C~Chapter two

The great thing about being a narrator is, you can gloss over a
whole load of unnecessary slop and get straight to the juice.

I know you won't be interested in anything Jim does between now and
when he has his next interesting episode. There are those who would
mould in a little more feel-for-the-everyday, for reasons of "pace". I
say, yawn. I say, bollocks to that. I can't risk you putting this down
and picking up something by Nick Hornby. And, for Christ's sake, I have
to compete with more than a few authors these days: the internet,
digital television, DVDs; they're all kicking me in the balls.

When it comes to dramatic narrative, I have to use my judgement a bit
more. I'm guessing you're a little curious about Jim's implied mental
problems. As such, I'll give you a quick S.P.

About five years ago, Jim went to his G.P. to tell her that he wanted
to kill himself. The doctor scoffed at the idea of psychiatric help,
and prescribed anti-depressants (the brand of which was advertised on
stationary around the practice.) They took a while to kick in. Their
effect was subtle. He was also allowed diazepam for sleeplessness; a
coup for someone of his age and gender. Their effect was
unsubtle.

On tablets, off tablets, he has been prone to short periods of going
into social hiding. They do not appear to follow any pattern; though
Jim, flailing around in the dark for logic, will blame a job; or the
lack of one.

The slam of two doors is still ringing in Jim's ears as, five weeks on
from where we saw him last, he is drinking gin and tonic and smoking a
cigarette on his terracotta sofa. His eyes flick from Paramount Comedy,
to the window (a more engaging oversized television screen) and Kelly's
purposeful stomp towards her car. And back again.

"I think she's right."

Oh, by the way - this a voice in Jim's head.

With comic suspicion, Jim turns this way and that; reminiscent of a
child ham-acting in order to deflect blame.

"I definitely think you are drinking too much at the moment. Yeah,
Kelly's right. You should listen to me, guy. I should totally know
about this stuff."

"Where are you?"

"I'm in your head, asshole. Haven't you worked that out yet?
Jeeeez."

The accent is female and American. He has a female American accent in
his head. It has a brattish twang that seems familiar.

"Listen," Jim frowns, "what makes you say I drink too much. I
don't..."

"Whooah there, thirsty boy, hold it with the denials. Save them for
A.A. meetings, if you ever make it that far. How many units you think
you put on the clock in the past week, anyhow?"

"Dunno. Twenty-five?"

"Tsk tsk. Lying to a goddamn voice in your head. I don't think we've
made it to step one, huh."

Jim's body language is exuding fear. But you don't need to see that, as
I can confirm that he feels very scared. He says nothing, in the hope
that the voice is reliant on dialogue.

"And another thing" - the voice again - "that girl has made plenty of
sacrifices for you. The only thing she asks is that you don't smoke in
the same room as her."

"But it's my house!"

"You take her for granted don't you?"

"Um..."

"She's such a nice, good person. She's so right for you. She's so right
for anyone, man. What are you going to do without her? Oh let me guess:
spiral back down into the black dog, right? Drink to...what...forget
this time? You want an excuse for being a feckless lush?"

"No...I...erm..."

"Just think. You might find out you actually genuinely miss her. You
might find you get more than you bargained for: a real depression, man,
none of this pussy shit you've had til now. She means something to you.
She's your best chance. Of course, you know this already."

This is still the voice, as Jim picks up his Nokia: "That's right.
Menu. Phone book. Search. 5-key twice. K for Kelly. Arrow-down key til
you see 'Kelly mob'. Call."

Jim thumbs the action key and puts the phone to his ear.

"That's the way. That's all you gotta do to get rid of me."

"Kelly, I'm sorry. Please come back," says Jim.

"For now," says the voice.