Therapy?

It was Mr Hurdy who forced me to see a psychotherapist. He said that I needed to address what he called my ‘irrational detachment from the mainland’.

 

A council official arranged for me to see a therapist, a Mr Gedge, a mainlander. It was arranged that the sessions would be held in a specially-converted room in the empty house. Normally I would be expected to travel to Mr Gedge’s rather than him visit me, but given the nature of my condition an exception was made.

 

Mr Gedge was an anxious, middle-aged man, who admitted in our first session that he had never visited our archipelago before. “I don’t like boats,” he admitted, “I always think about drowning. It’s all that water, I don’t like it.”

 

“Perhaps you need therapy,” I suggested.  He gave me a hard stare.

 

“According to the report I’ve received from your school you have an irrational dislike of the mainland. Have you had a bad experience on the mainland, did something horrible happen to you?”

“No,” I replied. “I’ve never visited the mainland.”

 

“You’ve never visited the mainland?” he said astonished. “But it’s barely five miles away. How can you not have visited the mainland.”

 

“You’d never visited here before,” I said, “and you’re much older than me.”

 

“That’s different,” he said. “I never even knew this place existed. But to ignore the mainland … You must have some deep, psychological issues underpinning this.”

 

“Perhaps I just don’t like boats,” I said, trying to win his empathy, but to no avail.

 

“Suppose I suggested you come back with me on the ferry this afternoon and took your first step on the mainland soil.”

 

“I can’t this afternoon,” I said, “I’m playing hide and seek with my imaginary friend.”

 

Mr Gedge seemed thrown by this statement and sat in silence for a while – ‘just sitting there soaking up taxpayers’ dollars’ as Alun’s dad would have said.  When he finally spoke it was just to mumble, “Hmm, this is going to be harder than I thought.”

 

“You have a serious problem, Jed,” he said. “A child your age should be excited about going to the mainland, escaping the tedium of this island and the chance to explore all the wonderful activities on the mainland. What are you scared of?”

 

“I’m not scared of anything,” I said. “It’s just that all my friend is here, on the island, and I’ve no need to go to the mainland.”

 

“You’re not scared of the violence?” he said.

 

“The violence?”

 

“The bloody murders you’ve seen on the news. People dying every day, attacked by strangers, butchered and buried in shallow graves.

 

“I don’t watch the news,” I said. “Why are you so keen for me to go there if I’m going to be butchered and buried?”

 

“You’re not going to be butchered and buried,” he said.

 

“Then why did you mention it?”

 

He sat there in silence again, long enough for Alun’s dad to have composed a very long letter about the inefficient use of council resources.

 

“I can see this is going to take a long time,” he eventually said.

 

I found this first session very strange, though not at all unpleasant. For me it typified the odd obsession mainlanders have with their own island. However, it was without trepidation or fear that I stepped into my next session, expecting more of the same. I was horribly mistaken.

 

Mr Gedge was in fierce mood from the off. “Are you afraid of being bullied?” he asked.

 

“Bullied?” I had never encountered the concept.

 

“Being picked on by mainland boys for being a horrible little islander?”

 

“No. Why would they do that?”

 

“They might pinch you,” he said, pinching my arm very hard in case I didn’t understand his words. “Are you afraid the mainland boys will hurt you? That they’ll get you in an armlock?”

 

“Stop hurting me,” I said. He had me in an armlock.

 

“You must ignore these fears,” he said. “It’s just momentary pain, you’ll soon forget it.”

 

“It’s all right for you,” I said, in between tears, “it’s not you that’s been hurt.”

 

“I’m going to cure you of your fear,” he said. “To do that I must show you the very worst of the mainland.”

 

To this day it seems an odd strategy, but I guess they do things differently on the mainland. The rest of the session was spent watching videos of violent crime scenes Mr Gedge had taped off the news and clips from horror movies of mainlanders being tortured and killed for no apparent reason. After the videos I was forced to look through pictures of bloody, horrible murders. Sometimes Mr Gedge interrupted to read a gory quote from a newspaper article.

 

“You see,” he said. “This is your every fear about what the mainland is like. You must experience this to its full before we can begin the cure proper.”

 

For the next six weeks Mr Gedge introduced me to every horror and evil that potentially lay in wait for me. He showed me pictures of mainland murderers, the very worst obscenities committed by sex offenders, politicians and police. Every story was filled with the sort of gory horror that sells newspapers and (as I would discover in my adult profession) crime novels. I used to look forward to the sessions with total dread, my sleep patterns becoming torrid, with my dreams comprising so many horrific scenes from mainland life.

 

Eventually the six week session introducing me to the ‘worst of mainland life’ was completed. “Next week,” Mr Gedge promised, “we’ll begin the therapy proper.  You will learn about the positive side of mainland life and how to counter your fears about violence and bullying. In just three more weeks I’ll have completely removed your irrational detachment from the mainland.”

 

The next week I walked down to the empty house as normal and entered the especially prepared therapy room. But Mr Gedge wasn’t there. In his place was a council official with a clipboard.

 

“Where’s Mr Gedge?” I asked.

 

“I’m afraid Mr Gedge won’t be attending any more of these sessions,” the official said. “He’s developed an irrational detachment from Happy Island and no longer feels capable of making the journey.”

 

“But who will give me therapy now?”

 

“Nobody. The council has decided that due to budget cuts we can no longer prioritise spending on treating the mentally ill. You’ll have to manage without your treatment.”

 

I’ve no doubt, looking back on my childhood, that the sessions with Mr Gedge fuelled my interest in crime and murder, which led to my lucrative career as a New York crime novelist. But I also wonder if the six-week-long session teaching me about murder, torture and the very worst of mainland life might have, in some subtle, subconscious way, led me to avoid visiting the mainland in later life, whether it is, at least in part, responsible for my never having made the five mile journey to the mainland.