The Psychopath: A True Story(61)
After my mother died, my dad sold the family home and moved into a very nice flat where he stayed for twelve years. He did get a bit forgetful but after writing his life story it seemed to completely reignite his brain. However, in the process of writing this book that you are reading, in January 2018, my father became ill. Just two months short of his ninety-third birthday, he initially seemed a little confused, so I did a dementia test on him. I asked him to say the months of the year in reverse order. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘December, November, October, Spain . . .’ and then stopped. He knew he’d got it wrong but didn’t know in what way. We tried to get him help to be assessed but things went downhill very fast and a few days later he woke up asking whose flat he was in. My sister and I did our best to look after him at home with almost round-the-clock care, but within a couple of weeks it was clear that he was declining fast.
He seemed physically all right, albeit rather confused, and he had a few falls. He started to hallucinate from time to time. He would point at the blank wall and ask, ‘Who’s that boy?’ or ‘Who’s that woman standing there?’ They seemed to be just shadows and images. He was not delusional though, and when we explained there was nothing there he would accept that he was hallucinating. It became clear what was happening one day when he pointed to the floor and said:
‘What are those people doing down there?’
I asked, ‘Are they small people, Dad?’
‘No,’ he said, confused by the question, ‘they’re normal-sized people.’
‘Who are they?’ I asked.
‘They’re doctors,’ he said.
‘What do you think they’re doing then?’
‘Well’ – he paused – ‘they’re being doctors!’
Suddenly I knew what was going on. My father had started the first ever TV medical drama in the 1950s, a show called Emergency Ward 10. It was filmed in a massive ATV/ITV studio and as the producer he had worked in a glass-fronted editing suite on the second floor overlooking all the studio scenes. I had seen pictures of the view showing the actors dressed as doctors, shot from high above. What my father was experiencing was ‘end-of-life delirium’. His brain was shutting down and rather than have his life ‘flash’ before his eyes, it was happening slowly over an extended period of time. In some ways it was like people from his past were coming to say goodbye. His childhood friends, his mother, his wife, his work colleagues. He was not distressed by it at all and I think even found comfort in it.
Finally he grew very cold and confused, so I called an ambulance and he was taken to hospital. He was only aware he was there for the first couple of days before the confusion finally took over. He died within a week.
Although I was sad to lose my father, I truly feel that he had lived a full life. He was an incredibly lucky man, always landing on his feet, no matter what life threw at him. Up until this sudden illness he was happily living in his own home and having quite a comfortable existence. However, I think he was ready to go whereas my mother died at seventy-seven and there was so much more she would have done.
Sorting out my father’s estate was traumatic, not least because when we put my father’s flat on the market we got an immediate offer from a chap who came to see it. We were told that everything was sorted out and the deal was done, so we cleared the place and cleaned every inch. The day before the chap was due to move in though, he announced that he had not yet got his mortgage sorted and it would be another few weeks before he could move. The weeks went by and it was excuse after excuse as to why things were delayed. His broker had let him down so he had gone directly to the bank; they had lost some paperwork so he was going to another bank, etc.
I was strongly reminded of Will Jordan’s excuses and found the whole experience incredibly stressful. Within the first week of excuses I was warning my siblings that this was not right but there was nothing we could do about it. Finally, after two months of daily delays, we put the flat back on the market and told the chap he could bid for it again if he wanted. We got a better offer the second time and took great pleasure in telling the man to get lost. I have no idea what he was getting from the experience other than to mess us around. Possibly another psychopath, or maybe he was just delusional and aiming for something he simply did not have capacity to achieve.
So finally it was all sorted out. My share of the inheritance meant that I had enough capital to finally get back on the property market myself, and with a mortgage I managed to buy a house almost a year after my father died. It is not a glamorous dwelling and not in the most salubrious area – in fact it is rather small and filled to the gunnels – but it is my house. For months I went around touching the walls and saying, ‘These are my walls’ and ‘This is my floor’, with an overwhelming feeling of happiness and contentment. Having spent twelve years renting flats and having to move every time a landlord decided they wanted to have their sister move in, or that they were going to sell up, finally having my own home again was (and still is) incredible. Mentally getting back what I had lost and feeling that I am in control of my own home environment is wonderful. If I want to paint the walls, I can. If I want to pull down the shed or dig up the garden, I can. It is mine and that feels very good.
NEW BEGINNINGS
I have gone through every aspect of my life over the past thirteen years – reclaiming each part, emotionally, mentally, physically, financially, professionally and spiritually. I went over each area of my life and revisited places I had been to with Will Jordan, but this time on my own or with other people. I went to see theatre productions we had seen together on my own again or with friends. When I was in London for some media interviews I went to the theatre where Les Misérables was being performed and explained to the ticket office why I was there. They gave me a very expensive seat for a fraction of the price and I sat and cried through the whole thing. I am not sure the man who was sitting next to me was best pleased as I sniffed my way through it. I also went back to see Phantom of the Opera on my own and visited the restaurants we had been to together. I rewatched movies and listened to songs we had shared, this time with new feelings and taking new meanings from the words. I revisited the flat in Portobello, and the house in Dick Place. I didn’t go into either but made my peace with both. I sat in cafés where I had met Will Jordan and treated myself to a lovely coffee as I sat and read a book or played a game, thinking about anything other than him. Gradually I removed Will Jordan from my life.