Healing (Part Five)

© 2013 David Jasmin-Green

A couple of weeks later I was called into the office for the second round of my interrogation. Morsey told me that after further investigations another member of staff claimed to have witnessed me stating that I intended to beat up an unidentified colleague. Also he had 'a lot' of staff claiming that I had made numerous other inappropriate comments about Meena, including racist ones (and if you knew me even a little better you'd realise that I'm the least racist person in the world). He refused to elaborate any further because he believed that the existing evidence was enough to go on, and I took that to mean that the new 'evidence' was rather paltry.

“I'm suspending you for five working days,” Morsey said after unloading a mouthful of meaningless legal blather, “and after that time you'll be called in for a further interview in which I'll give you the company's decision on the matter. I'm not allowed to tell you the likely outcome, but I can say that if you choose to admit to the allegations there's a chance that you'll receive a final written warning and you'll be kept on under an extended probationary period. Then again, this is a really serious situation and the evidence against you is rather strong, so we might well decide to dismiss you. Off the record – if you imply that I said this I'll deny it, and guess who'll be believed? - off the record I wouldn't cross my fingers if I were you. Between you and me I reckon you're fucked....” A ridiculous smile played across the little tinpot general's weak, rubbery lips, and all of a sudden I realised what a turd he was and I felt like caving his face in.

“What evidence?” I said, doing my best to ignore that uncalled for comment, though of course I safely filed it away for future reference. “You don't have any evidence, for Christ's sake. All you have is a heap of unsubstantiated claims that wouldn't stand up in any court of law, at least not in a civilised country – malicious bloody lies, the lot of them. I've got more knives sticking out of my back than Julius frigging Caesar!”

“This isn't a court of law,” the floundering idiot spluttered. “This is a small company that can't afford to have any bad apples in its barrel, because bad apples invariably send the rest of the crop rotten. If we do dismiss you you're welcome to appeal, but I honestly wouldn't bother. I should warn you that you can only appeal within the company, you're not legally entitled to an employment tribunal because you're still under your statutory six month probation period and it clearly states in your contract that during this time the company may terminate your employment at its discretion, which basically means for any reason that it sees fit. That's all I have to say on the subject, Richard - it's my duty to escort you off the premises now.” His eyes said it all. It was clear that he believed the accusers rather than the accused. The nauseating shit was my judge, jury and executioner.

I guess it goes without saying that I was dismissed, but I don't recall much about that final meeting. Even before I entered the building my senses were dull, my mind submitted to what I had convinced myself was the inevitable and I'd already started to slip into the deepest, darkest chasm of depression I've ever experienced. Morsey went through the same old crap that he had gone through during our previous rendezvous. For the umpteenth time I denied the allegations, and then he delivered his coup de grace, which he obviously deeply savoured – he treated me to another one of his sickly smiles. “I'm sorry that this position proved unsuitable for you and I wish you all the best in your future endeavours, whatever they are,” he said, grinning inanely as I left the building for the last time, escorted out of the front door like a bloody criminal.

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During the following weeks I brooded over the injustice of it all and did little else. I could barely sleep, I hardly ate, I didn't shave and I bathed so infrequently that I must have stank to high heavens. And the bills slowly but surely mounted up.....

My few friends (I have no close relatives to speak of) didn't understand my predicament or the way I felt. “You've got to pull yourself together,” I was told time and time again. “You need to go to the Job Centre and tell them what's happened so that you can claim benefits, and you need to make an appointment at the Citizens' Advice bureau to find out where you stand. Most importantly you need to get your arse to the doctor's and tell him or her how crappy you feel, because you urgently need help.....” I also needed to call the Inland Revenue and tell them about my change of circumstances, and I needed to apply for a council tax rebate and housing benefit. There was so much to do, so much need and responsibility to face up to but I couldn't do any of those things because I was an emotional wreck, I felt like a bag of warmed up shit. I was a complete and utter failure, I told myself, and I wasn't worth a thing.

Friends and neighbours bought food around sporadically and a couple of them occasionally lowered themselves to listen to my dark lamentations and offered advice that I almost invariably ignored. Most of the food I possessed rotted in the fridge because I didn't feel like eating, the pounds slowly dropped of my once hefty frame and as time passed I even stopped complaining.

The only time I left my rented flat was to scour the footpaths of the local nature reserves in search of a fitting place to die, a quiet, private place where no one would discover my body until the rats and foxes had picked the bones clean. No one would miss me, I reflected, no one in the entire world. I hadn't made my mind up how I would go about my destruction. I didn't fancy leaping off a tall building or hanging myself or hacking at my wrists because I couldn't bear the thought of the fear and pain and mess that would be involved. I amassed a carrier bag full of paracetamol that I stole a couple of packets at a time from the supermarket because I didn't have any money to buy it, and I guessed that would be the most painless way to end it all, especially if I could get hold of a couple of bottles of whisky to wash the pills down and knock me senseless into the bargain. I just wanted to go to sleep, I ached to slip into sweet oblivion and never wake up again.

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It was Kay, my ex wife, who came to my rescue some three months after I was dismissed, and I'm deeply indebted to her because without her help I doubt if I would have lasted much longer. An old neighbour of ours spotted me wandering aimlessly in the town ragged and unwashed, and when I mumbled incoherently in answer to his frantic questions he contacted her straight away.

Kay moved into the spare room of my uncharacteristically filthy flat against my wishes and accompanied me to the doctors immediately. I was granted an emergency appointment with the community psychiatric nurse, who quickly and efficiently assessed my precarious mental state and sent me straight back to the doctor for a course of powerful antidepressants.

For a few weeks Kay took compassionate leave from her job. She sorted out my finances, deep cleaned the flat, spoon fed me with her delicious home cooking and did everything in her power to raise my spirits. When she was desperate she read passages from the Bible although neither of us were particularly religious, and I was surprisingly uplifted by Psalms and Proverbs, the blood and thunder of the Old Testament and the Revelation of Saint John.

Kay didn't complain when I groaned and grumbled, kicked and screamed and cried my eyes up in her arms. She didn't even lose her rag when I made a feeble pass at her when I was feeling a bit better. I was beginning to feel alive again, for fuck's sake, and I wanted to wave my cock in the air and rejoice..... She patiently took my foolishness in her stride and explained that that part of our relationship was well and truly over. She would always care about me, she said, which I guess I should have known already, but my mind was still a fair few furlongs away from normality. Kay stayed with me for a long time; she didn't move out until well into the New Year when she was sure that I was capable of looking after myself, and even then she popped in regularly to check my progress.