Far From The Madding Crowd

I don’t talk like this. Lets get that right, straight off the bat. I don’t write like this neither. I don’t know all the fancy words this nonce Tarquin writes with. Any embellishments he makes that dont look like me, is him. Right there see, there’s a word I would never say, not in a million years. And he’s missed off ‘like’ – urgh what’s those things for, like is like innit? I would have put, “I dont know no fancy words like”; see. If I could. I would have written my own story, but I can’t. No one ever learned me that stuff and I ain’t ever needed to like. You can’t put up no fence with your fancy words, no matter how fancy they is, or how erudite you be – cut it out mate. Words don’t put food on the table or fix no trailer.

So try again mate, put it in as I said it.

Not in a million years like, you know what I mean. Good, none of them weird little marks round what I say.

So I’m Daps, short for Dappy. No one knows why, least of all me. Some kid tried calling me Crappy one time when I was five, rhyming it like, and I knocked his front teeth down his throat. Kid was eight, older than me. The older fellas patched him up. I thought I was for a beating for it but instead one took me aside and got me to punch on a bag. From that day I was only allowed to punch if I was wearing gloves they said and they would put me in a ring every now and again to punch some kids head in and make money out of it. I didn’t mind. I liked hitting them kids that was older than me. And if I lost, I’d wait a bit, grow a bit, then go back and do it properly. My uncles would tell me when. And we’d all get into a van, go to wherever they was staying then and we’d get it on again. More often as not the other fella had grown some too but there ain’t no way he’d have punched as much stuff as me in between and I’d hammer him down like it was nothing and get my revenge. Ain’t no one tried calling me names since I was five. Not even the older fellas would be bothered with winding me up like that.

The writing gonk, the bloke who wanted to write about all this shit is James. I call him Tarquin. To his face mind, not behind his back like, eye to eye. Cos that’s me. That’s what I do. I tell you to your face. May’s well be honest eh? Don’t tell lies. Why lie? Better that way. Everyone knows where they stand. I don’t talk round no ones back like some people. There’s people who say stuff and do the opposite of what they says even. There’s probably a word for that right? I mean why? I don’t so that shit. I don’t like no cunt who does that.

If you’re a twat Ill tell you, “you’re a twat”. What happens after that happens. It’s up to you. Least I’m honest, unlike most people. Least I’m honest I say, if they don’t like it. Sometimes that’s enough. they accept it, that they’re a twat like. Sometimes they don’t and we have to sort it out.

That’s me, I’m an honest John me Mam always said. If I did something and she asked, whatever it was, I’d tell her. Even if it led to a beating from the Old Man. “At least you’re honest”, she’d say, “At least you’re honest…”

That’s how I was brought up I suppose. Being honest. Me Mam, me Da, me uncles…all honest hardworking people. Not that we didn’t do stuff that people see as illegal. But if someone wants to know we tell em. Yeah we did that. You want something?

That don’t mean being a kid it was all smooth like. That I wasn’t drug up some. Or I wasn’t a little shit. Always trouble, me Da would say, though he’d say it a little proud at the same time for it. He was a fighter too. Won hundreds of fights he did. How he paid for the trailers me Ma and all the uncles live in. Lost a few mind. Some of em affected his head they say. He’d walk funny most the time. Like he was drunk, only he wasn’t. People thought he was a pisshead and he was. But just cos he walked like that didn’t mean he wasn’t sharp as a tack and didn’t know what was what most of the time. He’s dead now, God rest his soul. Came back one night, steaming with the drink, punching holes in the trailer. We scattered like rats like we did when he was on one like that. Better to be out the way or he’d land one on you. And he wouldn’t remember. So we all scattered. Everyone, out the compound even, peeping over the fence every now and again when it went quiet. And then…well nothing, no more banging, no more shouting. Only an hour had gone so we was nervous to go back in. Another hour went by and we thought, well he must have gone to sleep quicker than usual. Must’ve had a right skin full. I remember thinking we’d have trouble from the locals if he drank all that in the pub as I was walking slow like to his trailer. When we found him, head on the pillow, legs on the floor, he was out cold. Uncle Tommy said he looked more like dead sleeping than just sleeping it off. So we checked all nervous like so as not to wake him up. And he was. Turned out Pa was dead.
The bloke who took Pa away to get him ready for the wake said there was so much drink lifting off him he had to wear a mask to get him up out the trailer. I dunno what’s true there though like, as that bloke’s a natural born liar and drinks all day himself. From the minute he gets up to the time he shuts his eyes that man’s drinking away. He probably had that mask on and was smelling himself more than my Da.

Anyway, this guy asked me to tell you my story. But it ain’t much of a story. I’ve told him; I don’t remember much about it. But he wants me to anyway. He says I went mad for 48 hours. The folks say it was a breakdown after Dad went. But whatever it was it nothing special really. It was just something that happened. And it ain’t happened since. So I don’t see the big deal. Or why this bloke James is bothering me the past couple of years with letters and dropping by and shit. I’m over it mate I say. It ain’t gonna happen again. Still he keeps on with it all. Says me Ma has called him ands worried like. Or me Uncle Tommy. But I ask em and he’s a lying shit. They never call him over. He just turns up himself. All worried and shit and tells me take some tablet or other. I do it sometimes – I do it in front of him as I ain’t gonna lie about it. Sometimes them things fills a gap if I ain’t got no blow, though that ain’t often. They can make you feel floaty a bit. They’re all right. And I will admit they do stop me getting too angry with everything. So I don’t mind those things. They’ll do sometimes if there’s nothing else going.

So most people like Tarquin here say it was the blow. Like smoke sent me off the charts. There’s one doc Tarquin brought with him one time who argued with me on it and got me so fucking angry I put my hand through the wall in the lounge so that now when I’m lying on my bed I can still see the tele when Ma’s still up watching it. I don’t mind – the tele helps me drop off some nights. But I tell ya that guy pissed me off. Then got up and ran when I punched the wall. Like he’d never seen something like that before. He must see all sorts. He wasn’t scared. He was fitting me up. Called the police on me he did. When they came Ma said I was all calm like and I got up and said my hellos nicely and said I was all better now and they left. He ain’t been back I tell ya. And I wouldn’t have him back. Tarquin tells me he’s moved on anyway. To some other service. I suppose I can believe him on that. But who know’s.

I tell Tarquin I smoke more now than I ever did so that don’t make sense to me. Maybe it was a ‘grief reaction’ then, he then tells me, together with the blow – still insisting on the blow. And maybe there’s some sense in that. But I tell him, look I’m not sorry that old fucker’s dead; life’s a whole lot easier without him around. I don’t think I thought much about it when he went, other than it was no bad thing to have happened overall. And we wouldn’t have to plug as many holes in the trailers any more.

You see I smoke. I’m a smoker. A stoner. It’s what I’ve always done, ever since I was little. Always. Why would it all of a sudden do anything different to me than it always did? I ain’t had anything like that happen to me before then. And I haven’t since. And I still smoke. So the fact I smoke’s got nothing to do with it. There must’ve been something else that caused it. And then we stop talking about it.

Smoking blow is what I do: I get up I have a little smoke, I get a tea, I have a little smoke, I sit out on the compound saying my mornings to people, I have a smoke…you get the idea, pretty much all day every day, having a smoke marks out my day. I’ll smoke till I pass out if I can manage it, or I’ll just turn in anyway until I come down a bit and drop off. So I don’t ascribe to that. Smoke don’t mess me up. Not like that time we’re talking about. Blow don’t make you see things or speak to dead people like that. Blow don’t let you know the government wants you dead for no reason. That don’t make sense to me.

Getting to the point. Whatever caused it, I weren’t myself for a while and nothing I’ve ever seen or done prepared me for that and what went on. I fucking spent two days and nights in a loony lockup I was so gone! Never would I have thought it – me in a lock up. Prison yeah, I’ve been there. Never had no problem in those places. You go in for a while. Find your people and settle till you’re out. Prison’s nothing. But that place. That weird fucking lock up place. That place was something else. I went to the one where all the violent people go. Cos I wasnt gonna go there willingly. They had to jump on me and stick me in a cage to get me there. I fought the fuckers. Took em twenty minutes to get me in there. I cracked a few copper’s heads trying to stop em. They were putting me in a cage for fucks sake! What’d they expect?

Normally I’m pretty chill on account of the smoke. Literally, weeks can go by without anything happening. Most people see me; they think chilled. There’s Daps, he’s a pretty chill guy. Most people will wander over at some point in a day and pass the time with me. We’ll have a nice chat or a bit of a laugh. Maybe share a smoke. Then they’ll go on their way and do whatever. We all get on pretty much round here these days. There’s not many drinkers on the compound now see. Pa had his mates and they’d drink all day. There’d always be drama going on, at some point or other. They’d sit there all day playing cards or talking shit, drinking. Then like a switch being flicked – you’d see this look just come over him like, from nowhere – Pa would take offence at something or other someone said and it would all rare up. Some way Nobbie looked at him. Or Cashie said something to him he didn’t like. And he’d be off. Shouting and swearing. Pointing his finger, quickly followed by threats and then, silence. He’d go all quiet. Chewing on a storm. Everyone either sloping off quietly or waiting for him to blow. Ma was best at talking him round. Saw her talk him out of a shotgun couple of times when he wanted to shoot people who were his mates when he wasn’t pissed out his mind. He was always threatening to shoot people. We had to hide his gun once he got to a certain point. I’d feel sorry for Ma then. What a bloke she ended up married to. But she seemed to get off on all the drama. She’d be like a depressed walking corpse most the day. But she’d come to life then. She’d be all over it. So much drama was round here she got so she couldn’t leave him I reckon. If she didn’t say things right, in the right way or with the right words as he liked them; well she’d be the first to get battered. Then it’d be anyone he could get his hands on. I took so many of that man’s punches down the years I don’t feel nothing. Haven’t for years now. Well hardly nothing. When I do feel stuff I’m best left alone I tell people. And they do. I am my father’s son after all and they know its best they steer clear when I’m off on one. I don’t go looking for trouble though. I don’t get all angry and then go looking for people to take it out on like him. I’ll save it. Save it all up for the ring. Let it all out then. And the family can make some money out of it if I’m on it.

So for good reason I don’t drink alcohol. When you see the sort of nonsense it causes everyone round you like that, you don’t go anywhere near it. I don’t leave the compound much but you see what alcohol does to people wherever you go. You don’t see no stoners wreaking havoc in Wetherspoons at 10 o clock in the morning do ya? Talking shit, throwing stuff, knocking people out. That’s what they should ban. Ban the fucking booze. The world would be a much better place for it. If they was smoking something they wouldn’t be acting like that would they. They should make it so as idiots like them have to make the effort I do to get hold of my stuff. At least I have to do something, get up to get hold of my blow. I know people but I can’t just order blow to my door, seeing as where I live and I ain’t lazy as all that.

Some people wouldn’t let em in anyway. So I have to go to them. If they turned up, they’d be sent packing pretty sharp like. Des, one of the guys here, wouldn’t have no one he don’t know round about. Not no one who shouldn’t be here. If they was delivering booze though? If they pulls up in one of those Tesco vans saying they’d got a load of bottles for him? Sure, he’d let them get out wouldn’t he. He’d even get em to cart his trash to his trailer with a thank you mate.

That’s Des though. He’s a drinker. But he’s a happy drunk. He don’t cause any trouble. Just sits in his trailer gigging his life away.

He don’t like you much Tarquin, does he eh? Old Des. Took us a while didn’t it – to get him to let you in? He still don’t like you mind. He lets you in here cos Ma goes mad on him otherwise. That and I told him there might be some money in it. I said I’d give him some if it comes off. You do know, if there ain’t no money turning out from all this, you’ll have to give me some for him don’t ya?

Des is a bit paranoid. Now that old boy should be with Tarquin and his lot if you ask me. Not me self. Old Des, he thinks people are always scoping the place out. You’ve seen the fences Tarquin – ain’t no one gonna see nothing over them. We know what we’re doing when we build a site us lot. But Old Des’ still got a thing for it – people breaking in. And doing what? I ask him. Like, as if anyone’s getting past the dogs, never mind yourself Des. “Well, that’s why I am the way I am,” he says, “I’ve lived on all manner o’sites now…and there ain’t one I ever thought was secure enough like…it pays to be cautious lad, so it does…”

Remember that day Tarquin? That first time you rocked up with your man in the suit? Old Des was out that trailer like a shot wasn’t he now? All questioning you both of yous. Wah ya want now? Whoos are ya now? Ready he was to cuff you both I reckon. Wasnt he eh? He woulda too, if it wasn’t for Ma. Told him the man in the suit was a doctor, and to have some respect. Des weren’t sure, but he let you in anyway, on account of me Ma and the trouble I caused. He still thinks you might be from the council wanting to move us on you know. You gotta understand like, the only blokes we see in suits are them ones who come to serve us notice and tell us we gotta move on. Or when someone’s died. Oh, or those Jehovahs, and they only come here to argue with Tommy. Drives old Des mad listening to Uncle Tommy and them going on and on. So you can see why he don’t like you just for that. So if Des don’t get you, or the dogs somehow didnt smell you, our Tommy would, but not for the same reasons. Now Our Tommy likes a listening ear, and believe me, you don’t want to be that.

Now my Uncle Tommy’s as suspicious as any of us about people who don’t belong here. But Tommy’s different. He’ll take a look over a stranger and size em up like. But he ain’t looking at em like the rest of us. If he sees anything as potential he’ll make a beeline for em. And then they won’t know what’s hit em. He’ll start up all friendly like, “Well now, who have we here? The names Tommy Quinn. And yourself?” And you’ll give him your name and he’ll ask where you’re from and make a joke or two. And then it will start.

“Have you been saved?” He’ll ask ya. “Have you been Born Again? Have you accepted Jesus into your heart? Into your life?”

And then, well you’re fucked like. Unless you has been already, Uncle Tommy will set about saving you, It’ll be Jesus this, Jesus that, saving this, saving that. It’ll all tumble out his mouth with his not taking a breath and he’ll have ya. You’ll be stuck in that same spot for hours now.
Ha, as if you can be born all over again. I tell him: Uncle Tommy now, don’t you go asking me Ma if she wants to go through all that again. She’ll soon put you straight like! Born again…it sounds crazy when you think on it. You ain’t even died yet and you’re telling me I can be born all over? But I have to admit now, when you’re sat there at church with nought else to do but listen to the old fella up front banging on and on about stuff he’s read in The Bible, well, it kind of gets to you, you know. It kind of starts to makes some sort of weird sense. Even the bits that don’t make no sense whatsoever like. And well now, if I goes on a Sunday having smoked a bit too much it kinda makes you think there might be something in it after all.
Well then, you walk out, feeling all sort of educated like, all ready to be a better man, do good things. Then halfway home, down the road you roll a smoke and its gone again. And you can’t for the life of you think what was all that about.
Not Tommy though. With Uncle Tommy it sticks in his head. Now my Uncle Tommy, he don’t just go to church. Tommy’s got tapes, cd’s, videos. Tommy streams that stuff all the time, all day long. All day he’s gawking over it. So for him it sticks. Shows you mind how much reminding it takes eh? Don’t it? For that stuff to stay in your head. Never you mind now, for that stuff to make sense. With our Tommy around, it a bit like the church comes to us, all day every day if you let it. So you’re best being careful when you strike up a conversation with me Uncle Tommy; cos he can rattle off all that stuff and make you think about it, if you let him. Actually, my Uncle Tommy’s another one of the reasons I smoke too, like see Tommy, say my good morning, roll one, smoke it. Cos as angry sounding as that stuff goes in, is as angry sounding as it comes out like. And to be honest without a bit of blow in me it’d do me head in. But Tommy’s alright, Tommy wouldn’t hurt a fly. Plus Tommy’s family.

Anyways, this lock up. I told you Tarquin, you should just write it or I go off the point like. You know the story eh? It’ll all be in the records. Sure there must be enough of em eh? But I know, I know, its gotta be in me own words. And you don’t want me to look like a twat. Which I said, well now you saying you can’t write this thing for me without making me look a twat eh? And I got all funny with ya and told ya to fuck off like. You were out of here quick as anything eh? Weren’t ye like Tarquin haha!

Well now, I got over it and here we are now eh?

So I’d say it all started with Nanna calling me a cunt. I was sat there on me own, just playing on the Switch and there she was; calling me a cunt. Just like that, all angry like. From nowhere. I ignored it for a while, as I thought maybe the smoke had been a bit too strong. But a few more rounds of Smash Bros and there she was again, clear as day I tell ya. And she sounded worse, like she really meaned it. I remember thinking that was weird as Nanna was dead. So it would have freaked me out a bit if I’d let it. So I told her to piss off like, piss off you old witch I says. And she stopped for a bit.
Now there was nothing unusual in Nanna calling me a cunt. When she alive she did it all the time like, but you know, in a jokey way. Like I’m fed up of you you little cunt, now leave me alone. Not too alone like, as I like you really. Like, just go away for a bit, as you’re getting on my nerves. But this, this was different. She was so pissed at me I swear I felt her spit on my cheek as she shouted all sorts at me and wouldn’t stop. And I didnt know why. She kept going on and on. Getting so loud all I could do was listen to her. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t sit. She would go mental at me if I tried to smoke. So I didn’t even smoke. All’s I could do was sit there like a vegetable, listening to her cursing me out all day and all night.

Well now, it went on for a couple nights I think. And I had enough of it. So I start looking for her. I turned the place over, pulled everything out onto the floor, upended the whole damn trailer. Turned it upside down. Nanna called me from the fridge – I went to the fridge. Pushed it outside, kicked it apart, no Nanna. I;d hear her laughing at that. Say what a silly cunt I was. Which pissed me off no end. She’d shout from the bedroom. I’d go there, totally blitz the place. Knock everything out. Nothing. Just her laughing in my ear. I was so confused. She was a good old lady me Nanna. She was always good to me. Why was she doing this?

So now my trailer was trashed. And she’s laughing and laughing. Like, you silly little cunt, look what I made you do.

Then she starts shouting at me from the trailer next door. Now I knew what she was trying to do. She was trying to get me to trash the place next door. I ain’t stupid, I thought. I ain’t doing that. So I puts my Switch back together – luckily the tele was ok – and I kick some guys ass online on Smash Bros. I rolled one up, nice and fat and tell her fuck you Nanna I’m smoking this. And I stick two fingers up at her, wherever she was, and I tell her, I’m not playing.

Nanna’ll be gone in the morning I thinks. She’ll go harass someone else, someone who really pissed her off. Cos I didnt. Not much anyway. So I kept on playing till I got tired. Last thing I remembered doing was lying down on what was left of the sofa.

_______________________________________________________________

“Morning sunshine”

I looked up. He was a fucking liar. Whoever he was. It wasn’t morning, it was still dark.

“Who the fuck are you?” I said. My head was bleary. I always wake up like this, all bleary eyes and anger. Like my head can’t be bothered with all the shite daytime brings. I couldn’t see him but I could tell he was a right twat; using that tone with me.

My hand was hurting like hell and I sucked a knuckle. Probably been fighting again I thought, shaking my head, trying to come round some to tell him to get lost.

The twat just stood there, waiting for me to say something else I suppose.

“What? What you want like?” He did nothing but lift up a case he had with him and open it. It was full of gadgets, things wrapped up in paper and shit. “What on God’s earth is all that shite?” I said to him, getting a bit paranoid. “Get out me fuckin trailer.”

“What’s been going on here then?” He says, all friendly still, as though I hadn’t just told him to piss off out of it more than once. It was a stupid fucking question to ask a guy who’s just woke up. I told him so in my own way.

I realised then this guy was wearing a uniform. It wasnt the police. This guy was too shiny and not I could see the clown more clearly he smiled too much. I didnt like that. Remembering his question that had nothing to do with anything I looked around the trailer.

“Oh yeah”, I said, despite myself. I made a right old mess didnt I? I said this in my head, as this guy obviously thought he was here for that reason.

“You’re Mum’s here”, he motioned his hand toward the door. Again with the weird talk. I tell him to get out my property and he tells me Ma is here.

There she was Ma. Looking like she didnt know whether to come in or not. Like she was scared and ashamed all at the same time.

“Right Ma?” Ma stared at me all dull eyed, like she did when she didnt know what to say. “Well Ma? Who’s this twat? Who said he could come on the compound? Tell him to leave, I’m right now.”

“Your Mum called as she was worried about you” I looked at Ma. She looked down, like she’d done something bad, real bad.

“Well, I’m right now Ma. You can see that.”

I reached under one of the cushions of the sofa and pulled out a smoke. I had smokes stashed all over the place. I didnt like to face the world without knowing there was always an alternative view nearby.

“What’s that?”

I realised now what this twat was. He was dressed in all green with his name sown into his uniform like a right Noddy. “What ya want here then? You can see I’m ok. Go save someone having a heart attack or something.”

“I don’t think you should smoke that in your state mate”.

“It’s a smoke. I always wake up with a smoke so. I’m gonna smoke it. You can stand there if you like.”

“That’s not a good idea young man.” Another voice. It belonged to a fucking police! A police in my trailer! They’d been hiding in the other room. Well now, this changed everything, as well they knew. They are like a red rag to a bull to me. They will have come prepared I thought.

I looked at Ma, furious. She said she’d had no option. I’d been like a lunatic.

“Why look at the place boy…I couldn’t leave you like this…you’ve lost your head my boy…”

I don’t remember much after that. One police came and snatched the smoke out my hand and all hell let loose. No one comes between me and me smoke like. I clocked him one right on the jaw. The other one sprayed me in the face and I pushed my way blindly out he door.

Outside was more of em. Six, eight? I don’t know how many. One walked right up to me and whacked me legs clear off the ground. I couldn’t see who or what I was landing blows on on account of that shite they sprayed in my eyes. One of them cuffed me. Then they slung me in a cage and I lost it again.

____________________________________________________________________

Well now, things got really fucking strange after that. I’m thinking where they taking me in this thing? And me head’s blown. I start thinking all sorts of stuff is happening like. They’re taking me some place to experiment on me, crazy shit. The spray had something in it and now they’re reading me fucking mind. I remember a lot of theorising about that spray and all the shenanigans it could have done to me. Fucking police!

Nanna turned up of course. This time with me Pa. Both of em calling me a stupid fucker for get locked up again. There weren’t no way back this time. They were gonna finish me for sure. Why didnt I just behave myself?

Like a mad fucker I start conversing with them; telling them to stop talking shite like that as they were freaking me head out. They were brutal man. They just kept on going, louder and louder. Brainwashing me like. Like they wanted me to mad. Wanted me to believe all that shite.

The police saw all this going on in the back of the van of course and it was all they needed to shout back in the van at me some coded shite.

“I’m detaining you under Section 136 of the Mental Health Act. You will be taken to a hospital or place of safety where you will be assessed by a psychatrist…”

I forget the rest. All I heard was hospital. Hospitals have doctors and they can mess with your head. Particularly psychiatrists. Why’d I need to see some shrink?

The van hit a pothole and I lurched forward onto the floor.

“Hey you fuckers.”

The van lurched again. I flew back onto the side of the van. They told me I was out cold.

___________________________________________________________________

This guy man. Of all the people on my caseload it had to be this guy? Why this guy? I feel for the guy sure, but him? He spends 48hrs in a lock up batshit crazy, comes off whatever shit he smoked and gets discharged. I mean case solved right? We see it sometimes. Some guy takes a load of drugs, goes nuts, comes down, bye bye. Why he was referred to us in the first place is a mystery to me. Sure he was psychotic, sure he has trauma (man does he!); but I mean, if you met him! You would not want to work with him. This guy isn’t going to change. He’s not interested in finding out why he went off the scale. Its as through he walked out the door of the hospital and shrugged his shoulders at it all and moved on with his life. Went straight back to the life that most likely made him psychotic in the first place.

Hello. Contrary to what he says my name is not Tarquin. As he also informed you my actual name is James. I have the honour of being his community nurse, working in the Early Intervention with Psychosis Team. Look it up, we’re nothing special. Its a national thing. If you go crazy in a certain way you can have one of me too. I’ll be obligated to keep you on my books for three years. Once accepted onto the caseload I have to try and work with you, in whatever way suits you and help you prevent any repeat of what went wrong.

Why am I writing this now? Where’s Dappy gone? Well, predictably he got bored of the project and bailed. I haven’t seen him for two months. Or he hasn’t seen me, to be more accurate. I don’t take it personally – though he would likely disagree – people do that. They don’t want to talk to me all the time about how they were psychotic and have me set up therapy for them. Some people wax and wane, come and go. Some people go in and out of hospital for numerous reasons. Some people refuse to see me at all. Some see me every week and we work like clockwork together.

I’ll admit I used this project as a ploy to keep him engaged with me. Though it wasn’t through choice. More a decision made for me from above. I kept it from him how much exactly he would be paid for his story and let him speculate, saying I hadn’t been told how much. Which was a lie, I admit. And Dappy doesn’t like liars as he says. So now, seeing as the doctor dropped the amount in the last review, he isn’t seeing me at all as I’m a filthy liar and he doesn’t work for peanuts.

So we are left with me finishing it for him. Which will no doubt feel a bit of an odd detour from all the swearing and referencing to smokes before now. It’s the best we can do though without the man himself. I left the door open if he wants to finish it himself with me. No reply as yet. The higher ups are pressuring me for the account as their imaginary deadline is fast approaching, so here we are. You with a complete change of narrative; me with more work to do thanks to the gonks at HQ. Gonk is my word by the way. Not his.

I’ll send it off. It won’t get past the editor. It’ll be bloody pointless.

But at least it will be honest – both his part and mine.

I’ve had Dappy on my caseload for a year and he’s the same obnoxious, though admittedly likeable a-hole I met from the start. Sure he’s got some pretty strange quirks and weird conspiracies but I wouldn’t say he was psychotic. I mean if you’re going to smoke skunk all day your thoughts are going to be pretty unusual. Do it for years, and check out the brain scans of these guys. Look at the scans, look at the guy, back at the scan, back at the guy – that’s a match! Why did they do that to themselves?Well, that’s complex isn’t it but by the by now. Look at the scan! You think that’s reversible?! Well look up the scans when you have time – now that’s the long term effect of cannabis use, and you aren’t going to reverse that. I mean you wouldn’t argue an alcoholic hasn’t screwed over their liver looking at the ultrasound by drinking all those years would you?

To me its pretty obvious what this guy needs to do but he wont listen to me. And it would be like turning an oil tanker teaching him the skills to manage without dope. He’s young enough to make a difference maybe. We don’t routinely scan people so its hard to say. But he’d want to have to. To him the skunk has the opposite effect – it gives him energy, life, helps him stay chilled. And counters withdrawal symptoms I told him. He laughed. I didnt know what I was talking about.

He’s had some whacky thoughts in the time I’ve known him, said some pretty out there stuff, but he’s not what you could call psychotic. Just another stoner with his conspiracy theories. He functions. He works some when he feels like it. Goes out with a few mates and does a few break ins – he’s very open about it and I don’t see that I should tell anyone about it. Its his life as he says. They might get caught one day and he’ll spend a bit more time in prison and come out again. And its being his life – its enshrined in Law – so long as you aren’t doing stuff like trashing a trailer or battering a load of policemen or spitting kicking nurses – you can pretty much get on with doing whatever you like to your brain. This is what we agreed in the end – so at least the boundaries are clear, which helps. To my surprise if stuff like previously happens again he says his Ma or me, or people in the compound can call the police to come and take him away.

Hospital, section, more than likely seclusion, medication, home.

“I’ll take me chances”, he said. “I do what I do Tarquin…I don’t know no other way like”.

I keep asking the team to agree to me discharging him but they won’t allow it. They just repeat the same thing: we are the right team for him. He might go lala all over again and do something serious. Then we’d be up shit creek. Imagine if he was off his tree and killed someone. The press would possibly be on it like a rash, or he might kill someone of no significance to them. Its a gamble really. And people who have met him, other than me, don’t fancy the odds so much. So we play it safe. And I have this potential time bomb on my caseload and responsibility to check he’s not going off the rails for another two years yet.

So I do it. He’s not difficult. I’ve got plenty others who give me the runaround and are less content with me intruding on their lives. He’s sacked me for the last two months but he’ll be back. His Ma will call me or someone else asking why I’ve not been by. And I’ll ask if he wants me to and they’ll shout to him and he’ll say, “ah, go on then, tell the lad he can come over…” Two months is the longest so far. I’m partly hoping he disengages altogether, partly miss going to see the guy. I can honestly say there has not been one visit with him that has not been interesting, if not unnervingly unpredictable. And despite his manner, I do find him funny. He comes out with some real one liners. People like him. He’s brash, single minded, stubborn, insulting, probably somewhat sociopathic; but people do. He does look out for his own as he says. You can sit there for an entire half hour of life according to Dappy, and then, out the blue, a sudden deep insight, a true story where he has shown real humanity and he’ll pause, draw on a smoke, and wink.

“Well now Tarquin, I’m not a total cunt now am I?”

I guess I don’t push too hard to get rid of him as I actually like him somewhat. In some way I do find it fascinating to speak with him and at the same time every time its a real ballache. And I have to psyche myself up to go listen to him for an hour and make sure he’s not gaga.

I wouldn’t be allowed to anyway as I said. I don’t have enough influence, though I could make a stronger case for it there’s no doubt. Recycle the management speak and fire it back at them – resources, manpower, thresholds, criteria, blah blah…

But I just don’t have the feeling this guy it as dangerous as people think. I just can’t see him hurting a complete stranger or anyone on the compound too badly. And the people on the compound would only get hurt by getting in his way. They would just need to call the police and Dappy would have another ruck with the boys in blue. I could be wrong, and have been in the past once or twice, which is a scary thought for you I guess but a contingency well prepared for in my documentation. Water tight I’d say, believe me. You have to in this game. Even when you’ve been in it as long as me, people will still surprise you, more often than you can ever predict despite decades of experience. Maybe he would end up in prison for assaulting an officer, best case scenario? That would be down to us – would we say he was mad if he does it? That’s not as simple as it sounds. You would think yes, given we won’t discharge him. But the prospect of time in the clink and therefore a safe discharge would I think sway the outcome. Unless I say no, he was definitely bonkers and argue his case. Which I don’t know what I would do right now. No one else goes to see him but the doctor once or twice as he has to. It’s only me he will see – when he wants to – and I’ve got to admit its another way of getting him to see me. We both know, but haven’t said, it would definitely help if he loses it and I was there to write a report saying, in my opinion, one way or the other. So we kind of have some ground rules – undocumented certainly, unstated even, but tacitly understood on both sides and we see what happens.

He knows maybe deep down? Who can say.

Now, let’s get to it. You probably want to know what happened to Dappy when he arrived at the hospital. I would. I wouldn’t blame you. I’ve read the notes. I was even doing a cheeky bank shift on the ward next door the day he came in and had to stand around as back up for one hour of my shift to support the guys on PICU – Psychiatric Intensive Care Unit. I wasn’t required to do anything or get involved really. The police walked him in kicking and screaming, cuffed, straight into the seclusion room, uncuffed him, put him in a hold and door at the ready, scarpered out. The door closed just in time as he slammed himself against the mostly unbreakable doors. And there he was, on section, in isolation.

You would think that would be it. But the system creates its own problems in cases like this. Here is a man completely out of control but he is on a police section and so he cannot be held there or more than 24 hours. He has to be assessed further – as it this were needed – by no less than three people of sufficient training. Now I’ve read that assessment but here the actual narrative of things have to come to an end. Its the big C. Confidentiality. Dappy says no. You can’t know anything more as he says so. By Law its his business so that’s that as far as real events go. I can’t tell you anymore – this is the edited piece and Dappy has vetoed it. What goes on in a PICU will have to remain secret. If you really want to know you could go work there. Go through the rigmarole of governmental HR processes and I reckon you would get to see in about six months. If they think you’d be up to it.

Suffice to say, if there were such an assessment of a man in a room with nothing in it, it would either be intriguing reading or a formality with professional buzzwords dotted all over it. It would contain either a fascinating insight into where the mind can travel, or it would be brief, concise set of paragraphs legally bound in clinical speak as an open and shut case.

Section 2: 28 days in hospital against your will. For assessment. Or until your psychiatrist says you can leave. Whichever comes first.

That’s what I imagine would be the two most likely ways things would have gone but I can’t say which. Its Dappy’s business. If you really want to know you can go and ask him if you like. He might entertain you. If you get him on a certain day, in a particular mood. If you could find him. If you came across him by chance as you go about your life and realised he was him and you mustered the courage, which would be at your own risk, to ask him for more details. He might tell you to fuck off. He might get paranoid on you and make you wish you hadn’t asked. He might decide to punch you in the face for asking. Or he might tell you more. You would have more chance if you found him in a pub, well oiled, but not so much that he’s on the verge of imminent violence. And then he might, might now, give you a true insight into what it’s like to be truly psychotic, unhinged, untethered from reality; if only for 48 hours. I would imagine he’s want paying for it. Just saying. I’m not going to tell you. I can’t and wouldn’t want to, truth be told. It’s his story. His life, as he says.

So what about this book? What has all these words been for? Why has an NHS Trust decided to compile a series of recovery stories from willing participants of their services fifteen years too late? It was fifteen years ago a number of trusts did this! Well, I don’t know, truth be told. It’s the brainchild of someone, in some office, somewhere. Maybe they are young enough to not realise they are reinventing the wheel? That happens quite a lot. Or they just love the idea and have enough vision to make it happen. Enough vigour to ensure they remain doing so – their reason to exist in this small part of the NHS. Some place in an office not so far away most likely, firing off emails, making it happen. Somewhere.

A load of trusts collected accounts from patient’s recovering from psychosis and published them on a wave of Recovery Principles hoiked from some Addiction service in the US. Go look it up. They’re interesting, inspiring, as they are meant to be. They are fascinating reading if you are interested in that sort of thing. But no one has put out a publication like that for years. Its like a kind of time warp. Things repeat themselves if you are around long enough.

I’ve got people I work with who’s recovery stories are amazing. From the depths of unreal pain. Madness and back again. People who have really pushed through adversity to get themselves better.

Stories, I would say, that are more worthy of your attention than this one. But then neither of us had any choice which person from my caseload got selected for this.

Probably some diversity quota or something.