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Authors: Timothy J. Jarvis
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evening, about six months after my committal and confinement to the asylum, I was playing my, by then habitual, evening game with Colin – mostly we played chess, but that evening it was draughts – when he interrupted a disquisition on the court of Louis XIV to look about him nervously.
‘You can’t ever be sure someone isn’t listening in,’ he said, leaning close, lowering his voice, tapping the side of his nose with the forefinger of his right hand. ‘They’ve got people everywhere. It’s not safe, even here. Any of these lunatics could be one of them.’
‘How can you be sure I’m not?’ I asked, impish.
He scowled, cocked his head. Then picked up two counters from the board, one of each colour, pressed them into his eyesockets, squinted to hold them in place.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked, irritated.
He grinned.
‘Do you know why the dead in Ancient Greece were buried with coins in their mouths?’
‘No. Can we get back to the game?’
Colin took the pieces from his orbits, pocketed one, or seemed to, then put both hands behind his back. A moment later, he held out his fists to me.
‘Choose.’
‘Stop it,’ I said gently, shaking my head.
He opened his fingers. There was a counter cupped in each palm. He returned one to the board, flipped the other into the air with his thumb. It arced, tumbling slow. He caught it with his right hand, slapped it down on the back of his left, kept it covered.
‘Heads or tails?’
‘Colin,’ I groaned.
He grimaced, got up from the table, walked away, taking the piece with him. Reaching the door, he turned, held up the piece, called to me.
‘To pay Charon’s fare.’
‘What?’
‘The boatman. Ferried the dead over the River Styx.’
He was shouting now, his voice hoarse, breaking, his eyes wild.
‘Did you know, photography, at first, was used mainly for filth, as it is again now, I suppose, and memorializing the dear departed? Mothers holding their just-dead infants up for the camera as rigor set in. Dead wives propped up by rods hidden beneath their skirts. Think of that. And remember me like
this!’
‘Don’t be so morbid, Colin.’
He put the counter in his mouth, under his tongue, turned, and left. His outburst had distressed some inmates; an old woman who sat in a wicker chair by the window, puckered up her face, began to hoot like an owl, thrash about, and a young man clutched his head, howled, soiled himself. Nurses rushed over to restrain them, another hurried after Colin to ensure he’d not swallowed the draughts piece.
That night, he somehow crept past staff on duty, found a way over the wall, threw himself off the cliff. At least that’s what was assumed to have happened; there were smears of his blood on rocks at its foot, but his body was never found, perhaps swept out to sea by the undertow.
Pangs of remorse goaded me from listless stagnation; I felt my confinement, was seized by an urge to get out, even if it meant putting myself in danger. I called my parents, and the following day they came to see me. They saw me well and, that afternoon, signed the papers rescinding my committal.I returned to London. In the asylum I’d been denied news of the outside world, deemed too troubling; it wasn’t till after my release, then, I learnt the chef whose body I’d discovered had been the last victim of the beatings, that no one had been convicted of the attacks, that there were no suspects or leads.
My parents had organized for the major repairs to my flat to be carried out, but there was still much to be done; I spent my first few weeks at home redecorating. Sooted walls needed stripping, a fresh coat of paint; curtains had to be washed and aired; scorched, mouldering carpets taken up, replaced, though in the hall and lounge, I found the boards in good condition, left them bare. The work done I revelled in the results: the place felt new, purged of dread associations.
My life returned to seeming normality. I found temporary
‘You can’t ever be sure someone isn’t listening in,’ he said, leaning close, lowering his voice, tapping the side of his nose with the forefinger of his right hand. ‘They’ve got people everywhere. It’s not safe, even here. Any of these lunatics could be one of them.’
‘How can you be sure I’m not?’ I asked, impish.
He scowled, cocked his head. Then picked up two counters from the board, one of each colour, pressed them into his eyesockets, squinted to hold them in place.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked, irritated.
He grinned.
‘Do you know why the dead in Ancient Greece were buried with coins in their mouths?’
‘No. Can we get back to the game?’
Colin took the pieces from his orbits, pocketed one, or seemed to, then put both hands behind his back. A moment later, he held out his fists to me.
‘Choose.’
‘Stop it,’ I said gently, shaking my head.
He opened his fingers. There was a counter cupped in each palm. He returned one to the board, flipped the other into the air with his thumb. It arced, tumbling slow. He caught it with his right hand, slapped it down on the back of his left, kept it covered.
‘Heads or tails?’
‘Colin,’ I groaned.
He grimaced, got up from the table, walked away, taking the piece with him. Reaching the door, he turned, held up the piece, called to me.
‘To pay Charon’s fare.’
‘What?’
‘The boatman. Ferried the dead over the River Styx.’
He was shouting now, his voice hoarse, breaking, his eyes wild.
‘Did you know, photography, at first, was used mainly for filth, as it is again now, I suppose, and memorializing the dear departed? Mothers holding their just-dead infants up for the camera as rigor set in. Dead wives propped up by rods hidden beneath their skirts. Think of that. And remember me like
this!’
‘Don’t be so morbid, Colin.’
He put the counter in his mouth, under his tongue, turned, and left. His outburst had distressed some inmates; an old woman who sat in a wicker chair by the window, puckered up her face, began to hoot like an owl, thrash about, and a young man clutched his head, howled, soiled himself. Nurses rushed over to restrain them, another hurried after Colin to ensure he’d not swallowed the draughts piece.
That night, he somehow crept past staff on duty, found a way over the wall, threw himself off the cliff. At least that’s what was assumed to have happened; there were smears of his blood on rocks at its foot, but his body was never found, perhaps swept out to sea by the undertow.
Pangs of remorse goaded me from listless stagnation; I felt my confinement, was seized by an urge to get out, even if it meant putting myself in danger. I called my parents, and the following day they came to see me. They saw me well and, that afternoon, signed the papers rescinding my committal.I returned to London. In the asylum I’d been denied news of the outside world, deemed too troubling; it wasn’t till after my release, then, I learnt the chef whose body I’d discovered had been the last victim of the beatings, that no one had been convicted of the attacks, that there were no suspects or leads.
My parents had organized for the major repairs to my flat to be carried out, but there was still much to be done; I spent my first few weeks at home redecorating. Sooted walls needed stripping, a fresh coat of paint; curtains had to be washed and aired; scorched, mouldering carpets taken up, replaced, though in the hall and lounge, I found the boards in good condition, left them bare. The work done I revelled in the results: the place felt new, purged of dread associations.
My life returned to seeming normality. I found temporary
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