Chapter 6

"Does she make you write in a journal?" Arthur stubbed out his latest cigarette. "Dr Kane?"

"She asked me to, yes. It was my first appointment."

"She doesn't understand mine. I use it for a lot of things. I write my thoughts in it, and jokes when I think of them. I'm going to be a stand-up comedian." Arthur's face brightened as he told me this. "I'm a party clown. You saw me, right? Outside the music store?"

"Yes."

"I work for Ha-Ha's Entertainment. I do all different stuff. Mostly I get gigs at parties or at the children's hospital."

"You enjoy it?" I couldn't imagine him entertaining the masses. He seemed so introverted and lacking in confidence.

"I love it. I love making people smile. My mother always used to say I was put on earth to bring joy and laughter to the world. She calls me Happy. But I'm not. I've never had one day in my entire life when I was happy. Only little bits of days, when I make kids smile and laugh." He shook his head. "Sorry."

"It's okay. I asked if you wanted to talk."

Arthur laughed wildly, then cut it off in an instant. "You did, didn't you? I don't think you knew what you were letting yourself in for. We only just met and here I am, dumping my shit on you."

"I don't mind."

"Don't you want to talk?" Arthur's brow wrinkled. "You're seeing Dr Kane too, and you've been in Arkham. I can listen, too."

"You don't want to hear about my issues." I sucked on my cigarette, burning it down to the filter.

"It might take my mind off my own."

I tried to think of something I could tell him, without dragging up the stuff I didn't want to face, or the things that would probably make him throw me out and lock the door behind me. That didn't leave much.

"My father disowned me when I was a kid," I said eventually. "I haven't seen him since I was seventeen, and he died while I was in Arkham. I guess there were some unresolved issues, but he left me some money at least. Enough to buy a car and set myself up as a taxi driver."

"I'm sorry," Arthur said. "What about your mother?"

"Um—" I helped myself to another cigarette and lit it from the smouldering butt. "She left us. My dad brought me up on his own from when I was about ten."

"That's rough. Did your dad live around here?"

"No, we lived in New York."

"Of course. You said you were from New York. But they sent you to Arkham?"

"Yeah, the nuthouses in New York were full." I laughed hollowly.

"Do you have, um, schizophrenia?"

"Not that I know of." I choked on my latest lungful of smoke.

"I'm sorry, it's just—" Arthur shook his head. "My mother has that. She spent a lot of years in Arkham. Twenty, I think. I was too young to remember when they took her away. I think she's why I'm the way I am. I must have inherited it. I have to take seven different medications. Anti-depressants, anti-psychotics, stuff like that."

"Depression sucks."

Arthur met my gaze. "Yes, it does. Do you take the same meds?"

"Only two, but yeah. Anti-depressants and some shit to help me sleep, that I may as well not bother with. I have insomnia. The pills don't really help with that."

"Most pills don't help that much. They just take the edge off." Arthur lit another cigarette. Only a couple were left in the pack. "I've asked Dr Kane if she can get my dosage increased, but she says I already take the maximum allowable. I thought about taking more of some of them, but then I'd run out before my prescription is due."

"How long have you been seeing Dr Kane?" I asked him.

He shrugged one shoulder. "A few months. She replaced the last one I was seeing. There have been a few. None of them last that long. I don't suppose the city service pays well."

"Probably not."

"Have you always been a taxi driver?" Arthur changed the subject abruptly.

"Not always. I did it for about three years in New York."

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-one."

"So, what did you do before that?"

"I was in the marines."

"Oh! Tough guy, huh?" Arthur smiled.

"Not really." An image of Gerry's body, broken and bloody, flashed into my mind. I flinched away from it, shut it away again behind the door in my head. "Look, I should probably leave you to it." I got to my feet and faked a yawn. "I took one of those sleeping pills a while ago. Feels like it might be kicking in for once."

"Oh, sure. Of course. Sorry." Arthur stood too. "Thanks for coming over. It helped, having someone to talk to. I don't have any friends. My work mates think I'm a freak and Sophie, down the hall in 8B? I think she's scared of me."

"She's scared of me, too." I grinned and indicated the mohawk. "Take care, Arthur. I'll see you around."

I let myself out, slowly as I had to release the chain and unlock the door. Arthur stood behind me, waiting until I stepped out into the corridor. Then he quietly closed the door and locked and chained it up again.

I returned to my apartment, jittery and tense. The conversation had brought up some memories that were best forgotten, and I'd thought I'd shut away that image, but it was pounding on the door in my head, determined to get to me.

I'd lied when I told Arthur I'd taken a sleeping pill, but now I swallowed two, and washed them down with the remains of the beer I'd left behind. Then I went to bed.

As usual, sleep eluded me at first, but the double dose of sleeping pills eventually pulled me under. When I woke from the throes of a nightmare with sweat-dampened sheets tangled around my body, I wished I hadn't taken the damn pills. I crawled out of bed and went to the bathroom to get a drink of water. My throat ached, probably from chain-smoking. My first time smoking in five years and I'd smoked several from my own pack and half of Arthur's.

I gulped the water, then made coffee and lit another cigarette. Five minutes later I was writing in my journal again—my personal one.

"Not sure I should pursue this friendship with Arthur. Part of me wants to. He seems like a nice guy and he said talking to me helped him. But I say things I don't mean to. If I tell him everything that happened, he may not handle it well. Maybe it'll make things worse for him. He may go back to being scared of me. Or maybe what I'm worried about is that I may not handle it well. I don't want to talk about it, because then I'll have to remember every little detail."

I tossed the notebook aside. Now I'd made myself think about it. I switched on the TV and flicked through the channels in the hopes of finding one that was still broadcasting. A horror movie was showing—something with Boris Karloff. I began watching, and several hours later I woke, huddled on the couch in broad daylight, stiff and cold.

I made more coffee, took a bath, and smoked the rest of the pack of cigarettes. My head pounded with the after-effects of the pills and the shitty night. I made myself eat some cereal, took my anti-depressants, and went for a walk.

The next few days slipped by in a kind of routine. I worked every night, up until three or four in the morning on Friday and Saturday when the clubs were spilling out at closing time and the streets were crawling with drunken revellers trying to get home. The money mounted up and I stashed it in a metal box under my bed, rather than take it to the bank. I bought a few more clothes and a radio, filled the fridge with beer, and stocked up on cigarettes. After that first day, I quickly got back into the habit of smoking, but I stuck with half a pack a day.

On Sunday I gave the double dose of sleeping pills another try. I was exhausted, gritty-eyed and bad-tempered. If I could just sleep for even five or six hours, I'd feel better. It worked to the extent that the pills knocked me out and kept me under for most of the night, but I woke from another horrific dream, sweating, panicking, and much to my shame, crying. I flushed the rest of the sleeping pills down the toilet. I'd rather feel crap from lack of sleep than go through this anymore.

I hadn't seen anything of Arthur or Sophie. I actively avoided Arthur, by checking the corridor before I left my apartment, then slipping out as fast as possible and diving down the stairs instead of waiting for the lift. It was stupid and childish, and it made me angry with myself. I avoided him for my own selfish reasons, even though part of me wanted to see him.

Tuesday, I went to see Dr Kane. As I sat in the waiting room, flicking the pages of my journal as I waited impatiently for my appointment, her office door opened, and Arthur came out. Clearly, he had an earlier appointment this week.

"Travis. Hello." He hovered in front of me, nervously twisting his notebook in his hands.

"Hey. How's it going?"

"I, um, I haven't seen you—"

"Travis Bickle!" Dr Kane called out.

"Sorry. I, um, I'd better—" I jumped up and hurried into her office. I was an idiot, I told myself. I should talk to him. He probably thought I was avoiding him.

"Travis, how have you been?" the doctor asked.

"Okay."

"You brought your journal?"

"Yeah."

"May I see it?"

I placed it on the desk and pushed it towards her. She flicked through the three or four pages I'd filled and read bits here and there.

"You don't write much about your feelings. It's important to put down how things affect you. You mention here you spent some time with one of your neighbours, but you don't say anything about what you talked about or what you think of him. Could he be a potential friend? Someone you can talk to when you need someone?"

I shrugged. "I haven't seen him since."

"Why is that?"

"Busy, I guess."

"How is your work going?"

"It's okay. I'm making enough to pay my bills."

The rest of the meeting followed a similar pattern to the first one. Dr Kane questioned me, and I said as little as I could get away with. I didn't want to talk to her. I wanted to talk to Arthur, and I'd pretty much shunned him.

I left the building in a worse mood than when I'd arrived, and wondered yet again what the point of it all was. I had to see the doctor to get my medication, but neither the meetings nor the pills did much good. Perhaps it was a waste of my time and hers.