Hope House
Featuring
Gordon and Nat from ‘Out of Tune.’
Copyright © Fabian Black 2016
Part One ~
Group Therapy or Communal Madness?
All Rights Reserved
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writer. Thank you.
Fabian Black Fiction
Formatted using UK English
Introduction
To quote the words of a song by
the late Kirsty MacColl: “there’s a guy works down the chip shop swears he’s
Elvis.’ That being the case, then chances are he’s on day release from Hope
House, a last stop refuge for some of the misfits of this world - those who the
psychiatric profession have washed their hands of and the rest of the world
would rather forget.
Some come and some go, some stay
and some don’t know when or if they want to leave Hope House. A refuge can be
permanent or temporary, depending on need and who’s to judge what the need
should be for each individual?
This is a work of fiction set in
a fantasy universe where anything can happen. Any resemblance to persons living
or dead is completely intentional, no, really, I mean coincidental. Hope House
does not pretend to reflect real life psychiatric practices, opinions or
treatments. To reiterate: it is a work of fantasy and fiction.
Gordon Trapp and Nathaniel
Andrews, as introduced in prequel ‘Out of Tune’ unconventionally run Hope
House.
The years have flowed by since
the events of ‘Out of Tune.’ Gordon and Nat have created a family of a kind.
Like most families they have their problems.
One - Group Therapy or
Communal Madness?
New resident Chris meets his
fellow housemates for the first time
“Come on, Chris, don’t hang back
now.” Gordon smiled encouragingly at the dark haired young man, who had finally
been persuaded to leave his room for the first time since arriving at Hope
House the day before. “Let’s get this over with. You have to meet your
housemates sooner or later. You might as well do it while everyone is in one
place.”
“Why?” Chris Emett scowled at the
door, which had a sign reading ‘meeting in progress’ hanging on it. He thrust
his hands deep in the pockets of his shabby jeans. “I’d rather go back to my
cell.”
“Room, Chris, not a cell, this
isn’t a prison.”
“Can I leave any time I want to,
like right now?”
“You know the answer to that
question, but I’ll give it again, just so you’re clear. When you’ve proven
you’re ready and willing to resume control of your life in a responsible and
acceptable way, then you can leave.”
“In other words I’m a prisoner
here until YOU say I can leave.” Pulling his hands from his pockets Chris
turned away from the door and strode back up the generous hall, aiming for the
stairs, only Gordon got there before him, as if practiced in overtaking
reluctant house guests.
“Enough. You have to get to know
us sometime and this is as good a time as any. We always have an informal
meeting at this time of day, so we can talk about anything that might have
upset or worried us during the course of the day.”
“I don’t need group therapy.”
“It isn’t group therapy as such.
It’s a chance for you to get to know people.”
“I don’t want to get to know
people. I hate people.”
“I know this is daunting for you,
Christopher, all new experiences are, but the sooner you embrace them the
easier they become.”
“I don’t want to embrace anything
in this dump.”
“Hope House isn’t a dump.”
“Well it isn’t exactly a luxury
hotel.”
“Neither is prison, Chris. You
made the choice to come here.”
“I can change my mind.”
“Too late.” Gordon examined the
boy, not without sympathy. “The decision was made and you will abide by it. We
can help you here, if you let us.”
“Maybe I don’t want help.”
“Tough.” Gordon lost patience.
Taking a firm hold of Chris’s arm, and ignoring his protests, he steered the
boy back down the hall towards the meeting room. Thrusting the door open he
pushed Chris inside and closed the door behind them. “Take a seat. Make
yourself at home.”
Chris considered trying to shove
the big man aside, but catching a look from his ice blue eyes, decided against
it. There was something forbidding about Gordon Trapp. He dropped his gaze and
turned away from the door, facing into the room, which was furnished with an
eclectic range of chairs. Christ. He flinched, as four pairs of eyes inspected
him with interest.
Gordon made a general
introduction. “This is Christopher, our new resident, make him welcome.”
There was a mumble of greetings,
which Chris ignored. He walked over to the large bay window. He might not be
able to leave the room, but no way was he going to sit and make small talk with
a bunch of weirdo’s. It was like tales from the fucking crypt! How had he ended up here? Folding his arms
he stared out of the window at the rapidly darkening garden.
“Chris.” Gordon spoke patiently.
“Sit down please, you’re distracting everyone by standing there.”
Chris didn’t respond, keeping his
gaze firmly fixed on the window, determined to do things his own way, only, he
felt a sudden stir of fear as the outside light faded and the window became a
dark mirror reflecting the room behind him. His skin prickled as he caught a
slight movement from the corner of his eye, a shadow forming.
Gordon watched the colour fade
from the young man’s face. Striding quickly towards to the window he dropped
the blinds and drew the heavy velvet curtains together. Taking Chris by the
shoulders he propelled him across the room, pushing him onto a chair. “Sit
there, boy, before I lose all patience with you.”
Sliding from the chair, Chris sat
cross-legged on the floor.
Gordon decided to call it a
compromise. “Would you care to tell us what you found so interesting out there
in the garden, Christopher?”
Chris gave a caustic smile.
“Would you care to tell me why you think it’s any of your damn business?”
“Later then.” Gordon ignored the
provocative tone of voice. “Let me introduce everyone.”
“My fellow prisoners you mean?”
Gordon smoothly carried on,
holding out his hand towards the young man nearest to him, a gangly figure with
uncommonly large brown eyes. “This is Nigel.”
Chris swallowed as Nigel gazed at
him intently. The gaze was bad enough, but the babble of words accompanying it
was infinitely worse.
“I like gardens, don’t I Gordon?
I’m not much good at gardening though. Are you good at gardening, Chris, is
that why you were looking out of the window? I wish I were good at gardening.
If you are good at gardening, can I watch you while you garden? I won't get in
your way. Gordon lets me watch him while he’s gardening don’t you, Gordon?”
“I ain’t no fucking gardener,”
spat Chris, embarrassed by the long-winded spiel, “so shut up, you freak!” His
discomfort doubled when the brown-eyed man shot from his seat and lumbered
towards Gordon, arms outstretched,
“He didn’t mean to upset you,
Nigel, so there’s no need to cry.” Gordon wrapped comforting arms around the
figure, while fixing Chris with a cold look. “We don’t upset each other here,
Christopher. We certainly don't call each other hurtful names. Mutual respect
is the house policy. Please apologise to Nigel.”
“What the fuck for?” Chris
started to his feet. “I’m not apologising for not liking fucking gardening!”
“I’m not asking you to apologise
for disliking gardening. I’m asking you to apologise for upsetting Nigel, and
may I remind you that swearing is against the house rules. I don't want my ears
suffering a constant barrage of foul language.”
“Jesus H. Christ!” Chris blew out
his cheeks. “Sorry, okay I’m sorry.”
Nigel’s tears magically dried up
and he gave an engaging smile. “Does that mean I can watch you when you
garden?”
“I suppose so.” Chris ground the
words from between gritted teeth, conscious of Gordon’s eyes on him. He felt
hysteria rising. What the hell had he come to?
“Can I have a hug?” Nigel turned
from Gordon and lunged for Chris.
“No. Bugger off!” Chris backed
away, revulsion written large on his face.
Nigel produced fresh wails. “He
doesn’t like me. Why doesn’t he like me, Gordon? I just want to be his friend.
Tell Paul to stop laughing. He’s laughing because he doesn’t like me either.
Why doesn’t anyone ever like me?”
“Because you're annoying, you get
on everyone’s wick.”
“That's enough, Paul.” Gordon
gave the giggling teenager a stern look, while comforting Nigel afresh.
“I like you, Nigel,” said a man
with pale skin and short blonde hair who sat rocking backwards and forwards on
the edge of his seat, a wastepaper basket clutched tightly to his chest.
“Thank you, James. I like you
too.” Nigel broke away from Gordon and
hurled himself at James, who let out a thin high-pitched squeal of distress as
his paper basket was crushed in Nigel’s ensuing clumsy embrace.
“You’ve squashed my mother,
Nigel! I don’t like you any more. You can’t go around squashing other people’s
mothers!”
“Welcome to Hell House, man!”
Paul grinned sadistically at Chris who was staring in fascinated horror as
James tried to evict Nigel from his knee. “If you aren’t already barking
mental, you will be after a few weeks here. It makes Bedlam seem like an oasis
of sanity.”
“Be quiet, Paul, you’re not
helping anyone by saying things like that.”
“I’m only telling the truth.”
“I said be quiet.” Gordon rubbed
a forefinger against his temple. It was going to be one of those sessions. He
silently cursed his partner Nat for insisting on attending a conference when
they had a new resident to cope with. It wasn’t the best of times to jump ship,
not with Nigel still unsettled after a visit by his parents. Wretched people.
They had turned up out of the blue after a year without so much as a postcard,
undoing in an hour the slow painstaking progress of an entire year. The visit
had sent Nigel crashing back into fretful child mode. He had been difficult to
cope with ever since, demanding attention and constant reassurance.
Pushing aside his weariness, and
an urge to scream, Gordon took Nigel by the hand and led him back to his chair,
uttering reassurances. “James doesn’t hate you, Nigel, not at all.”
“I do.”
“No, James, you don’t.”
“My mother does, she said so,
just now, after he squashed her, great lump that he is.”
“She said nothing of the sort.
Really, James, it isn’t like you to be so unkind. Besides, we both know your
mother is not in that wastepaper basket.”
“She is, I can hear her.”
“No, James, you can’t,” said
Gordon firmly. “Your mother is dead, she is not in the basket, so put it back
in the corner where it belongs. I mean it, James, are you listening to me, put
the basket back, right now.”
When calm and the wastepaper
basket were restored, Gordon took a deep breath and glanced around at his small
group. Nigel had fished a jelly baby from his pocket and was peaceably engaged
in de-fluffing it, his tongue slightly poking out as he concentrated on the
task. Jelly babies were his favourite sweets. He insisted on taking the
wretched things out of their wrapping and putting them in his pockets naked so
to speak. It was no wonder they got covered in fluff. They were barely edible
after being confined with coins and tissues and whatever other rubbish Nigel
filled his pockets with.
James was rocking gently back and
forth on the edge of his seat, his lips moving in silent conversation. “Stay
with us, James.” Gordon touched a soothing hand to his pale cheek, receiving a
small distant smile in return.
Paul was still grinning like a
Cheshire cat, delighted as ever by chaos. The grin diminished a little when
Gordon fixed him with a cold look. He would have verbally remonstrated with
him, had not a slight snivelling alerted him to the distress of another
resident - a teenage girl whose thin face was grotesquely at odds with her
bulky body. She huddled on her chair, twisting a strand of lustreless, mousy
hair around her finger in tearful agitation.
“What’s the matter, Anna?”
“I’m too hot. I feel sick!”
Before Gordon could comment, Paul
jumped in with characteristic subtlety. “Take your coat off then, you barmy
cow!”
Gordon frowned. Paul always had
to bait and provoke, poke and prod, especially where Anna was concerned. He
spoke sharply. “Apologise to Anna for that remark at once. It was uncalled
for.”
“Just saying. She’s got four
jumpers on under that coat. It’s a wonder she doesn’t have heat stroke.”
“How do you know how many jumpers
I’ve got on?” Anna leapt to her feet, her face flushed with temper as well as
heat. “Have you been spying on me again? You spotty little pervert!”
“Why would I want to spy on a
skeleton?” Paul also leapt to his feet.
“You’ve got nothing worth spying on. A flat fish has bigger tits than you.”
“You have, you have been spying
on me, and I’m not a skeleton, you pustuled creep!”
“That’s enough. Both of you!”
Gordon made an effort to intervene, to no avail. The two teenagers were like a
couple of alley cats squared up for a fight, oblivious to anyone but each
other.
“Bony bitch! It’s about time you
started eating something. No wonder you give off such bad vibes.”
“Vibes? What are you on about?
You’re such a retro geek!” Anna whipped off her gloves and savagely hurled them
at Paul. “Pick the vibes out of them, sad sack!”
Paul snatched the gloves up and
waved them under her nose. “Are you offering me out? Throwing down the
gauntlet? What’s it to be, lettuce
leaves at dawn?”
Gordon suddenly brought his large
hands together producing a sound like a thunderclap. It did the trick. The
alley cats stopped hissing and spitting. “Thank you.” He wagged a finger
between them. “Take a deep breath and think about what ego state you’re
operating from right now?”
Nigel stopped cleaning his jelly
baby and shot an arm into the air, waving it frantically. “Oh, I know, I do, I
know this, Gordon. Ask me, ask me.”
Paul made a rude noise,
snorting. “I know what ego state she’s
in, prize bitch ego state, same as usual.”
“No.” Nigel shook his head.
“That’s wrong, isn’t it, Gordon? It’s all wrong.”
“You could invent ego states of
your own,” hissed Anna, beads of sweat trickling down her face as both her
temper and temperature rose. “Moron, adapted moron, and total frigging moron!”
“Wrong, wrong.” Nigel bounced up
and down in his seat. “They’re not real ego states. Ask me, Gordon. Ask me. I
know what ego state Anna and Paul are in.”
Paul and Anna turned from glaring
at each other to glare at him. “SHUT UP, NIGEL!”
Nigel once again dissolved into
tears. “Don’t shout. I don’t like being shouted at. It hurts my head.”
Discarding the jelly baby he got to his feet.
“You’re upsetting mother,” James
began rocking more frantically. He pointed to the wastebasket he’d been made to
put back in the corner. “You’re upsetting my mother.”
“Now look what you’ve done you
bad tempered sow. You’ve upset James’s mother!”
“You started it, pig face, and
give me my gloves back.”
Gordon groaned as the room
erupted into frenzied chaos with Nigel crying and trying to cling to him while
Paul and Anna shrieked and all but punched each other. It was all too much for the new arrival.
“Fucking Hell. It’s a fucking
lunatic asylum. I’m not staying here. You’re all fucking nutters!” Chris
rocketed to his feet and ran for the door.
Gordon managed to disentangle
himself from Nigel in time to prevent Chris from leaving the room. Thrusting
him back towards the circle of chairs, he barked. “SIT down, Christopher. I
don’t want to hear another profanity cross your lips for the remainder of this
meeting.” He divided a glare between the warring teenagers. “The same goes for
you two. I will wash your mouths out if I hear one more dirty word.”
He then pointed a stern finger at
Nigel. “Stop that wailing at once or I won’t allow you to watch Blue Peter
tomorrow.” The noise shut off at once. Blue Peter was Nigel’s favourite
magazine programme and they were doing a special feature on ‘The Sound of
Music,’ one of Nigel’s favourite films. He’d had the programme ringed in the
Radio Times for days past.
Gordon turned his attentions back
to Anna. “Take your coat off, young lady, and at least two of those sweaters
before you faint and then take yourself off to your room. You can have an early
night. I’ll be discussing your behaviour with Nathaniel when he gets back.”
Anna complied with the
instruction, muttering and mumbling all the while. She looked decidedly more in
proportion as she removed her thick coat and peeled off two heavy knit
sweaters, dropping them on her chair before storming from the room.
“Good riddance, skinny chick.”
Paul used both hands to deliver a double V sign to her parting back.
Gordon wiped the gleeful look from
his mischievous pixie face with a curt command. “Go to my study, Paul. Find
yourself a corner and stand in it. I’ll deal with you presently.”
“That’s SO unfair. She started
it. Why do you always pick on me?”
Gordon pointed to the door. “No
arguments. Go now or shall I take you there?”
“I’m going.” Paul skulked out of
the room.
Gordon closed the door behind
him, took a deep breath and smiled at the three surviving members of the
meeting. Chris, huddled on the floor, was gazing anxiously around, his eyes
never quite resting anywhere. Gordon felt a twinge of pity for him. He was
being given a baptism of fire. Clearing his throat he spoke with an air of
forced cheerfulness. “You’re not seeing us at our best today, Christopher.
Don’t worry about it, we....”
Yells and shouts from the hall
followed by an almighty crash stopped him mid-sentence.
“No one move.” Gordon strode
across the room, his face grim. “I’ll be back in two shakes.” He opened the
door and closed it behind him again. It did nothing to keep out sounds of the
fracas in the hall.
Anna’s voice shrilled an
accusation. “He smashed it!”
“You skinny witch! It was your
fault for ducking.”
“You could have killed me, you
knob head!”
“That’s enough, Anna. What part
of go to your room didn’t you understand?”
A thunder of feet on the stairs
and the slamming of an upstairs door were followed by the more conservative
opening and closing of a door further along the hall. There was a blessed
silence.
In the meeting room, Chris
swallowed uneasily as Nigel and James stared at him with rapt attention.
“Paul’s naughty,” said Nigel, and
plucked another jelly baby from his pocket, examining it.
James nodded agreement while
eyeing the wastepaper basket he’d been made to return to the corner. He added.
“I think Gordon might spank him.”
A muffled yell seemed to lend
credence to this bizarre statement.
Getting to his feet, Chris began
edging towards the door.
“Gordon said not to move.” James
forced his eyes away from the wastepaper basket to look at Chris. “He’ll be cross.”
“Fuck, Gordon. I’m getting out of
this nut house. I’d rather sleep in a piss soaked shop doorway than stay in
this freak show.” Chris dashed out into
the hall, colliding with a visibly upset Paul who was heading for the stairs.
“Watch where you’re going, you
idiot!”
Chris didn’t bother retaliating.
He bolted for the door with only one thought on his mind. Escape. Flinging it
open, he rocked back on his heels with a scream of shock, as a blue-eyed
apparition materialised in front of him with a taunting smile. It had followed
him.
“Well.” Nathaniel Andrews stepped
over the threshold, set down his suitcase, and stared at the prone figure at
his feet. “Have I overdone the Lynx body spray perchance? I don’t usually have
such a dramatic effect on people.” He looked at Gordon who had emerged from the
study into the hall. “This is our new resident I take it?”
Gordon nodded. Effortlessly
scooping Chris up into his arms he began walking up the stairs. “I’ll take him
to his room and see to him.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “Welcome home
by the way. I’ve missed you.”
“Thanks. I’ve missed you too.”
Nat smiled and then glanced at Paul who was still hovering tearfully in the
hall. Pulling down the corners of his mouth, he said, “oh dear. Trouble?”
Paul nodded miserably. “It’s not
fair, Nat, he always...”
“Bed, Paul!”
Paul glared at Gordon’s back.
“See what I mean. It was Anna's fault, Nat, but I'm the one who gets the
bother.”
A dramatic high-pitched scream
prevented further discussion.
“MURDERER!”
“Sounds like I’m needed.”
Nathaniel gave the unhappy youth a quick hug. “Off you go, Paul. I’ll come up
and have a chat with you later.” He winced as the shouts reached a new pitch.
James had obviously forgotten, again.
After hanging his jacket over the
end of the banister, Nat hastened in the direction of the screams, murmuring,
“and to think I was looking forward to getting home. Why the hell didn’t I flee
the country?”
The scene was one he’d
encountered many times with a puzzled James and an outraged Nigel.
“He killed my jelly baby. He bit
off its head.”
“You gave it to me.”
“Not to kill.”
“Calm down, Nigel. It's only a
sweet. I’m sure you have plenty more.”
“I want that one back. I loved
that jelly baby.”
“He gave it to me, Nat, he did.”
“I know, James, don’t worry about
it. Only do TRY to remember not to eat it next time. He only gives you them to
look at. You should know that by now.”
“He’s silly, mother says so.”
“Yes, well, we’re all silly at
times.”
Taking the dismembered jelly baby
from James, Nat dropped it in the wastepaper basket, ignoring scandalised looks
from both him and Nigel. Taking each of them firmly by the hand he said, “come
on you two. It looks like poor Gordon has his hands full right now, so you can
help me make a bite of supper. I’m starving.”
**
“What’s he like then, our new
boy, when he’s conscious?” Nat opened the wardrobe door in order to inspect his
face in the mirror on the back of it. He fingered his unshaven chin and the
turned to look at his partner, who was sprawled on their big bed. “I'm thinking
of growing a beard, designer stubble style, what do you think?”
“I think you can shave in the
morning. As for Chris, he’s like all our charges, something troubles him up
here,” Gordon touched a hand to his head and then to his chest in the vicinity
of his heart, “and in here. He's prickly, defensive, angry and frightened, oh,
and foul-mouthed too. He could give you a run for your money in the effing and
blinding stakes.”
“Sounds like an average Hope
House sort of person then.”
“Yep, he’ll fit right in.”
“Have you really missed me?”
“No. I’m lying here naked on the
off chance an artist looking for a subject is going to pass by?”
“Sarcasm does not become you,
Gordon.”
“Then shut up, my darling. Lock
the door and come to bed. I want you.”
End of part one
Copyright Fabian Black 2016
Coming soon –
Two- A Very Fishy Tale
Nat has some explaining to do.
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