It’s incredible how much the average man can sulk. Such a small word, sulk, only four letters, but with such a dam of emotion stooping behind it. Here I sit in Jack’s dingy little bedsit. I don’t think of him as Clive, to me he remains Jack, which he’s delighted with. Apparently I’m the first person that his nom de plume has stuck with.
I’m not sure the last time I washed or ate or got dressed. Days? Fuck knows. Could be weeks for all I care. My boxers feel like they are glued to my body. All I wear is Claire’s old T-shirt and the pink, frilly, short-sleeved dressing gown I bought her for Christmas. I’d found them in the rubbish bags that Jack had collected from outside my ex-flat.
I am bloody tired although I’ve done nothing but sleep, mostly in Jack’s reclining chair. Jack himself has rarely left the bedsit, spending most of his time with me. The London trips look like they’ve been knocked on the head. I say he’s been ‘with’ me but I’ve largely ignored anything he’s said. He doesn’t seem to care. He treats me like a coma patient, constantly making conversation and observations (i.e. bullshit). He picks up all my crap, recycles all the beer cans and vodka bottles, flushes the toilet behind me, brings me cups of tea (I hate tea so they go cold) and sandwiches (which I ignore and they dry up). If I was on my own the liquid and solid refreshments would soon be growing interesting collections of fungi on them.
“The trouble is,” Jack’s saying, “You’ve no frame of reference anymore.”
What the fuck is he on about now? The incomprehension must show on my face because Jack smiles. The patient has shown a flicker of emotion. Success!
“No job, no girlfriend,” Jack says.
“Bitch,” I interrupt.
Keep going Dr Dean! The nurses swoon with the euphoria of success after continual failure to get through to the patient!
“No house, no money and no friends, besides me and a Russian tramp.” Jack blinks in realisation. “Wow, that’s pretty shit really.”
I want to scream, “Thanks, that really helped!” But I stay mute and stare unblinking at daytime TV. If anything can euthanise the brain, this is it. Jack and meaningless, shit TV.
“I read a book once. It said that revenge was a great way of dealing with your troubles,” Jack says, then crosses his eyebrows in thought.
Revenge, the word tickles my synapses. A slightly larger word than sulk, but with many more layers of associated passion.
“Or did it say revenge was bad?” Jack says, completely throwing himself off balance.
But it’s too late. Waaaaay too late for that genie to be stuffed back in the bottle.
“You’re a fucking genius, Jack,” I say. He grins at me. Dr Dean has saved the day, again!
I fairly leap out of my chair. Bits of me ache, my muscles have atrophied somewhat after the (unknown) fallow period. I catch a whiff of something unsavoury and sniff my armpit.
“God, I fucking stink. I need a shower.” Then I realise I’m wearing Claire’s shit. “And these pieces of crap can go in the bin.”
I strip off, dumping the pink dressing gown and flowery T-shirt on the floor. The chastity boxers follow. I stand in the middle of Jack’s tiny bedsit stark bollock naked. He doesn’t know where to look.
But I don’t care.
I feel great.
I’m going to kill that bastard Valentine...