Bobby to me.
His exact words to me were: “Don’t worry, he’s insured. You might actual y get paid.”
The notes tel me that he’s twenty-two years of age, with no history of mental il ness or habitual drug use. He has above average intel igence, is in good health and lives in a long-term relationship with Arky, his fiancée. Apart from that I have a basic history— born in London, educated at government schools, O levels, night classes, odd jobs as a delivery driver and clerk. He and Arky live in a tower block in Hackney. She has a little boy and works at the candy bar in the local cinema. Apparently it was Arky who convinced him to seek help. Bobby’s nightmares were getting worse. He woke screaming in the night, hurtling out of bed and crashing into wal s, as he tried to escape his dreams.
Before the summer we seemed to be getting somewhere. Then Bobby disappeared for three months and I thought he was gone for good. He turned up five weeks ago, with no appointment or explanation. He seemed happier. He was sleeping better. The nightmares were less severe.
Now something is wrong. He sits motionless, but his flicking eyes don’t miss a thing.
“What’s happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Is something wrong at home?”
He blinks. “No.”
“What then?”
I let the silence work for me. Bobby fidgets, scratching at his hands as though something has irritated his skin. Minutes pass and he grows more and more agitated.
I give him a direct question to get him started.
“How is Arky?”
“She reads too many magazines.”
“Why do you say that?”
“She wants the modern fairy tale. You know al that bul shit they write in women’s magazines— tel ing them how to have multiple orgasms, hold down a career and be a perfect mother.
It’s al crap. Real women don’t look like fashion models. Real men can’t be cut out of magazines. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be— a new age man or a man’s man. You tel me!
Am I supposed to get drunk with the boys or cry at sad movies? Do I talk about sports cars or this season’s colors? Women think they want a man but instead they want a reflection of themselves.”
“How does that make you feel?”
“Frustrated.”
“Who with?”
“Take your pick.” His shoulders hunch and his coat col ar brushes his ears. His hands are in his lap now, folding and unfolding a piece of paper, which has worn through along the creases.
“What have you written?”
“A number.”
“What number?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Can I see it?”
He blinks rapidly and slowly unfolds the page, pressing it flat against his thigh and running his fingers over the surface. The number “21” has been written hundreds of times, in tiny block figures, fanning out from the center to form the blades of a windmil .
“Do you know that a dry square piece of paper cannot be folded in half more than seven times,” he says, trying to change the subject.
“No.”
“It’s true.”
“What else are you carrying in your pockets?”
“My lists.”
“What sort of lists?”
“Things to do. Things I’d like to change. People I like.”
“And people you don’t like?”
“That too.”
Some people don’t match their voices and Bobby is one of them. Although a big man, he seems smal er because his voice isn’t particularly deep and his shoulders shrink when he leans forward.
“Are you in some sort of trouble, Bobby?”
He flinches so abruptly that the legs of his chair leave the floor. His head is shaking firmly back and forth.
“Did you get angry with someone?”
Looking hopelessly sad, he bunches his fists.
“What made you angry?”
Whispering something, he shakes his head.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear that.”
He mouths the words again.
“You’l have to speak up a little.”
Without a flicker of warning he explodes. “STOP FUCKING WITH MY HEAD!”
The noise echoes in the confined space. Doors open along the corridor and the light flashes on my intercom. I
His exact words to me were: “Don’t worry, he’s insured. You might actual y get paid.”
The notes tel me that he’s twenty-two years of age, with no history of mental il ness or habitual drug use. He has above average intel igence, is in good health and lives in a long-term relationship with Arky, his fiancée. Apart from that I have a basic history— born in London, educated at government schools, O levels, night classes, odd jobs as a delivery driver and clerk. He and Arky live in a tower block in Hackney. She has a little boy and works at the candy bar in the local cinema. Apparently it was Arky who convinced him to seek help. Bobby’s nightmares were getting worse. He woke screaming in the night, hurtling out of bed and crashing into wal s, as he tried to escape his dreams.
Before the summer we seemed to be getting somewhere. Then Bobby disappeared for three months and I thought he was gone for good. He turned up five weeks ago, with no appointment or explanation. He seemed happier. He was sleeping better. The nightmares were less severe.
Now something is wrong. He sits motionless, but his flicking eyes don’t miss a thing.
“What’s happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Is something wrong at home?”
He blinks. “No.”
“What then?”
I let the silence work for me. Bobby fidgets, scratching at his hands as though something has irritated his skin. Minutes pass and he grows more and more agitated.
I give him a direct question to get him started.
“How is Arky?”
“She reads too many magazines.”
“Why do you say that?”
“She wants the modern fairy tale. You know al that bul shit they write in women’s magazines— tel ing them how to have multiple orgasms, hold down a career and be a perfect mother.
It’s al crap. Real women don’t look like fashion models. Real men can’t be cut out of magazines. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be— a new age man or a man’s man. You tel me!
Am I supposed to get drunk with the boys or cry at sad movies? Do I talk about sports cars or this season’s colors? Women think they want a man but instead they want a reflection of themselves.”
“How does that make you feel?”
“Frustrated.”
“Who with?”
“Take your pick.” His shoulders hunch and his coat col ar brushes his ears. His hands are in his lap now, folding and unfolding a piece of paper, which has worn through along the creases.
“What have you written?”
“A number.”
“What number?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Can I see it?”
He blinks rapidly and slowly unfolds the page, pressing it flat against his thigh and running his fingers over the surface. The number “21” has been written hundreds of times, in tiny block figures, fanning out from the center to form the blades of a windmil .
“Do you know that a dry square piece of paper cannot be folded in half more than seven times,” he says, trying to change the subject.
“No.”
“It’s true.”
“What else are you carrying in your pockets?”
“My lists.”
“What sort of lists?”
“Things to do. Things I’d like to change. People I like.”
“And people you don’t like?”
“That too.”
Some people don’t match their voices and Bobby is one of them. Although a big man, he seems smal er because his voice isn’t particularly deep and his shoulders shrink when he leans forward.
“Are you in some sort of trouble, Bobby?”
He flinches so abruptly that the legs of his chair leave the floor. His head is shaking firmly back and forth.
“Did you get angry with someone?”
Looking hopelessly sad, he bunches his fists.
“What made you angry?”
Whispering something, he shakes his head.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear that.”
He mouths the words again.
“You’l have to speak up a little.”
Without a flicker of warning he explodes. “STOP FUCKING WITH MY HEAD!”
The noise echoes in the confined space. Doors open along the corridor and the light flashes on my intercom. I
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