It seemed that this Friday in court contrived to drive him to distraction to a point almost more than he could bear, especially when Neumann Mason-Alan was at his clumsiest and Brian Cantwell at his pushiest. Both of them had tenaciously locked horns with each other and only his periodic interventions, delivered in the weariest, most fed up tones, dragged the progress of the trial back on track for the unpteenth time. He was aware that he was being more scathing than normal but, then again, he felt compelled to give vent to his feelings, which were churning away at the depths of him while his very bored mind kept easy pace with the progress of the trial. The matter of the crime was a commonplace enough murder, if such a tragedy could ever be described in such a blasé fashion. The man in the dock had his eyes cast down the whole time and, to him, the process of law might appear to drone on to its predestined conclusion of a custodial sentence, the only question being, how long. The main players in this trial were all male and it was at times like these that he felt as if they were transported back in time to their long ago schooldays. Only the occasional glance at the twelve ordinary members of the jury and the accused kept him to the point of the trial and to keep within bounds.
"Court is adjourned till Monday morning when I shall give my summing up."
He couldn't wait to walk out of the door at the back of the court to his chambers so that he could relax in his favourite armchair and click on his Vivaldi CD. He yearned for the music, which lost him in a reassuring ordered world. As he paced the corridor, a suspicion edged its way into his mind that he was in a black mood, which had expanded the merely mildly tedious into something more than his spirit could endure. His eyes stared vacantly into space as he lay back and heard the music play. He barely heard Coope say goodbye in that concerned tone of voice, which a portion of his mind replied to in his unfailing courtesy to her. He was so lost in his own thoughts that he had not noticed that the room was silent, as the CD had finished. That again, was unusual.
As he restored the shiny disc to its case, a stray thought struck him. This was becoming more and more common as in days gone past, he had not gone in for any great periods of introspection as he had always prided himself that his flexible and quick-witted mind could seek out what he needed. It was this that gave him the confidence that he could deal with anything that life threw at him and keep him on the right track. He had made the well-reasoned decision to seek therapy after that catastrophic night at the Conference, which had brutally derailed him from one of his deepest certainties as to himself. From then on, he had been being assailed by thoughts that popped up out of nowhere, long forgotten memories, anything. He wondered if in seeking therapy, he had jumped out of the frying pan into the fire - that seemed a fair description of that gruelling meeting with Helen.
What was it he had said, as the words were wrung out of him, stretched tight upon the rack?
"I need to feel loved, being physically close to someone, getting to know every inch of her body, and giving her as much pleasure as is humanly possible, is really the only way I can understand that feeling, or at least the pretense of that feeling. With Jo and George, making love is the only way I can show them I love them, and the only way I can believe that they love me. With a stranger, it just for a while, allows me to feel loved, even if I'm not"
Why had Helen just abandoned him at that point when he had painfully and laid himself out for all to see, including himself. Those words were hardly the actions of the debonair, man of the world as he had liked to consider that he was?
He lunged desperately at something that would save him, anything and, galloping to the rescue like Roy Rogers riding Trigger in his beloved cowboy films was the memory of that extraordinary dream he had had on Tuesday night. It was not a habit of him to dream or, at least, not that he could recall. He usually had the occasional recollection of a vague multitude of assorted thoughts that had crossed his mind but they escaped his memory at the precise moment that he woke up. This one was different. He had to smile to himself at that most whimsical and incongruous memory, which was like nothing, he had ever encountered before. The idea of him performing the most spectacular practical joke on the very politicians who were dragging the ancient liberties of this country through the mud was so appealing, so enticing. These men of straw were only the older versions of the most arrogant prefects of the public school, complete. They gave their orders so imperiously while those craven, shameless self-seeking underlings like Sir Ian and Lawrence James did their bidding. John shook his head in bemusement. It was one thing to listen to a Black Sabbath CD with his daughter Charlie. It was quite another to perform such glorious barbarously unrestrained music up on stage. What was savage and unrestrained ripped apart the constraining proprieties that bound him in that he had grown up with all his life and was somehow righteous, most holy and blessed. Regrettably, it was a pipe dream but it had left him feeling refreshed, mentally invigorated when he had woken up the next day. It had made him feel good about himself, satisfied with himself to the depths of his soul. It was something he needed more than he had ever suspected. He needed to feel validated more than he had ever suspected, whether lying in the soft arms of the woman of his dreams, striking off the fetters of injustice with one blow of his most finely tuned words. Yes, and he added to the list, being transported to a better, finer world by the power of music either by Vivaldi or, smiling to himself, by being Eric Clapton.
Somehow, everything he had ever done had slid downhill to a deflated, flat feeling at the end of the day. By some process he was unaware, he returned to the surroundings of the present from that mysterious alternative universe where he was lost in thoughts, saw that the room had descended into the sort of gloom to match his mood, looked at his watch and realized it was late. He had to go elsewhere.
As he drove in his car, he knew not where the words he had spoken to George popped into his mind, 'Even though I'm going through a midlife crisis?' Those words were treacherous. He had heard the expression but never in his remotest imaginings did he ever think that those words had ever applied to him or would they ever. He felt in the prime of his life, fit as a fiddle, mentally alert, devastatingly attractive to women and like a fine wine, one that improved with age. That night that he had slept with George was an enormous blow to his self-esteem and, much though George had tried to reassure him, it didn't feel real to him. The frustrating part of having Helen as his psychiatrist, he cursed himself as he violently grated his change of gear upwards from second up to third, was that he was forced to deal with her as another intellect, one who was very steely and resolute in her purpose and one who could not be brushed aside or deflected. Up till then, she was the very friendly, vivacious woman who accompanied her partner, Nikki. All right, he admitted to himself, he liked being at the center, the focus of a variety of charming, beautiful women and was forced to consider that his admiration for the Larkhall women was not wholly platonic. What man was really different from him except a monk? It was that fortune gave him more scope, more talent and opportunity? So why did Helen make such a beeline for that particular topic?
He had driven some miles until he realized that he was unconsciously heading for Jo's flat. Oh well, let Jo be his destiny tonight. He had not talked to her properly for some time. Instinct told him that he needed her soothing, gentle quality right now.
Inside her flat, Jo was washing the pots from the meal she had cooked and heard the insistent bleep from her mobile.
"It's John," Came the very weary voice. "Can I come and see you tonight"
Jo knew instinctively that John wanted comfort more than words. Her time was her own and evening television was totally uninspiring.
"I thought you'd changed your mind about coming over and had other plans," She enquired in a reserved tone of voice.
"Making alternative plans is something I do not have the particular inclination for, personal or private"
"Where are you right now"
"Parked in my car nearly opposite your house. I don't know how I got here"
Jo pricked up her ears. He had pulled this trick before but he had never owned up as to where he was phoning from. This was a novelty.
"You'd better come in," she answered with more warmth than before.
A very weary John made his uncertain way through her front door. He blinked at the cosy domesticity of her very familiar flat. It ought to have felt familiar but nothing seemed familiar, least of all him.
"Take the weight off your feet and I'll pour you a drink," She offered.
"You had better make it a strong one," He sighed.
Jo raised her eyebrows with concern.
"Tell me what the problem's been?" Jo's soothing voice urged.
"Is there a problem?" John instantly countered with the last dregs of that combative spirit of his.
One steady knowing look from Jo immediately answered him and he shrugged his shoulders and surrendered as he virtually collapsed into a chair. In the meantime. Jo poured a slightly larger measure than he was used to which he drained in a gulp. This was certainly not like the normally temperate, abstemious John, that is abstemious except for one prominent aspect of his person.
"Have you had as rough a week as you've dished it out to others?" Jo enquired in a friendly tone.
"Have I really been that bad"
Jo smiled at the very down in the dumps John whose reply was more of a sigh than the instant verbal parry which he was so good at, in and out of court.
"From what I've heard you probably have and this has not come from your obvious enemies"
Even in his present state of mind, John immediately produced a shortlist of two, George or Coope or both. He dismissed the likes of Brian Cantwell and Neumann Mason-Alan as possible informants as colleagues whose word Jo would be reluctant to take what they said on face value.
"I probably have been as difficult and unbearable as they say," John said with a sigh.
Again, Jo wondered how untypical it was of him to go in for self-criticism so easily.
"I've had a few bad weeks of it. Can't explain it. It just sometimes happens that the sort of day to day inconveniences assume the size of a major irritation or source of depression"
John really isn't talking at all about something major that is really troubling him so she decided to lighten the conversation.
"I haven't seen much of you, not since the conference. You aren't telling me that you are finding it hard to keep up with your harem of demanding women?" Jo said with a smirk, fully expecting him to laugh heartily at the little jest
Instantly, the expression on John's face was blank, as if a shutter had descended in front of him, utterly shutting her out. This really worried Jo.
"I'm sorry, John. I must have said the wrong thing. It's not just the obvious like sex, it's just that I've missed you being around here. This place feels incomplete without you"
"You can't be serious?" John asked, the expression on his face brightening with hope. His ego really needed a boost like that right now and he saw his way in to have the comfort of Jo's soft arms to settle him to sleep without the sexual ecstasy that accompanied it. An absurd train of thought, one of many these days, found it absurd to describe a night of passionate sex with a woman as 'sleeping with' her when it involved most of the night doing anything but that.
"Even if you're down in the dumps, fifty percent of John Deed is worth more than one hundred per cent of any other man than I've met in my life."
A light looked as it was switched on in John's mind at that utterly sincere compliment from Jo, one of his dearest friends. It started to seep through the solid layer of negative feelings. He stepped forward and slid his arms around Jo and nestled his head on her shoulder. Jo instantly detected only his need for simple human affection from her. The low lights in the flat bathed them in simple intimacy.
A little while later, Jo refilled John's glass with a more generous measure, certainly enough to make it completely impossible for him to go back home to his digs.
"Jo, this may seem an unusual request but I am really glad I've come to see you but I'm really tired. I don't think I feel at my best tonight. You can see that I'm hardly the best conversationalist, five out of ten I would give myself so I am hardly going to excel in any other way"
Jo listened as John started to meander all over the place and let him continue until he became lost for words with which to express himself.
"But you want to sleep next to me but you don't want to make love to me," Jo finished off the sentence, pertly with a hint of a smile on her face.
John blushed very slightly, something that was a first for Jo and he looked down at the floor.
"How did you guess what I meant"
"John, just how many times have women from time immemorial resorted to that line when all they want is simple human comfort but no more? There is nothing you have to apologise for, least of all to someone you knows and loves you so well"
John stared in wonder as a blinding revelation hit him and an enormous feeling of gratitude to Jo. He felt weak from the release from the tension of the day and of negotiating his delicate way to expressing the most hideously embarrassing confession of all time. An unearthly chorus of young fellow barristers, fellow students and fellow schoolboys had seemed to laugh at him in discordant harmony in his head even as he spoke. This was the hardest battle of all alongside which his worst set to with the Lord Chancellor's Department was as nothing.
"Oh well, you live and learn," John finished lightly but badly failing to sound his normal nonchalant self.