reflection and thought of a rugby-player-turned-builder she once experienced, and sighed.

Tracy Howler, looked very subdued, frightened almost. Dressed in a loose-fitting macho tracksuit and baseball cap she looked even younger than her actual age of twenty-four and was the only one who appeared terrified of Helen’s challenge.

Richard Fingal Beckett, being an intellectual middle-aged bipolar manic depressive comedian, was, unsurprisingly, not convinced. “Do I really, you know, look like a woman?” The question was directed at no one in particular.

Helen decided to intervene before the conversation took a wrong turn.

“OK, ladies and gentlemen the challenge will start in a couple of minutes. Please do not engage in any conversation with anyone outside the group. We’ve having a quick dip then straight back the way we came. I’ll be with the girls and JC will look after the boys. Betty, please stop fussing – you look fine.”

Betty Grisse was having some difficulty in accepting that she looked fine and had serious doubts that she looked anything like a plausible member of the opposite sex, for good reason. Helen had all manner of props hidden away in the extensive wardrobes of The Place for such occasions but Betty had the biggest obstacle to overcome – her hippo-sized arse.

In the end Helen had a brainwave and decided that Betty should go a bit ‘Arabesque’ and don a full-length Thoub – a long sleeved, one piece garment made of light white cotton. On her head was a blue and white tea-towel which made a decent enough substitute for the more traditional Shumagg and a brightly-coloured headband gave a fair impression of what should have been a black Ogal to hold the headpiece in place.

There had been much debate about whether Betty needed a moustache to round off the full intended effect, an issue which was yet to be resolved.

“Helen, about the moustache? What do you think, really?”

“Betty, didn’t we make a decision about the moustache, I mean a firm decision?” Helen, sounded slightly exasperated. “Yes, a moustache would look better but you were worried it would come off in the pond.”

JC from the beginning feared this was a personal challenge too far and lost it completely, bursting out in a muffled laughter which he tried to disguise with a sort of strangled cough. It didn’t work.

‘OK, JC, out with it, what’s so funny?” Helen knew how to deal with this one.

“What’s so funny?” JC looked around the group and let forth an uninhibited scream of laughter. ‘What’s so funny? Are you joking Helen?”

Helen knew JC would think quickly enough to diffuse the tension and even Tracy pursed her lips hiding a half smile.

“Look, it’s not about whether Betty needs a moustache or not or it’s more a question of what happens when Betty takes off that robe thingy… Betty – go on give us a preview.”

Betty rolled her eyes and hesitantly lifted the enormous cotton garment to reveal the lower half of a full-length wet suit. Even Betty would have conceded that she looked a like a whale or some as-yet-to-be-discovered creature from the deep.

“And you’re worried about the moustache?” JC tried to be serious for a moment. “Look Betty why don’t we just draw on a small moustache with some waterproof mascara? You’ve got a skull cap under your head scarf. You’ve got goggles. Keep a towel around you once you’ve taken the robe off, we’ll sort of surround you when you get into the water and when you come out. It’ll be fine. At this time on a weekday there’s likely to be only one or two men around, if any. And if there are any men, I mean real men, they’ll be so old I can guarantee they won’t bat an eyelid. It’ll be fine, believe me. So, let’s do the moustache thing and then we can get going, OK?”

“You can use mine, if you like” Huck said, dipping into a dainty wee bag now hanging on his arm.

Betty shrugged her big shoulders and nodded awkwardly, with feigned resignation.

“OK, JC. Fine with me. I mean what can go wrong?” Betty didn’t like being sarcastic, but on this occasion was ready to make an exception.

2

Simon Hall was only twenty-eight, but had been the editor-in-chief for the Sunday News for nearly two years. He sat behind his cluttered desk in his large disorganised office and stared firmly at the aging hack, Ralph Crossley, in front of him.

“Ethics is for suckers and philosophers, Ralph. I’m a straight enough kind of guy but it’s like they’re talking about some code that I haven’t read.”

Ralph Crossley, despite being a veteran investigative red top journalist of some experience, didn’t look convinced.

“As far I understand, ethics isn’t a go-to-jail-thing but isn’t what we’re doing like illegal, Simon? Journos were arrested and jailed for this, weren’t they? Hacking people’s stuff is jail-time, isn’t it?”

“Listen, Ralph, I’ve told you before. If you haven’t got the balls for this game then retrain as a plumber or something. Yeah, the heat is on but the game is still in play. The goons at the News of the World went too far, they lost the most important knack of all, Ralph – the art of not being caught. Speeding on the motorway at eighty miles an hour is illegal, but if you know there are cameras watching you don’t do it. Simples.”

“Yeah, but you don’t go to jail for speeding on the motorway do you, Simon?”

Simon took another long hard look at Ralph and wondered whether it was time to contact Human Resources and get the ball rolling for another redundancy. “Ralph, get my point or get out of this job. We’re not hacking into anyone’s phone; this isn’t phone hacking. Besides, don’t you recall the fundamental lesson every hack in the world learnt after the closing of ‘The News of the World’ and all the fall-out from the Leveson enquiry?

“Er, was it to respect other people’s privacy… no, hold on – that was it – don’t get caught.”

“Well, done Ralph. Top of the class. I understand that the legal difference between accessing a phone message and accessing information held on a computer is a bit much for your generation, old boy, but our lawyers get it, so relax, OK? It’s a bit late to be having a moral attack at this stage, Ralph, we’re in too deep already.”

Ralph took a deep heavy sigh and knew Simon was right. It was too late to turn back.

“Listen, Ralph, listen carefully. Turn up the volume on your hearing aid. Our guy out there isn’t you know – hacking into phone calls or even messages. What he’s doing is accessing the computer network. I mean it’s not our fault if those crooks are so dumb they don’t understand that their wireless connection is so unsecure you just need to be within a hundred metres of their system, type in their wireless password and hey presto – all is revealed. The Russian Trade Delegation next door aren’t so stupid, are they?”

Ralph still wasn’t convinced and straightened up. “But we’re still you know intercepting private communications whether they’re phone calls or not; isn’t that go to jail stuff?”

Simon was on the verge of losing it with Ralph completely but managed to control himself for another round. “Listen again Ralph, read my lips you aging dipstick. It’s only the computer systems we’re having a little look at; it’s completely different from phone hacking. Is the penny beginning to drop? How our guy got their password isn’t our concern. As far as I’m concerned he’s parked his car near Hampstead Heath intending to go for a little stroll. He decides to do some work on his laptop, types in the wrong password and what do you know – he’s suddenly in amongst the supposedly secure network of a private rehab place for frigging celebrities. Don’t look so cynical, Ralph, it works for me. Our Q.C. has said that provided we’re not damaging or interfering with their system or threatening national security we’re OK jail-wise. So, just get on with it, OK? Besides, we’re not going to spill the beans on all that whacky stuff that the celebs are paying through the nose for, or their personal problems; we know we’d have a super injunction up our rear ends within an hour of asking them for a comment. Keep focussed, Ralph, we’re doing a turn on those tricksters that run The Place – we’ve already got a bucket full of dirt from the private investigators, that Henry guy has been a god send. The info you’re pulling together will just help us put a bit of spice in the mix. They’ll never be able to separate out what we’ve got from one source or another. Now, Ralph, do you get it?”

Ralph bowed his head in resignation, as he had done many, many years ago. He got it alright. His brief was to expose those who were running the celebrity rehab joint known as ‘The Place’ by fair means or foul, thoroughly and quickly.

“I get it boss. I’m on the case; I’ll catch you later once we’re ready to roll.”

“That’s my boy, Ralph. Now get your butt out of here and get digging. Offer Henry Stallard a few more quid and I bet he’ll come up with some more dirt. Give him a ‘Judas’ – or the twenty grand consultancy fee as the accounts department like to call it. I want to know everything about these jokers, everything – and soon. And maybe some interesting pictures for the photo spread. Try and stay legal. Listen Ralph, the way I see it, we’re the good guys, OK?”

3

“Well, Tracy you’ve had quite a day, haven’t you.” Helen was rarely, if truth be told, sincerely sympathetic, but at this moment, she did genuinely feel for young Tracy.

Tracy took the ever-present box of designer tissues from the coffee table and plonked them on her lap knowing they would soon be needed.

“OK, where to begin Tracy? Today was a bit of a shocker wasn’t it?”

Tracy went straight for the tissues.

“I suppose I should have told you, I can see that now.”

“If you’re to make any progress you’ll need to start being a bit more honest, don’t you think, Tracy? I mean, you stated on the forms that you could swim and we asked you again when we first told you we were going to the ponds; maybe that was the time to say ‘Helen, I can’t actually swim’ or something like that, Tracy. Don’t you agree?”

Tracy nodded her head, her eyes covered by a thick layer of tissues.

“I know, I know. It’s not the first time. I don’t know why I can’t tell people I can’t swim.”

“Tracy, it’s not the swimming bit that matters, it’s the lying. Do you get it?”

“Helen – it’s not an excuse I know but… I never feel like I’m lying or telling the truth when I fill in a form. I know that sounds wrong but it doesn’t feel like a lie. It’s feels like… a deliberate mistake or something. I don’t even know when I should have said something. I had a feeling that the ponds would be – you know – like up to my waist or something and I could pretend to swim. It’s what I do on holiday – in the sea or the pool – I stay in the shallow bit and nobody notices.”

“But I heard from JC that you jumped in, came to the surface, and then you started to sink like a stone. It was Annie who pulled you to the surface wasn’t it? Good for her. Thank God for Annie, that’s what I say.”

“Helen, I’m so sorry for what happened – really, I am. It’s all because I was afraid to tell the truth. Or maybe I was – am – afraid of the truth. This is hard for me Helen. Maybe the truth just… hurts. But I’ve learnt a lesson today, a real lesson. From now on, it’s the truth. Thank you.”

Tracy put down her tissues and gave Helen a good old sofa hug.

“OK, Tracy from now on we’ll work on, and build on, this day, won’t we?”

“We sure will Helen.”

Tracy dabbed her eyes for the last time that day and smiled.

“Now, as a special treat I’ve ordered in some WagYu steak. I thought you’d all like something extra special. We don’t always eat together, but tonight I think we should make an exception. We’ll set up a table downstairs instead of you all hiding in your rooms. You know what WagYu steak is, Tracy?”

“Er, I think so. It’s the best you can get, that’s all I know. I’ve heard the name before somewhere – Wag You. Funny name.” Tracy momentarily seemed distracted by some random thought, but then quickly came back.

“By the way, what happened to me was nothing compared to what I heard happened to your lot, Helen.”

Helen smiled a rare, uninhibited, genuine and broad smile. “That’s an understatement, Tracy.”

***

So, Huck what was that all about? I mean we’re lucky we’re not all down at the police station.” David looked very serious.

“Well, how the hell was I supposed to be prepared for that? I mean that pervert must have thought I was a genuine… you know… lady. We were all on a journey – you know an emotional journey. He was just a perv. Bastard. He was lucky to get away with a broken nose.”

“And the rest, Huck.”

“In my game bruises and squeezed knackers don’t count, David. And I can’t see him making a complaint to the police, can you? In fact I wouldn’t be surprised if he is a policeman. Or a magistrate or an MP.”

“OK, Huck, in your own words…”

“Sure, David.” Huck paused, cupped his hands around his mouth and took in a long deep breath, as if he was determined the get the story absolutely right, for posterity.

“So we’ve had our little swim. That was great, really enjoyed it. A bit cold, but quite… energising. Anyway, I’ve nearly finished putting my kit back on – I was straightening my skirt if I remember right, I had a towel wrapped around my head so I couldn’t hear much but I had a feeling someone was behind me – you know that feeling David? I turn around and the guy’s behind me – naked – and obviously up for it, you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, go on.”

“Well, I didn’t have time to work out whether he thinks or knows who – what – I am, I’d deliberately chosen a dark corner in the open changing area, but I can see he’s coming closer and closer staring at me like I’m some sort of tart. I mean you don’t expect that in the ladies-only swimming pond on Hampstead Heath, do you? I thought it was for ladies of a certain age, not some guy up for a bit of al fresco rumpy. What really got me David is that there was no sign of a ‘may I?’, you know what I mean?”

“Er, quite so, Huck. So, you decked him.”

“Yeah, well, I bent over as ifit was party time and then let rip with a classic high back kick, heel of my foot straight to the nose. Beauty it was. Cage fighters call it ‘the donkey’ you know.”

“And that was it?”

“Sort of, David. I then grabbed his bits and said in my deepest voice. ‘Don’t try that one on me sunshine’ – or words to that effect. I’ve never seen a guy so scared in all my life. He ran out naked. Must be somewhere in Brighton by now.”

“And the blood, Huck. I was told there was a lot of blood.”

“Well, there was a bit of blood but not a lot. You should have been at my last fight – now that’s where you’d have seen a lot of blood. This was – you know – just a sort of… nose bleed. Reckon I should get a medal, don’t you?”

“Know what you mean, Huck. I guess Helen was a bit freaked, that’s all.”

“Not surprised David, not surprised. It was quite a day, really. The girls had some excitement as well, from what I heard.”

“Just another day at The Place, Huck. It always seems to make sense in the end.”

4

David Cooper was always wary when he saw Paul Jones at his door. An appearance by Paul Jones meant it was ‘rebirthing day’. The problem David had with rebirthing was that he had such a nagging feeling that it was just so risky. He was always saying to JC: ‘if there’s no mark, there’s no evidence’ but in his heart – and from experience – he knew that not all ‘marks’ are physical.

David had consistently expressed serious reservations about rebirthing, not on any ideological grounds or for therapeutic reasons – that wasn’t his call – no, it simply scared the shit out of him. Every rebirthing David had ever witnessed reminded him of a small plane trying to land in high cross winds.

“Hi, Paul. You’re looking great. You working out these days or are you just naturally super looking?”

“Good to see ya, David, my friend. I’m great, really great. Just back from Washington, due back in LA this weekend. Busy, busy, busy. Thanks. Who we squeezing out today? I’ve had a look at the profiles. Not sure I understand why they’re all here, but I guess that will all come out in the wash. God I love this job,” sighed Paul.

David’s stomach churned; Paul’s relaxed manner made him feel very nervous.

“Er, we got a full house but you’ll need to speak with Helen about who’s up for it. That’s not my call. I know the Richard guy – you now the manically depressed bipolar comedian – Richard Beckett, is a candidate, don’t know about the others. Can’t see how we can rebirth Big Betty without a fork lift truck – have you seen her? Annie Young’s face might fall off, I wouldn’t try and contain Huck – he might have a major freak out and from what I understand he’s really earned his cage name: the ‘micro-psycho’. ‘T-Bone’ Toni, our very own Italian stallion? Er, not sure that rebirthing’s quite right for a sixty-year-old rampant sex addict. Tracy’s a bit too fragile I reckon. Wait a minute, I’ll buzz Helen and we can talk this one through.”

***

“OK” said Helen “this is Paul Jones, he’s our visiting rebirther. Now I know most of you won’t know too much about rebirthing, so I’ll let Paul do some explaining.”

The six guests stood around Paul in the large sound-proofed basement of The Place referred to as ‘The Encounter Area’, used for all manner of activities, particularly those which involved loud noises such as shouting, screaming or crying. The entire troupe, Betty, Tracy, Huck, Richard, Annie and Toni, formed, without instruction or command, a nervous-looking half circle around Paul while Helen took a couple of un-noticed back steps towards the door.

“Hi, everyone I’m Paul, Paul Jones. My, you all look so… apprehensive, there’s nothing to worry about, I promise. OK, a bit about moi. I am, as you all are, special in my own way. I was trained as a midwife in London – Clapham Maternity Hospital, believe it or not – but on a trip to LA, some years ago, I stumbled across a rebirthing workshop. I went along out of curiosity and, hand on heart, it changed my life.”

Paul paused for effect.

“Er, but what does it involve, Paul?” Huck wasn’t willing to wait for Paul’s warm-up to take its course.

“Thanks, for that. You must be Huck. I was getting to that point. OK, we only rebirth volunteers. Richard, I understand you’ve already signed up, so you’ll be first.”

Richard froze to the spot as if he had just been hit with a stun gun, before the shakes kicked in.

“I’ve found over the years that the best way of explaining what I do is to demonstrate, rather than explain. So, before we start I need a volunteer, just to show you what we’re going to do. Huck do you want to help? I thought so, thanks. Now if you wouldn’t mind crouching on the floor, like this.”

Paul adopted a sort of crouching foetal position; kneeling on the exquisitely smooth parquet floor he bent forward, tucked his knees tightly into his chest and placed his hands over his head as if bracing himself for some form of impact. Paul looked up to make sure everyone ‘got it’ and then got to his feet.

“OK, Huck if you can do the same as that, I’ll explain – well you know – demonstrate what’s going to happen with Richard. You OK with that, Huck?”

Huck gave a cocky shift of his broad shoulders and went for it.

“OK, Betty can you sit behind Huck’s legs and wrap your arms around his body, as best you can, Betty? Try kneeling. Thanks. That’s it, get the soles of his feet wedged against your knees. Now, Richard and Toni – you go on either side of Huck, by his shoulders, and also wrap your arms around him.

“Now, Annie you sit in front of Huck and form a circle with your thumbs and first fingers like a circle, OK sit in front of Huck, turn your hands around and place the circle around Huck’s head. Huck, make a bit of space around your head for Annie’s fingers. OK, looking good. Now who we got left? Tracy you get between Richard and Betty, yep, that’s good. OK, I want you all – except you Annie – to spread your arms around Huck. Spread your love around Huck.”

Now, ordinarily Paul would have stopped right there, very quickly, in case it started. Once it started it couldn’t be stopped, not until the actual birth was complete. But sometimes, Paul knew it was best to do it this way, because then everyone realised how spontaneous the whole process was. He knew Huck would thank him, later.

“OK”, he said to the six bodies huddled around Huck, “I want you all to hum, like this”.

Paul took a deep breath and started, well, humming. His eyes were closed and he hummed and hummed some more. No one noticed Helen turning down the dimmer switch and the room went dark, not completely dark, but dark enough. From hidden speakers a wailing sound appeared, or more accurately, whale music.

Over the music Paul shouted just one word: “GO”.

It was to Paul’s credit that he had discovered through much trial and a great deal of error that his particular form of rebirthing required almost no practice; in fact, that it was best conducted with as little practice as possible seriously troubled him.

Huck’s version of events, as recounted for some years later, did not seem to match up to the experience of everyone else that day. What Paul witnessed was, by his standards, fairly routine. As soon as he said ‘go’, as was always the case, without exception, it started. The first sign was always very heavy breathing from the ‘baby’.

More often than not a muffled sniffling could be heard from within the assembled, tightly-knit bodies. Huck was no exception, except his sniffling soon developed into the loudest, eeriest cries Paul had ever heard. Huck’s heavily exaggerated breathing and loud, soulful cries disturbed Helen who thought it best to ‘hang around’, now feeling ever-so-slightly guilty at the pre-planned Huck set up.

Paul also hovered around, ready to intervene or lend a guiding hand, as might be required.

“Stay tight, keep with him” Paul whispered, loud enough for the group to hear, and respond. Soon the collective mass of bodies was heaving around all over the place, groans and crying coming loud and fast from the baby, Huck ‘the micro-psycho’, who was now in the throes of being seriously reborn. Helen realised what a stroke of genius it was to have Betty positioned at ‘No. 8’ as Paul sometimes described it.

The group quickly picked up on Huck’s rhythm. He pushed a bit, struggled a bit, stopped and then started again. All the while he cried and cried some more. Everyone, except Paul, was surprised as to how controlled it all was. Huck was strong enough to break free at any time of his choosing but he seemed to exert just enough force to enable the group to contain him. Eventually both the group and Huck seemed to know when the time was right.

Annie picked up on Huck’s readiness and felt the time had arrived to let him free. She let the grip around his head loosen and Huck sort of spurted out through Annie’s aching arms away from the group, into a mass of a blubbering newborn babyness.

Annie spontaneously re-positioned herself and cradled Huck’s head in her arms, stroking his sweating forehead. “There, there, my little sweetie, there, there.”

How long did it take? About average, Paul reckoned – twenty, maybe twenty-five, minutes. To Huck, and the others, it had been an eternity; a very tiring and physically demanding eternity.

Huck held tightly onto Annie’s arms as though he might disappear down some black hole if he loosened his grip, tears flowing freely and without inhibition.

“Thank you, Annie, thank you.” That’s all Huck could manage to say, but it was enough.

The rest of the group lay around in various states of disbelief and exhaustion; one by one they spontaneously reformed around Annie and Huck, creating a closely-knit group. Everyone was crying. No one noticed the precise point at which the background music had stopped. What they did remember was Paul’s next ‘announcement’.

“OK, everyone. All together – ‘Happy Birthday to you’ – come you all let’s hear it – ‘Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday, dear Hu-uck, Happy Birthday to you’.” The group gamely joined in and then erupted with a very loud and spontaneous cheer. Within moments their tears had turned to laughter, as loud as belly-aching laughter gets; except for Huck, who was still sobbing quietly.

“Jesus” said Betty. “That was tougher than when I gave birth to my daughter.” The thought of Betty’s teenage daughter, Diane, appeared too much to Betty who collapsed again into tears.

Helen looked long and hard at Richard who was rolling around the floor, clutching his aching ribs, in the throes of uncontrolled hysterical laughter. Helen turned her steely gaze towards Paul, and whispered ‘thank you’.

5

Tracy was lying wide awake, her mind swirling with all sorts of fragmented details and worrying thoughts. So many little episodes of her cosy life started, for the first time, to raise questions – why did her premier league footballer-husband Martin have so many mobiles, why did the home telephone go dead so often when she answered, why wasn’t Martin at training when he said he was, why did a room go silent when she came in, why did her own mother change the subject when questions about Martin’s fidelity were raised, why did Martin always head for the shower as soon as he got home? Why did the very thought of a double cheeseburger make her think of her sister, Cheryl? And of course there were the constant rumours and the frequent, frantic meetings with lawyers. Why had she remembered the phrase super injunction? Most of all Tracy wondered: “Why am I here? It should be Martin here, not me”.

Tracy knew it was time to go. The penny had dropped, big time. She remembered overhearing – unseen – one of Martin’s team mates from the far side of her enormous kitchen. The two of them were talking as if they were in a crowded bar. Tracy tried really hard to remember the detail; it was like trying to putting together two jigsaws which had got all muddled up. She remembered being about five years old, with her aunt Nessie, having the same problem. “The first thing you have to do my angel, is to separate out the different pieces”, Nessie had told her.

The conversation she had overheard, for some reason, always troubled her. It started off OK, something like: ‘I don’t know why they don’t get it, Martin. I mean humping the wife is like having the best fillet steak, ever.” Tracy remembered that bit; it was quite sweet, in its own way. Then Martin had told a joke: “What did the Big Mac say to the Wag You?” Tracy was trying to remember the punch line.

Yes, that was it, Tracy finally separated out the pieces of the conversation she wasn’t supposed to have heard, and it must have gone something like this: “You may be sweeter and more expensive, but you’ll never hit the spot with a wag, you know”.

It meant nothing at the time, but Tracy was now putting the pieces together. There was the final comment, from Martin’s friend, who hadn’t finished. After Martin’s joke the friend had said… Tracy had to concentrate to remember: “Listen, Martin. What I was going to say was: ‘I don’t know why they don’t get it. I mean humping the wife is like having the best fillet steak, ever. But sometimes you just have to have a big, juicy, maxed-out, double cheeseburger with crap relish.”

Tracy at the time had taken no notice of the last bit; maybe she had been distracted and was trying to concentrating on two things at once. She had simply enjoyed hearing Martin having a laugh with his mate. Now, the words began to haunt her as they began to unravel, play and replay over and over again in her mind: ‘sometimes you just have to have a big, juicy, filthy, maxed-out, double cheeseburger with crap relish’. In a bizarre way those words reminded her of quite a few of her ‘friends’, including her own sister, Cheryl.

Tracy felt as if some invisible arrow had been ripped out of her aching heart. It felt so painful, but brought such relief at the same time. The truth was that Martin was at it, all the time. This much Tracy now knew, for sure. Tracy began to wonder who Martin had taken liberties with, and the answer as Tracy also knew was ‘probably everyone’, including her sister, Cheryl. Tracy remembered one time shouting at her: “Cheryl, I’ll tell you what. If you are what you eat, you’re a great, big, stinking, well cheap double cheeseburger”.

Tracy felt a single tear trickle down the side of her face. Something had happened. It was frightening, but OK. Tracy began to cry and was suddenly filled with an overwhelming sense of love for her beautiful little baby daughter whom she missed with all her heart, and at that point longed for only one single thing: to cradle Tracy junior in her arms.

Tracy looked at her phone. It was 3 a.m., the name of the club where it had all started with Martin and their first heavenly encounter in the gent’s toilet. Someone had once commented to Tracy that a quickie in the gent’s bog was a tad on the tacky side but Tracy remembered the frenzied shag as being ‘well-romantic’.

So, it was time. Tracy crept out of bed, got dressed and disappeared into the darkness not knowing how she’d find her way home but that was the only thought in her mind: to get home and have it out – with everyone, starting with her mum then her ever-so-sweet-and-innocent big wee sister, Cheryl, big time.

Tracy felt a surge of anger as her mind cleared: she was being driven crazy by everyone around her trying to cover-up Martin’s uncontrolled shagging. Her loving husband had set her up to be sorted at some rehab place, well out of town, to get her out of the way and shut up her up. The truth hurt, and it was time to share the pain.

***

“OK, David, what’s the problem?”

Helen, David and JC had a few discreet codes they used on their mobile phones, just in case they were being hacked into by some overzealous journalist. One of them, a single exclamation mark, was ‘code red’ meaning a real and immediate big problem. It was not yet seven in the morning and JC, Helen and David were already convened in David’s office.

“Well, Helen, it’s like this. Tracy’s gone. She arrived back home in Manchester about half an hour ago in a black cab all the way from London. I’ve just taken a ferocious call from the mum. Apparently Tracy stormed in like a person possessed. The mother’s a wreck; Tracy’s having a rant at anything that moves. Martin’s been getting no end of grief from the missus. I mean, non-stop… she keeps going on about fillet steak or something. She’s been threatening to drown her sister. Think we better check the emergency medicine cabinet. Tracy’s apparently going to Max Griffiths later today, that’s if the mum doesn’t go to the lawyers first. This is going to be all over the papers tomorrow, one way or the other.”

David took breath and buried his head in his hands. “I don’t think The Place is going to come out of this one too well. The mother’s take is that Tracy nearly drowned, The Place is full of perverts and Huck the micro-psycho has been turned into a little baby and might end up in a nuthouse. Can’t get much worse. Shit, it can – just remembered – Martin’s got a home derby this afternoon. He’ll be lucky if he can remember who he’s playing for.”

Helen stood up and composed herself. “Listen. I’ll talk to Tracy, and mum. Just give me a few minutes, that’s all I need. I’ll start with Tracy. I’ve got her mobile, she’ll talk to me.”

David and JC had total confidence that Helen knew what to do, so they left her to it. For this type of challenge they knew Helen needed to be left alone. Not more than twenty minutes had passed before both David and JC received another coded message on their mobiles, this time just two letters, ‘OK’, and they headed straight back to David’s office.