coat, had a bedside manner about him and an acceptable accent from the home counties. He was probably a doctor or a double-glazing salesman.
The colonel cut in, “Don’t know about your schizophrenia but it seems to me that half the country is off with stress, the twenty-first century cop out. What’s wrong with a good old-fashioned backache or even ME?”
“Ah, indeed,” the stranger said. “Myalgic encephalomyelitis, also known as CFS, chronic fatigue syndrome. Caused quite a stir a few years back with half the establishment denying its existence, much like schizophrenia some years before. Mind you, even now, much of the establishment along with many old soldiers still believe it’s a malingerer’s charter.”
They looked at the colonel who nodded his agreement. “Just like stress, then,” he said. “Just like the vaccines and the Gulf War syndrome. We never complained about DDT in the porridge. So long as they kept it away from the old undercarriage we were happy.” “Mosquitoes?” Albert asked.
“In the desert? No. It kept away the flies. The real soldiers, the professionals, didn’t mind the flies. You could always find an Arab by following the flies. And if you could find the Arab you could find the kraut. The krauts liked to fuck the Arabs. Little bits of information like that won us the war.”
The stranger shook a bewildered head and went on, “The popular press and Hollywood, Hitchcock in particular, created the misnomer of the multiple personality but that has more to do with dissociative identity disorder than schizophrenia. The split personality is very unlikely, largely unfounded. Schizophrenia was originally called dementia praecox – mental deterioration in the early life – praecox. Usually a sensitive, retiring child who starts to develop peculiar behaviour in his early twenties, hallucinations, delusions, general withdrawal from society. When it occurs in later life it generally takes the form of a persecution complex – paranoia.” The stranger swept back his greying hair. It was the narrow sideburns that worried the regulars. Beware of men with narrow sideburns and those who wore brown shoes. The regulars were, however, all ears.
“A steady mental deterioration,” Albert said gravely. “Cured can it be…cured?”
“Doubtful. In some cases drugs can help. Then there's electric shocks and cold water treatment. Then there's leucotomy. Crucifixion, as a last resort, cures it once and for all. But that has nasty side effects
– religious wars and stuff like that.”
“But the voice…?”
“Yes, there is generally a voice.”
“And violence?”
“Sudden violent outbursts, certainly. Can't have a half-decent mental disorder without violence.”
Roger, the manager, something of a movie buff, said, “When Alfred Hitchcock released his Psycho back in fifty-nine, the critics thought it was a joke on them. That at the end of the first reel he killed off his leading lady. That wasn't the done thing. Their cosy world was shattered.”
“Shattered I was too, when that scene I saw,” Albert said. “It's a good thing to shatter the critics,” the colonel said. “They’re as useless as an Eyetie soldier. Having said that, Hitchcock was one of my favourite directors. I also liked David Lean and Robert Young.” “Robert Young?”
“He did that telly thing, GBH.”
“Television doesn't count,” Roger said. “It never did. Not when you’re talking movies. Not even if their movies are better. My favourite film is Paths of Glory, a Kubrick movie. Every time I see that last scene where the German bird sings, I cry.”
“You cry?”
“At the movies, I do. In real life, that’s different, I don’t.” While he had listened to Roger the colonel nodded and his eyes dulled as he recalled another day. He said, “When my wife was alive I had about two thousand films to watch – videos in those days. But by the time she had watched her soaps and all the other crap that was on I was too tired to start a film. I thought about installing a television in the other room but then I’d never have seen her. An odd consideration, but once she died, I couldn’t be bothered watching the films. Came here instead.”
Roger said impatiently, “Get back to the point. What’s your favourite film?”
“OK then”, the colonel said. “I liked Ice Cold In Alex with John Mills.”
Albert was sheepish. Finally he admitted, “All right, all right. Fun in Acapulco.”
Everyone took a step back from Albert and waited for clarification. Albert sucked on his thin lips and, although there was nothing remotely Gallic about him, shrugged a Gallic shrug, playing for time and all the time wondering if he’d made a terrible mistake. “Well,” he said nervously, “He was a nice lad.”
Unfortunately this explanation, when all was said and done, made things much worse. Roger wandered away to the other end of his long bar, the colonel bristled with indignation and Mr Lawrence wondered who the nice lad was but one thing was certain, Albert was left quite alone.
He was out when Mr Lawrence got in. The following morning he was running in the electric cable. The electricity distribution box in the stair recess was open and a coil of black cable snaked out towards the shop. It was a worrying sight and Mr Lawrence was rightly worried. He reached the door when an almighty crash had him ducking for cover and for a moment he wondered if one of the colonel’s krauts had followed him home and lobbed a hand-grenade. The shop lights went out without a flicker and Paul yelped and a bronze ballerina in the shop window pirouetted off her stand.
“It's arced!” Paul screamed. “It's arced!” He vaulted from the recess and crashed into the wall opposite and, as he slid slowly southward, smiled sweetly at Mr Lawrence.
Mr Lawrence thought back to the conversation in The British and wondered whether the double-glazing salesman’s electric shock treatment might help.
Nervous Sid was in The British, Sid the Nerve, playing the devil's drum on the bottom rung of his bar stool. He worried that the DSS or whatever they were called nowadays had cancelled his weekly benefit. How would they like to be black with a little receiving form? It was all right for them with their index-related pay, but what about him? They treated illegal immigrants better than they treated him.
Nervous Sid turned to children; they were on his mind. The ASBOs were a complete waste of time and money; they had become a badge of honour. The kids actually felt out of it if they didn’t own one. Nervous Sid agreed with the colonel. The answer to their worrying ways was a sharp stab in the arse with a bayonet and then three years in a detention centre fed on nothing but green veg, sprouts if possible. No orange squash or trips out to holiday centres.
Children – they seemed wiser, more mature, less child-like. The boys were ill-natured, rude little gits and the girls had contemptuous, knowing eyes. Even twelve-year-olds knew what made the world go around. They looked as though they were waiting to get a little bigger so they could pay you back. A frightening thought, the thought of growing old and defenceless, and the only thing to do, he supposed, was to get them first, before they grew up. Devastating, really. It was all these fucking chemicals in the crops. All these E-numbers the colonel and Albert kept going on about. They were modifying the kids and not in a good way. Sod these GM crops. Sid the Nerve would take more notice in future. He made a mental note that if ever his luck changed and his number came in, he wouldn’t buy a motor car from those bastards.
He went on to explain that when he threw stones at a group of them who were climbing on his garage roof they threw them back again. And they were better shots. He lifted the plaster on his cheek to show Mr Lawrence the damage. They were aiming at his eye, he said, because he was black. They were still on his garage roof. He'd made a speedy retreat. The long way round. Sod that for a living. Then he said, “Is that Paul still with you?”
“Yes, I suppose that Paul is. Although, technically, he's in hospital at the moment.”
“Kids?”
“No. Electricity.”
“Oh.” He sipped his shaking pint, spilling a little down his chin. His foot-tapping quickened in tempo.
Mr Lawrence prompted, “Why do you ask?”
Nervous Sid's attention returned from parts of the barmaid. “Someone was asking about him. A very dodgy looking character. Fact is, dodgy isn't the word. Not really. Not at all. Dangerous is probably closer. Fucking dangerous closer still. A big bad bastard.” “My goodness. What did he want?”
“He said he wanted Paul.”
“Did he say what for?”
“No, he didn't say and I didn't ask. You don't prolong the conversation with people like that. I wanted out. Like…out. As soon as poss. Registered mail. Know what I mean?”
“Did you tell him he was staying with me?”
