Chapter 8

"They tell me I have PTSD," I said.

"What's that?" Arthur withdrew his hand and took another cigarette.

"Post traumatic stress disorder. It's only just been officially recognised, but the doctors I saw after Vietnam talked about it."

"Do you have nightmares about what happened?"

"Yeah, when I take more than one sleeping pill and actually sleep." I shuddered.

"I heard you screaming," Arthur whispered.

"Fuck." Heat rushed into my face.

"Don't be embarrassed about it. I can't imagine how awful it must be, having to live with memories like that. Is that why you were in Arkham?"

"No. Let's not go there right now. I think I've said enough for one day."

Arthur nodded.

"I'm sorry I dumped all that shit on you. I didn't mean to."

"I asked. Did it help?"

"Not yet." I lit another cigarette from the butt of the current one, struggling to connect the two with my shaking hands.

"Did you tell Dr Kane about it?"

"No, but I'm sure she knows from my file. It's about this thick." I held up finger and thumb a couple of inches apart.

"So is mine." Arthur smiled. "I often wonder what's in it. I'm sure most of it must be really boring. I never have anything to say."

"Or maybe you just don't have anything to say that you want to talk to her about."

"That's mostly it. I told her about my plan to be a stand-up comedian, and she thought it was a daydream. She doesn't think I'm capable of doing anything like that. Maybe she's right. I'd probably have one of my episodes on stage and everyone would laugh, but they'd be laughing at the freak, not laughing because I tell good jokes."

"Can you tell me a joke?" Anything to stop thinking again.

"Um—" Arthur thought for a moment. "Okay, here's one. Did you hear about the blind man who bled to death trying to read a cheese grater?"

I snorted smoke out of my nose. "That's funny, Arthur."

"You think so? I write them in my journal. I don't think Dr Kane finds them funny."

"She looks like the kind of person who wouldn't find anything funny. You want some more coffee?"

Arthur looked at the cheap plastic watch he wore. "Um, I'd like to, but I have a gig this afternoon. I'm sorry."

"That's okay. I have to work later, too." I got up and followed him to the door. "Thanks. I feel like a jerk for saying all that stuff, but maybe I needed to say it."

Arthur smiled. "If it helped, then I'm glad. Usually, I'm no use to anyone."

"Well, I think you're great." I grinned. "See you around, Arthur."

I thought about him for the rest of the day, while I was staring at the TV screen and not watching it; when I was waiting for fares outside the cinema; later when I went to bed and didn't sleep. He had severe problems of his own, and yet he listened to all my shit, and cared. I still felt embarrassed that he heard me screaming, to the extent where I didn't take even one sleeping pill, and I stayed up, sitting on the couch until exhaustion knocked me out. I slept about two hours and woke with a stiff neck and a headache. Then I smoked, gulped coffee, and popped painkillers and anti-depressants.

Eventually, I made myself think about Gerry. Strangely, it didn't hurt so much. I felt lighter for having shared with someone who just listened, rather than analysing every word that came out of my mouth and issuing medication to try and fix it. Even feeling like this, I didn't want to sleep. I still feared I'd dream.

I didn't go to bed and sleep properly until Friday, and then it was only after I almost fell asleep at the wheel. I'd dropped off a couple of girls I'd picked up outside a club, and was driving back to collect more stragglers, when my eyelids fell and the car swerved to the left. I quickly parked, got out into the cold, and lit a cigarette. Then I called it a night and went home.

It was past two o'clock when I necked a couple of sleeping pills and washed them down with beer, hoping to completely knock myself out. Then I had a quick wash, cleaned my teeth, and got into bed. I slipped away almost immediately my head hit the pillow.

I catapulted out of the nightmare to the sound of banging. Gasping for breath, I tossed the sheets aside and sat up. My T-shirt and boxers clung damply to my sweaty body, and my heart raced. I felt sick as I realised that talking to Arthur hadn't been a magic fix after all. It felt better at the time, but it didn't chase the dreams away.

"Travis!" His voice was accompanied by more loud knocking on my door.

Shit. I must have been screaming again. I staggered to the door and unlocked it. Arthur stood outside wearing blue pyjama pants and a white T-shirt, his hair tangled and face anxious. Hell knew what I looked like.

"Arthur, what are you—?" My words trailed off as he stepped forward and slid his arms around me. After a brief hesitation, I pulled him inside, closed the door, and sank into his embrace. He felt so good—warm and comforting, with a faint smell of smoke and some kind of musky cologne. I pressed my face into his hair and breathed in. We stood there, hugging each other, my racing pulse gradually slowing, Arthur's hand stroking up and down the middle of my back.

I realised then just how thin he was. Every bone in his body seemed to be pushing against his skin—ribs, hips, shoulder blades, everything. He felt like a starving man, and it horrified me. I loosened my hold on him and took a step back.

"Are you okay?" he whispered.

"Yeah. I'm sorry I disturbed you." I looked him up and down, then met his eyes.

He flushed scarlet. "What?"

"You're too thin. Don't you eat?"

He backed away until he bumped into the door. "I have an issue with food. Don't ask me about it now. I came to help you."

"Well, I'm fine. Thanks, but I just feel like a fucking fool." I ran a hand over my mohawk, grimacing now the remnants of the dream had faded.

"You shouldn't. It must have been hell."

"Yeah. I felt better, the other day. I suppose I thought it would all magically go away, just because I told you some stuff. Don't get me wrong—I do feel better. But apparently I still dream." I yawned. "What time is it?"

"Just after four."

"Shit."

"You should try and sleep some more. I'll, um, I'll just—" He turned to open the door.

I opened my mouth to say… what? Stay? Stay with me? Then I shut it and told myself not to be an idiot. "Goodnight, Arthur," I said instead. When he closed the door behind him, I went back to bed.

I didn't think I'd sleep again, despite being so tired. I couldn't get the image of his skeletal appearance out of my head. Nor could I forget the feel of his body against mine. It had meant to be in comfort and that's what I got out of it at the time, but now I felt something else. It had been so long since I'd had anyone that close to me—years. If only the circumstances had been different. I imagined him in my arms some other time, our bodies pressed together, my tongue sliding between his full lips to taste him, his gorgeous green eyes closing with pleasure.

I would have got hard if I hadn't been so completely wiped out from lack of sleep, and the pills and beer. Instead, I slipped into unconsciousness again, and this time I didn't dream. I slept until after ten and for the first time in as long as I could remember, I got up feeling refreshed.

I ate a late breakfast and drove down to the market to get some groceries. I bought a couple of new shirts from one of the clothes stalls, too—one blue check, and one yellow with fancy stitching of the same colour in it. When I got home, I put the blue one on and went to knock on Arthur's door. I had the idea of asking him to have some dinner with me, but he didn't answer the door. I rolled my eyes at myself, getting dressed up for him when it was one in the afternoon and he was obviously out working. Or maybe he was at the hospital with his mother. My disappointment was out of proportion with what had happened.

I went back to my apartment, switched on the TV, and lit a cigarette. As I watched crappy daytime shows, I tried not to think too much about Arthur, but I couldn't get him out of my mind. I strained my ears for the sound of his door to indicate he was home, but I heard nothing. Not until a sudden wild laugh came through the wall. I jumped up and switched off the television. The laughter continued, loud and hysterical, interspersed with thumping sounds.

Seconds later, I was at his door, knocking and calling in vain. "Arthur!"

The only response was more laughing and another bang. I tried the door, and much to my relief, it wasn't locked. I slipped inside, just in time to see Arthur smash his forehead into the wall, hard enough to make a picture hanging nearby shake on its hook. He followed it up with another screech of laughter that went on and on, until he was left choking and gasping for breath.

"Christ, Arthur, what happened?" I reached him before he could headbutt the wall again, and gripped his shoulders. His eyes were wide and unfocussed, and tears spilled over. A soft, painful whimper left him, then another bark of laughter. I tugged him against me. He had helped me when I needed it, and now, he clearly needed the same. "Shh, it's okay."

"Travis," he gasped.

"Yeah. It's me. I'm here." I held him tight, crushing his thin body against mine. After a moment, he slid his arms around me and held on tight.

"Travis," he repeated.

"Yeah. It's okay."

He pressed his face against my shoulder, his tears soaking into my new shirt. His whole body shook, and he clutched at me as if he were a drowning man and I was a piece of driftwood. He couldn't even speak, except to say my name. All I could do was hold him and hope that it helped in some small way.