Rachel's Holiday
Page 43

‘OK,’ I gasped, as my stomach churned. ‘See all these things here, group therapy and more group therapy and AA meetings and even more group therapy… well, is there anything else we do that isn’t on this list?’
I was aware that the rest of the inmates were looking up from their Neil enclave with interest.
‘Like what?’
I didn’t want to say straight out, ‘Is there a gym?’ just in case there wasn’t. So I said, more obliquely, ‘Does anyone ever do any exercise?’
‘Well, I do some press-ups now and again,’ he said. ‘But I couldn’t speak for the rest of them.
‘I wouldn’t have thought so, though,’ he added, sounding doubtful.
‘Where?’ I demanded breathlessly. ‘Where do you do your press-ups?’
‘In the bedroom, on the floor.’
I slumped down another notch, but I still had a little bit of hope. Maybe there wasn’t a gym, but perhaps they had other treatments. I sensed compassion emanating from Chris, a desire to be nice even though he was puzzled by me, so I took a risk.
‘Are there any…?’ I forced myself to say it. Go on, go on! ‘Sunbeds?’
First Chris looked as if he was going to laugh. Then his face changed to infinite pity and wisdom and he gently shook his head. ‘No, Rachel, no sunbeds.’
‘No massage?’ I managed to whisper.
‘No massage,’ Chris agreed.
I didn’t bother going into the long list that I had in my head. If there was no massage, which was fairly rudimentary, I was sure there was no seaweed treatment, no mudwraps, no funny stuff with algae.
‘No… no swimming pool?’ I forced myself to ask.
His mouth twitched slightly at that, but he just said ‘No swimming pool.’
‘So what do you do?’ I finally managed to ask.
‘It’s all on this list here,’ said Chris, bringing my attention back to the notice board.
I had another look and it was still just lots of group therapy, with the occasional AA meeting thrown in for variety. As I stared at it I noticed that the dining-room was billed as The Dining Hall. Dining Hall, my arse! More like the dining hut, I thought.
No, how about, the dining shack.
No, wait, the dining tenement.
No, better still, the dining condemned building, I thought with mounting hysteria.
I caught Chris’s eye.
I had one other question.
‘Er, Chris, you know all the people that are here in this building?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, is that all of you? There isn’t another wing in some other part of the grounds?’
He looked mystified by that. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Of course not.’
I see, I thought. No fucking pop stars, either. That does it. That really poxing-well does it.
‘Come on Rachel, you’ve group now,’ he said gently. I ignored him and walked away.
‘Where are you going?’ he called after me.
‘Home,’ I answered.
*
It was the worst day of my life.
I decided to leave immediately. I would go to Dublin, do a shitload of drugs, get the first flight back to New York and be reunited with Luke.
I wouldn’t stay in this shabby, run-down madhouse a moment longer. I wanted nothing further to do with the place or its inmates. I had just about been able to put up with them while they were part of a luxury package. But there was no luxury package.
I was embarrassed, humiliated, foolish, tainted by association and desperate to leave. Mad keen to put as much ground between me and those alcoholics and drug addicts as possible.
I recoiled from the Cloisters as if I’d been burnt, as though I’d been cooing and patting a cute baby, only to find, to my horror, that it was a rat.
I marched up to tell Dr Billings I was leaving. But when I got to the door that led into the office area, it was locked. Locked!
Fear came to life in my veins. I was imprisoned in this awful place. I’d be here for all eternity drinking tea.
I rattled at the doorhandle, the way they do in black-and-white B movies. Next I’d be jiggling the telephone connection up and down, shouting ‘Operator, operator!’
‘Can I help you, Rachel?’ asked a voice.
It was the Sour Kraut.
‘I want to see Dr Billings, but the door is LOCKED,’ I said, wild-eyed.
‘You are turning the handle the wrong vay,’ she pointed out coldly.
‘Oh, ah, right, thanks,’ I said, stumbling gratefully into Reception.
I ignored Bubbly the receptionist as she frantically tried to tell me I couldn’t see Dr Billings without an appointment.
‘Watch me,’ I sneered, as I marched in on top of him.
23
‘I’m afraid you can’t leave,’ said Dr Billings.
‘Says who?’ I asked with a curled lip.
‘Says you, actually,’ he said smoothly, waving a piece of paper at me. ‘You signed a legal and binding contract that you would stay here for three weeks.’
‘So sue me,’ I swaggered. I hadn’t lived in New York for nothing.
‘I’ll get an injunction issued against you,’ he riposted, ‘which will force you by law to stay here until your three weeks are up. And I’ll sue you for every penny you haven’t got.’
He picked up another piece of paper and waved that at me. ‘Your bank statement, you’ve let your financial affairs get into a bit of a mess, haven’t you?’
‘How did you get that?’ I gasped.
‘You authorized me to,’ he said. ‘On the same piece of paper in which you said you’d stay for three weeks. Now, have I made myself clear? I’m quite happy to get an injunction to stop you from leaving.’
‘You can’t do that.’ I was full of impotent rage.
‘I can and I will, I would be failing in my duty if I didn’t.’
‘I’ll run away, I’ll escape,’ I said wildly. ‘There’s nothing to stop me from just walking out the gate now’
‘There’s plenty to stop you, I think you’ll find. Not least the high walls and locked gate.’
‘Look, you power-mad bast… pig,’ I pleaded, alternating between rage and despair, ‘there’s nothing wrong with me! I only came here for the saunas and the massage, I shouldn’t be here at all.’