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Chapter 9

My dream goes something like this:

Good Friday in a detox ward somewhere. The sweet, metallic smell of Wattie's canned spaghetti.

A pathetically sweaty Greek gangster has the bed next to mine. 'I'm shaking like a jelly over here.'

'Just hang tough,' I tell him.

'When's our next medication due?'

'God knows.'

'I can feel some kind of seizure coming on. I've wrought some fucking havoc in me time, but I don't deserve this.'

'What goes up must come down. Or something.'

'Them Nazis out the nursing station—the filph is toffs compared!'

My dead but ageless father appears. Suit and tie, hair parted wetly, familiar gold ring. 'I've always liked this town. Denny Mahon and I were stationed here during the early part of the war. I thought I'd take the bus out to the old aerodrome, have a look around.'

'Do that, Dad.'

'Will I see you at all, you know, when you grow up? Will there be a number I can ring?'

Dr Mephisto is next. Earring, three days' growth, soap-scented hands. (What do they want with me, these attractive young men?) 'Your pancreas is inflamed. Likewise your already fatty liver.'

'No kidding.'

'Ever had a shot of benzoethylcryptotriplicate?'

' No.'

'Hurts like hell, believe me. What are your thoughts on Dreiser?'

'I've never read him. The last ten minutes of Carrie were terrific.'

'You're referring to the William Wyler film?'

'With Laurence Olivier, yes. With Laurence Olivier being utterly tragic.'

'I put it to you that Don DeLillo is not the totally groovy, funky and together, hip wizard seer you think he is.'

'He's merely very good. Is what I think.'

'Don DeLillo sucks. Ditto Bruno Swan and Tartan Revolver. I'm tempted to reach for the hurty stuff.'