Page 109 of A Night with Damien Spur

‘I more or less kept things under control because of mywork, until six months ago when I met a lady who played me at my own game. And the cooler she became the more I fell for her, and the more intoxicated and needy I became, the more she detested me.’

Stop. You sound like a pathetic masochist, the Voice said.It’s all so over the top.

Damien wasn’t sure what to say next. His eyes focused on the young woman who led the meeting. She had a lovely face. Wide, soft eyes and one of those mouths that turned up at the edges even when she wasn’t smiling. He looked at her hand: no wedding band.

‘One minute left,’ she said.

‘Thanks.’ Her voice brought him back on track.

‘Well, I certainly kept my dealer happy. I could call him any time day or night and he would supply me with coke, MDMA – and sometimes even buy me a bottle of whisky on the way to my house, if I didn’t want to go out. And then, one night, I was out of my head and went to this wedding and there she was, dancing the paso doble with another man.

‘I went crazy. It was a red rag to a bull. I charged him… made such a fool of myself. So finally,’ Damien paused to catch his breath, ‘the groom put me in a cab, and I was on my way home when I decided to take a detour. Told the cabbie to take me to the River Thames… and I jumped.

‘And here’s the thing: I’m only here to tell the tale because the taxi driver rescued me. He went off for a coffee but came back. I think he knew what I was going to do.

‘When he pulled me out of the water, for a moment I thought he was an angel. Maybe he was. He took me, covered in mud, to the hospital, and in a strange way I felt as if I was being reborn. That was my wake-up call. So here I am. Anyway, I just want to say that I’m so happy to be alive and I really want to recover.’

He wanted them to believe him, but he wasn’t sure he believed himself.

Quite good, the Voice said,but next time inject a bit of wit.

He held hands with the people in the circle, and prayed that he could find a way to move on.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

The courage to change the things I can,

And the wisdom to know the difference.

It wasn’t easy. Twice a week, he saw a therapist who helped him stay on course. For months he kept close to home and avoided socialising, especially parties.

His day started with a meditation, then breakfast and afterwards he went back to the screenplay ofWriting in the Sand, which was well on the way to being signed off.

Every evening he went to his AA meeting.

To his surprise, life flowed.

***

Not so with Nicholas and Kate. It was hellish in the Morley household. The kids had both gone to stay with friends in Southgate for the half-term October break, leaving Nicholas and Kate to stare at each other over takeaways and ready meals.

Yes, no, hello, goodbye, TV shows and long solo walks with the dogs seemed to work for a few days until… that Sunday night.

It started well enough. Kate was out having a drink with her best friends, Sara and Mandy, at the Bunch of Grapes.

It was her birthday. She’d said that she’d be homeat 8 p.m.,but Nicholas had waited until 9 p.m.and there was still no sign of her.

Not that it mattered. He was happy to be alone in the kitchen. It was his favourite place. He loved the old farmhouse table and chairs bought from a dealer in Broadstairs; the Dutch wooden dresser inherited from his beloved mother, filled with cookbooks that no one used; pretty bone china cups and saucers decorated with butterflies; the porcelain teapot, a wedding present from his Aunty Tina, that Kate had managed to crack while she was cleaning.

So there he sat with a glass of wine, munching a slice of pepperoni pizza and reading his book of haiku poems, while the dogs lay calm at his feet. Very Zen.

Moment gone. Wife home.

River stops, mind-flow shattered

The house weeps again.

‘Hello, Kate,’ Nicholas said when she swaggered in. His face betrayed nothing. Blank eyes and a slip of a smile.

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