Page 104 of A Night with Damien Spur

‘Oh, Caesar, I am your willing slave, but first I will peel the grape,’ she said, carefully stripping the pale green skin. ‘There.’ She delicately slipped it between his lips.

‘After you’ve finished with him, could you both come over to me?’ asked the cheerful plumber in the adjacent bed.

Happy to provide the entertainment, even in his weakened state, Damien had managed to charm the nurses into giving him extra attention.

He was good at feigning pain. Clutching his head and moaning produced a couple of paracetamol, admittedly a poor substitute for the codeine, but what he really looked forward to at night were the sleeping pills.

Even in his weakened state, he had managed to sign the form giving Sophie full authority to discuss his medical condition.

‘Just don’t sell me down the river,’ he had said to her. ‘I don’t want to find myself in some goddamn awful rehab in a padded cell doing cold turkey. I’m a man who needs weaning, Sophie.’

***

Four days later, Damien was ready to be released from the ward, and Sophie was summoned.

‘The hospital has treated Mr Spur for hypothermia,’ the psychiatrist said. ‘But according to his mental status examination he needs intensive drug and alcohol addiction therapy before hecan be given psychiatric help.’

‘I understand,’ Sophie said. ‘So what would you suggest?’

‘I’d like to give you this list of rehabilitation centres, some of which are covered by insurance. He would really benefit from a residential programme. If you wish me to do so, I would be happy to give Mr Spur a referral.’ He handed her the sheet of paper.

Sophie slipped it into her bag. ‘Thank you so much. I’ll go through the list with him and try to sort things out as soon as possible.’

‘That’s good.’ He gave her a serious nod. ‘But meanwhile, and this is key, he shouldn’t be left alone for any length of time. Will someone be staying with him?’

‘I will,’ she said. ‘At least for a few days until we can sort out a rehab programme.’

***

Damien sat on the edge of the mattress, clutching a Waitrose bag with his belongings.

The plumber smiled at Sophie. ‘Taking him home?’ he said. ‘Can’t say I’m sorry. He’s such a plonker, shouting and swearing all night.’ He eyed the tangerines and a couple of bananas on Damien’s bedside table. ‘Anyway, if you don’t want the fruit… can I have it? Shame for it to go to waste.’

Damien, the sexy intellectual, darling of countless women who would lay down their arms and gladly surrender to his advances, had been reduced to a plonker.

‘No, you slimy little bastard. I wouldn’t even give you my spit,’ said Damien.

Sophie swept away Damien’s hand as he tried to grab the fruit. She gave it to the man.

‘Do you have a pen and paper?’ the man asked Sophie.

‘I’ve got a pen.’ She took it out of her bag and handed it tohim.

‘Right then, give us your wrist,’ he said.

Sophie looked at Damien and giggled.

She stretched out her arm.

‘If you ever need your drain fixed, give me a call. Don’t forget to write it down before you wash it off,’ he said.

***

Sophie had tried to make sure that Damien was safe. She and Claudia had cleared his stash of tranquillizersand opiates, but his mind was still playing tricks.

He saw things at night. His mummy, standing by his bedside wagging her finger. ‘Pull yourself together,’ she said. ‘You’re a big boy now.’

But usually it was Nanny who came to him. She was kind. ‘You’re a clever chap. Just try to keep your nose clean.’

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