Being Colin By Andrew Campbell-Kearsey

“When did you first meet Colin?”

“That’s an easy one. April 26th. Heading towards our third anniversary. Leather or crystal, I looked it up. Rather a random combination.”

“That’s seven months away.”

“Yes, but I like to be prepared. Cub scout code. Dib dib dib…. Not really into all that though. The reality of sleeping under canvas with several other boys I found quite distasteful and cooking our meals over open fires was positively Neanderthal.”

“How old were you then?”

“Eight. Tried it for a couple of months. The green jumper was as itchy as hell. I remember poring over the handbook at the potential embroidery badges I could be awarded. Nothing I was interested in.”

“What were your interests then?”

“Colouring. Writing stories and drawing the type of house I would live in with my future wife. I used to love to arrange my felt tips in colour order on my little desk. It drove me mad when my mother used one to scribble her shopping list. Such a careless woman. She would often leave the lids off. Then the set would be ruined.”

“So you expected to marry a woman when you grew up?”

“Of course I did. What a daft question. I should have known you’d pick up on that.”

She looks quite hurt now. I shouldn’t be so mean. It’s just that this slip of a girl is so predictable. She looks at me as if she feels my pain, has walked a mile in my shoes and all those other meaningless phrases implying supposed empathy. How old is she? Twenty-three, twenty-four? Is this the best they can get? I know everybody has to start somewhere but couldn’t they have given me somebody a little more senior.

“I’m sorry, Liz. Please forgive me. We were brought up on a diet of happy ever after films with huge weddings. As a boy, I was Rock Hudson in search of his Miss Day. And all along I was a Doris.”

Good grief. I should never have been so conciliatory. Now she’s behaving like a demented nodding dog. She thinks she’s cracked me. The poor love is spouting some psychobabble about role models, positive images and homophobia. She’ll be quoting page numbers from ‘A Beginner’s Guide to Sociology’ next. If I start counting the tiles on the wall behind her maybe I’ll be able to ride this one out. Relief, I only got to one hundred and sixty seven and she’s stopped.

“Well that brings us to the end of our therapeutic hour.”

Liz smiles. I had remarked in the first session that the appointment had been curtailed abruptly. She had patiently explained that each session was allotted fifty minutes so as to allow her to reflect on her client’s predicament and to prepare for the next one. Why call it an hour then? I feel cheated.

“I will see you tomorrow, Steven. Same time.”

I smile this time and leave the room. I’m desperate to see what she’s written about me. I wonder if I fascinate her? I hope so. Perhaps, Liz will be able to make me the focus of her first book. I have always dreamed of being a cause celebre. I would much prefer it if she wrote her comments into a hard backed jotter instead of the cheap A4 pad with pre-punched holes to add me to her file. It would make me feel more permanent and important.

   I choose to walk around the garden before lunch. I manage to steer clear of the other residents and make my way towards the vegetable patch. I focus on the courgettes. Liz would, no doubt, draw an easy conclusion from that one. I would never have made the connection with a phallus. I was merely interested in how quickly they are growing. I’ve only been here a week and some of these are in danger of being taken to court under the Trades’ Descriptions Act. Have they become marrows yet?

   We have to take turns here. I had been assigned the breakfast shift. I felt I had excelled at the place settings. I am sure that the reason that nobody congratulated me on the water lily was the early hour. Maybe at lunch or supper, which they insist on calling tea here, my origami skills would have garnered greater appreciation. Nobody seems to be a morning person here. Even by lunch time, many of my fellow guests do not seem to have shifted up the necessary gear to participate fully in the day.

   I would have elected a table on my own to eat. I am not a social being, especially when food is concerned. Mass catering does tend towards the bland. That I can cope with. It is the table manners of the others I find difficult to bear. Many of whom are not terribly well acquainted with cutlery. Unfortunately, all the dining chairs are arranged around rectangular tables in a refectory style. Liz says it is to encourage us to interact with each other. What a hideous turn of phrase. Why can’t she say, talk, chat, converse? No, it has to be ‘interact’. I have learned that if I am one of the first in the lunch queue, I can wolf down by meal before my table has begun to fill up. The danger of burning my tongue is miniscule as the average temperature of so-called ‘hot’ meals is at best tepid, bordering on cold.

   My macaroni cheese has developed a skin by the time I am ready to eat it. I have to say a short prayer of thanks before every meal. I have a strict hierarchy of things for which to be grateful. The last and most important being Colin. As I open my eyes and pick up my fork, check its level of cleanliness before attempting to put it anywhere near my food, my luck fails me.

“If I’m not interrupting, may I join you? I couldn’t help noticing that you were praying.”

This is all I need, but the only offensive thing about this woman is her taste in cardigans. I turn my attention to eating but she clearly wants to ‘interact’.

“Have you been here long?”

“I arrived last week.”

“Is your room comfortable?”

“Well, a Jacuzzi and a few silk throws wouldn’t go a miss. I wouldn’t object if they provided me with a decently sprung mattress. But the rates are very reasonable so I mustn’t complain.”

That almost made her choke on her beetroot salad. When her laughter subsided she continued.

“You have a sense of humour.”

“Guilty as charged. It’s one of the qualities Colin most admires.”

“Who’s he?”

I take an overly long time to swallow my mouthful. I enjoy the dramatic pause. My luncheon companion strikes me as possibly a little prudish.

“He’s my partner.”

Not a flicker.

“You must miss him terribly.”

“I do. Apparently, they frown on visitors from outside, but I’m sure Colin will find a way. He’s frightfully persuasive when he puts his mind to something. How about you? Been here long?”

“About four years.”

Now it’s my turn to almost choke on the overcooked pasta. The chef is clearly not on speaking terms with Al Dente. I rapidly reappraise her. She looks extremely well adjusted to me. I had been assured that stays of over six months were relatively rare. She must have bucketfuls of what Liz would call ‘unresolved issues’.

“Four years is rather a long time. Don’t tell me the food’s better than at home.”

“I cook for myself or occasionally I guilt trip my partner into make a meal.”

“Are you here on day release then?”

This causes another outburst of suppressed hilarity.

“Oh no. I work here”

She pulls her offending cardigan to reveal a staff badge pinned at a rakish angle on her blouse. This is all I need. She is the chaplain.

“That’s why you were drawn to me praying.”

“Am I the answer to your prayer?”

For one truly ghastly moment I believe she thinks she has been divinely sent. The smile betrays her.

“I’m pulling your leg. I’m Sally, by the way.”

Sally has suddenly become one of them. I no longer feel her equal. I hope that I do not communicate this. She coaxes rather more information out of me than I usually share with a stranger.

“So, Steven, how long do you think you’ll be here?”

“I’m not really sure. I suppose until they find out what’s been wrong with me. I was dreading it was going to be all raffia and basket weaving.”

“We tend to save that for the extremely desperate cases.”

I’m liking this woman a little more.

Sally peels an orange and offers me some of the segments. I surprise myself by accepting. I normally don’t do sharing. The tanginess of the fruit catches me by surprise. Seedless, thank goodness. I would have felt awkward spitting out orange pips in front of her, no matter how discretely I had managed it.

“I have my first group therapy session this afternoon. I’m not sure what to expect. I worry that I’ll either clam up or go the other way and perform. I just love a captive audience. I think that my strategy will be to listen to my peers to begin with.”

“Wise move.”

“So, what are your duties here?”

“It’s a training post.”

“But four years is an awfully long time.”

“The truth is that I feel that God still wants me here. You’d understand that.”

I must have a puzzled expression.

“I assumed that you are a spiritual person…..saying grace before your meal.”

“Oh that, it’s just become a habit over the years.”

I was beginning to lose concentration and was thinking of my disappointment that I had still not encountered an experienced professional during my stay. This included the catering staff.

“Would you describe yourself as someone of faith?”

“I don’t tend to give it much thought. I’m far too busy with more pressing issues, like who’s going to win the X-Factor or which tie to wear.”

“I shall back down gracefully. I hope your session goes well this afternoon. If you ever feel the need to talk, my hours are pinned up outside the chapel. We also have a non-denominational service each Sunday. Thank you for allowing me to eat with you. I’m off to catch up on my e-mails.”

“The scourge of the twenty first century.”

I think that’s what you’re meant to say. I am not terribly au fait with computer stuff. As she stands up, Sally reaches out her hand. I shake it. It is the first time I have touched another human being since I arrived.

   I hate arriving late for anything. Missing the first two minutes of a feature film ruins it for me. So I am outside the group counselling suite a full quarter of an hour before the session is due to start. I walk along the corridors with a pretend sense of purpose and return to the suite every couple of minutes. When I come back after the fourth mini stroll there is a bearded man arranging the mismatched chairs into a vaguely circular formation. I have seen him before with a clip board in the refectory so he is probably the facilitator. I have learned this word from the information pack in my room. I allow myself one more circuit of the corridors. When I return, almost everybody is settled. This at least means that I shall not be committing the cardinal sin of sitting in somebody else’s chair. Considering their sloth and distinct lack of pep, I am impressed by the time-keeping of my fellow inmates.

   I don’t know how I managed to control myself. The beard with the clipboard was straight out of central casting. Five minutes into the session I realised that I was in the presence of seriously deranged individuals. It was similar to encountering a drunk at a party. You may have had a few drinks yourself but faced with a person with slurred speech and an inability to co-ordinate their own body you soon sober up. I left the room at the end of the session with the profound feeling that there wasn’t much wrong with me. Sure, I have done some things which strike others as strange but I am not the one with suicidal tendencies or multiple personalities. I also possess a healthy respect for matches. After that experience, I feel I am sitting in Accident and Emergency with a broken finger nail. I will save this for Liz tomorrow.

   I go to my room and catch up with my correspondence. Top of my list is Colin, of course. I scribble quite an accurate and humorous account of the afternoon. This will tickle him. Then a few short notes. I ought to write to my few friends who bothered to turn up for that pathetic excuse for a trial. I’ve been deliciously vague with my neighbours. I mentioned I was going travelling and not to expect me back too soon. I started to believe it partially myself. I had made sure that I returned home after frequent shopping visits with armfuls of glossy holiday brochures.

   I’m having no problems sleeping here. I haven’t got a decent photograph of the both of us, so I’ve spliced two separate ones together. I don’t think you can see the join. The trouble is that my head seems so much bigger than Colin’s. I’ve put it in a silver frame of my mother’s. It’s the first thing I see in the morning and the last thing before I turn out the light. I don’t kiss it or anything. That would be daft.

   I wake up at the same time within a fifteen minute range every morning, regardless of when I went to sleep. I have a fairly free day today. I have my five sixths of an hour with Liz to look forward to and little else. I don’t feel any anxiety around my sessions with Liz. I’m probably doing her more good if the truth be told although she doesn’t open up to me terribly often. I’ll have to see about that.

As usual, I am early and waiting outside her cubby-hole of an office. Ten minutes to go. I should have brought a book. It’s weird though, but I’m finding it difficult to concentrate on novels at the moment, which is a new development. Maybe I’ll mention that to her. She pokes her head out two and a half minutes after our appointment should have begun. Is she playing mind games with me? Unless her previous client was a contortionist and had managed to exit through her single office window she has deliberately kept me waiting; her paperwork taking precedence over her allocated time with me. I choose not to bring this up since this would be playing straight into her hands.

After the pleasantries have been exchanged, she dives right in.

“I’m keen to explore your creativity today, Steven. You talked about writing yesterday.”

“Well, I’ve begun to write poetry. I never thought I was the type. I’m self-taught.”

This clearly delights her.

“Have you ever shared your work with anybody, Colin for instance?”

“No, it’s still for my own consumption. I haven’t the confidence to show anyone else. It would be so difficult to allow Colin to read it.”

“Why’s that? Surely he wants to read what you’ve written.”

“It’s just not his sort of thing. Of course, he would pretend he liked it. Colin’s very polite, but he would much prefer to be reading a DIY magazine or one about cars.”

“Have you ever thought of joining a group or possibly approaching a publisher?”

“No, it’s strictly for my own pleasure. I don’t think it’s terribly commercial. You see, it doesn’t all rhyme. It’s not the kind of thing you would see on a Hallmark card. When I write it out in best I like to illuminate the first letter of each stanza, that’s poetry talk for a verse.”

“Like a monk from the Middle Ages.”

“Yes, I suppose so.

I can tell she’s exhausted that topic. I wonder what’s next.

“You attended your first group therapy session yesterday. How was it?”

“I expect you want honesty, so here goes; what a bunch of self-absorbed freaks. I mean, some of them are so slow. You can practically hear the cogs in their brains go round as they figure out what to say next.”

“Many of our clients are on medication to equalise their moods. Your stay here will be much easier if you appreciate that we cater for a wide range of needs.”

“You mean I should not be so critical of the other inmates.”

“We prefer the term client, Steven.”

“Well, I believe in calling a spade a spade, Liz. Some of the people here are barking mad. I’m surprised you feel safe in a confined space with some of those nutters, even if they are wearing chemical overcoats.”

“I’m not finding this terribly productive, Steven. Let’s talk about Colin. Are you angry with him?”

“Why on earth should I be?”

“According to my notes, it was Colin who reported you to the police.”

“No, you’ve got it all wrong, Liz. That’s just the way the papers twisted things.”

“But he testified against you in court. I have the transcripts here. He claimed that you were harassing him.”

“He loves me.”

“So why did he take out a court injunction against you, banning you from going within two hundred and fifty metres of his home and place of work?”

“That was his so-called girlfriend. The bitch was jealous of what we had. She wanted to get between us.”

“But at no point during the trial did Colin say anything other than he loved his girlfriend and found your behaviour menacing and intimidating.”

“He’s weak. He says things for an easy life. I’ve tried to talk to him about that.”

“You were accused of stealing things from Colin”

Liz looks down at her notes.

“Articles of clothing ….”

“That’s a lie. He used to lend me things, leave them around where he knew I would find them.”

“You took his mobile ‘phone.”

“We’d had one of our arguments. I wanted to teach him a lesson.” 

“Colin claimed that the only contact together was when he serviced your car almost two and a half years ago.”

“See, friends do things for each other.”

“But he was a mechanic at the garage. You paid the company he worked for.”

“I don’t know what you’re implying.”

Liz leans towards me. I notice that one of her bra straps is quite grubby.

“If you want to get better Steven, you will have to start by being honest. If you want us to help you….”

“You’re just like all the others. Nobody believes me.”

“The judge was lenient by allowing you to come here, considering the evidence. Colin’s girlfriend was traumatised by the letters you wrote as well as the ‘phone messages.”

“They were just for fun. She didn’t have a sense of humour.”

“You threatened to kill her on several occasions. The police had Colin’s ‘phone tapped. If you refuse to co-operate, it will be a custodial sentence for you.”

   I couldn’t stay in that room any longer and listen to all those lies again. Fortunately, I made my way outside without anybody seeing me cry. Everyone is ganging up on me just like before. Somebody behind me coughs. It’s Sally.

“I didn’t know whether you wanted to be left alone. I’ll go if you like.”

“No, it’s O.K.”

“Nothing serious I hope. Is it about Colin?”

I’m glad she remembers his name.

“Yes. There’s been a misunderstanding. He can’t come and see me for a while. ”

“Work commitments?”

“Yes, something like that.”