Authors: Matthew Formby
On the following day, the sky's forehead had knitted brows as in bewilderment. His wrist was now healed and Luke needed to buy some food. After he woke he wrote a list of ingredients for a minced pie recipe he found in a cookbook. He had never wanted to be the kind of person who wrote shopping lists. In the past, he had taken that sort of orderliness as a definite sign someone had grown up. Growing up had got out of fashion in this period of provocative music videos and famous celebrities acting their shoe size. Jack Dawson did not carry a shopping list on the Titanic. None of the witty, poignant youngsters on Lawson's Creek did: lists were antithetical to living spontaneously. But he had learned, as anyone sensible does in time, that all too often a theory when put to the test proves ridiculous.
As he waited at the bus stop the nerves inside him tingled. I've got to tell her, he reasoned. She is the only one who can save me. The world is coming to an end! News reports flood in about catastrophic climate change, a global recession, the richest one percent earning more money every year while everyone else's money is diminishing through inflation. She is not part of the corruption so many people are party to. I feel it, she is as refreshing as the fountain of youth and she has been sent to by an act of spiritual providence to guide me. Luke thought more of the bad news that depressed his nation and no doubt countless others.
Banks would lend for personal spending at the drop of a hat; people would buy cars, holidays and houses - but that was before the recession; yet even after it they still lent more to individuals than to businesses. It was businesses that created wealth! There were reports of millions of people trapped in debt. People losing their homes while immigration increased. Plastic bottles and food tins, scientists had found, contributed to obesity. Electronic cigarettes were about to be made available by prescription only - a sure sign they were better than regular cigarettes: manufacturers of the old school variety were losing money. Women's bras, the latest research revealed, were the biggest cause of breast cancer - but nobody wanted to believe it, particularly the fashion industry. Child abuse scandals revealed even judges and police officers to be involved in child sex rings. There was corruption and senselessness everywhere.
And there was Jolly. She rose above it all. Or at least Luke believed, hoped she did. A doubt came in his mind: was he deluding himself? Was some chemical configuration in his brain drugging his senses? But then, if such drugs naturally existed in the brain, surely he must follow his instincts. Nothing had ever felt so right. When all else was confusing, she was clear. With her help, perhaps he could see the wood from the trees - she knew things, a woman with secrets and possessing immense power and mystery.
Luke alighted from the bus at Styham, a suburban town five miles north from Woecaster, that he passed through each day on the bus. He got off at the shopping mall and walked in. The multitude of people robed in black and grey Lycra and cotton were massing into stuffy little shops. He could not live this life that slavery all but in no time. No longer! He had to tell her. His jaw trembled with apprehension and he raised his hands. He struggled to keep them steady. To calm himself he entered a shop and made a tragic error: he bought a bottle of wine. If only he had had some other recourse to instil confidence in him, but alas he was clueless. He slaked his thirst for half an hour, walking further in the direction of the city.
"I wish my old psychologist could give me some advice right about now," said Luke to himself. Before he had began seeing Michael, Luke barely had the self-belief to approach a shop assistant and ask for a product. He could not even manage to go to checkouts at all a lot of the time. Sometimes it was still an issue but it had been a constant one when he had just dropped out of school. Michael cleverly aided Luke to challenge his thoughts and did it in a supportive, rather than antagonistic way. Luke had been told by many health practitioners the worst thing a client could do was become dependent on their professional support. It was a pity because Luke would have happily been a friend of Michael's - he was educated, shared similar interests and had many qualities that are hard to find. In a future time, Luke believed the generations following his would look back on today and laugh - how could they have been so prim and proper? In just the same way as everyone laughed at television shows and adverts from the nineteen fifties in the present time. That was why Luke had a particular fondness for Star Trek: The Original Series. Though made long ago, being science fiction it was forward looking. It had a doctor that helped strangers they had met in space intimately - even sharing alcoholic drinks or playing a game of cards together was not out of the question.
Well, that was all very well and good! Dreams, all dreams. Luke lived here. And now! A feeling came to him that he must have the courage of his convictions. There was no resit for his proposal to her, this was not a test: it was reality. He dialled the number for the Samaritans. Costly or not, he needed their support. Bracing himself, he arched his back and prepared for an inevitably rude welcome. Kind people were like a needle in a haystack when he needed them. Luke wondered, is it my accent that makes people hostile? He had never liked his accent himself. Since his favourite TV shows were American he decided to perform an experiment. He would try speak to them in an American accent similar to the one of the characters on Lawson's Creek.
A man answered.
"Hello. Samaritans."
"Hi. I'm in love with a woman and I don't know what to do."
"Okay. Do you want to talk about how you feel about it?"
"I... I need to tell her but if I do it might change everything. It might ruin my life. I could lose everything."
"Why might you lose everything?"
"She works for the Health Service Ombudsman. They're supposed to be professional and impartial. If I a try to have a relationship with her it... could be perceived as trying to ruin their impartiality. But that is definitely not what it is, trust me! I am in love with her. Truly, madly and deeply."
"Have you thought about telling her how you feel?"
"Yeah, lots of times," Luke replied heavily. What an unnecessary question. Who would not have? "But I'm scared. What if it all goes wrong?"
"You don't know unless you try, do you?" replied the man, and after a few seconds added, "That's an unusual accent you have. Have you moved here from America?"
"It's a long story. I haven't got time for that. I don't think this situation is as simple as you think. I'm not very good at social skills," Luke said breathlessly. While he talked he was walking and in his drunkenness he was panting with the effort.
"Sometimes you've just got to try, haven't you? Well, do you think you'll tell her or not?"
"I think I'll have to eventually." Now Luke did not know how to end the call. He was humiliated to have ever rang really and fearing intimacy may form with this man he did not like he said at speed, "Listen, I've got to go. Sorry. Bye!"
Happening upon a newsagent's, he bought another bottle of wine and in a reverie traipsed still further towards Woecaster. In his mind, various probable outcomes flashed before him. He then, having exhausted the process of thinking to its limits, dialled Jolly's number; and having drank a deal more than usual his approach in addressing her adopted a new, brazen style.
"Hi Jolly. How are you?"
"Oh, hi Luke. I'm good, thanks. How about yourself?"
"Not so good. I feel weak all the time," he said. Knowing she would be aware he was straying from the kind of conversations ombudsman staff were endorsed to have, he rushed onwards before she could interrupt. "I haven't got the energy for anything. I went to see my doctors about it a few times - and they just didn't want to know. They wouldn't help me."
"I'm sorry to hear that. If you want, I can look into it for you. If you e-mail me the details we can investigate them here at the Ombudsman."
"Oh God no! I can't go through with all the bother of another complaint! All the waiting and the letters and not knowing where you stand. No thanks."
Jolly's eyes twinkled and anyone present would have seen a mixture of anger and pleasure in their expression. "Okay, Mr Jefferson. Was there anything else you wanted to talk about?" She asked, twirling a curl of hair around her pen.
"Yeah." Luke fell silent. "I wanted to ask you are the Ombudsman doing anything to investigate what happens in old people's homes? There is so much abuse and neglect, it's been exposed on the TV."
"I can't really talk to you about things unrelated to your complaint but yes, we do investigate that sort of thing. All health services are within our remit."
"I don't ever want to grow old."
Luke was unaware but Jolly was smiling. "I don't think anyone does."
"I'm going to die young. I'm never going to be one of those old people you see - those poor people - sitting in their own vomit and poo. If there's one thing your organisation should do, I would recommend you get the government to make nurses focus on the basics. Cleaning wards, getting people to the toilet and changed when they're dirty, being nice to them - they're essential. It needs to start right at the training. When nurses get their education they should be told on day one, this isn't about medical knowledge or making money. This course is about getting your hands dirty and being compassionate. You can like it or lump it."
"You might be right there, Mr Jefferson. But I'm really sorry but I think I might have to go. I've got a lot of work to do. Let me assure you I am working on your complaint."
"Okay. Thank you. Have a nice day."
"You too. Bye now."
"Bye."
Luke was quite certain of what he had told Jolly. He felt it was people who had the least to offer who paradoxically often placed such a high value on their life. Some of the most unremarkable and mediocre people would exist until the age of eighty or a hundred while the shooting stars like Jim Morrison, Amy Winehouse, Kurt Cobain and Jesus Christ - they died young. Here Luke's logic was swayed somewhat by his tendency to feeling depressed; a philosophy that favoured a shorter life was amenable to his long-lived misery.
He finished his second bottle of wine and boarded another bus, departing near the Hardock Precinct police station. Luke had decided he needed to make a complaint. That he had been given no representation was unacceptable: it was yet more evidence of discrimination against people with Autism: after making his complaint about the NHS he had grown more aware of this kind of thing and felt it was his duty to right these injustices. He had read that head injuries could cause brain damage and he felt he had been neglected during his arrest. He was sure that someone with Asperger's Syndrome should not have been left lying in their underpants for hours. He should not, he felt, have been driven to banging his head on the walls because no one would reply to his requests to see an advocate.
As he entered the station his feet were unsteady, making him nearly keel over. At the desk a fat, officious man was lazing in a spinning chair. It did not create a good first impression: he was clearly a jobs-worth from his demeanour and his bullish shoulders carried a threat. Luke began to ask if he could make a complaint - and then, all was a blur. He lost consciousness and slumped to the floor. The officer came around from the desk, grabbed him and called for backup. A few officers responded to the call and together they dragged him to a cell. The door was closed and reawakening Luke cried out, "Why are you putting me in here?" No answer came and he cried out again, "What's happening?" He banged his fists on the door; it was quite useless. "I want a lawyer. Please can you get me a lawyer?" but no answer came and he slammed his head a few times against a wall, then grabbed it closely, reeling in pain.
The harsh light from the ceiling and the lack of natural sun rays burned his eyes. The walls were closing in. He lay down on the bed, hopelessly wanting to relax. The toilet cistern swished loudly, unceasing. "It's broken," Luke muttered to himself. He banged his head on the walls again and screamed in agony. "Help!" Two officers opened the door. They pinned him to the floor and restrained him. Handcuffs were attached as he shifted about, though he did not attack them as he was averse to violence as a rule, and they attached feet-cuffs on his ankles too. Luke was very uncomfortable but the officers left the door open and stayed. He was glad to have people to talk to.
So much of his time was spent alone. He had grown so desperate even the company of people he felt were holding him for no reason other than spite was worthwhile to him. At first he protested he had only come in to make a complaint and it was a conflict of interest on their part to throw him in a cell - but he realized they would listen to no argument countering theirs. He decided then, in his not altogether balanced frame of mind, and of the verge of being sick he was so drunk, that he would took advantage of a chance to ease the burden of his loneliness. He spoke to them of his heart's desire and of his woes. "Can I have a lawyer or an advocate" he asked too, similarly to his last imprisonment. "They are necessary for someone with Asperger's syndrome. I'm not able to express myself well." They did not seem to agree with him and so he gave up on that effort. Having drank two bottles of wine he became freer with his speech.
"Who's this woman, you've called my love, on your phone's contact list?" asked a red-headed female officer. "I'm Tracy by the way."
"Hi Tracy. That's Jolly. I love her so much."
"Oh, do you?"
"Yeah. In fact I've been thinking of how to tell her how I feel about her but I can never seem to find a way."
"And what's she like, this Jolly?"
Luke felt amazing relief. Maybe he had finally found someone to confide in, who might even help.
"She's amazing. An older woman but she is the most mature and beautiful woman I've ever known."
"Why don't you let her know how you feel?"
"I can't. Not easily. She works for the Health Service Ombudsman. If I told her I might lose touch with her, it might be considered unprofessional."