Fever Diary - 9th February

When I first saw her, a 15 stone police officer was sitting on my back and a somewhat smaller security man lay across my legs. She had her blonde hair pinned back in the fashion I remembered from the last time I saw her. It was such a relief to see the familiar golden halo as she entered the tiny one-bed ward where I had been dragged. Pedro was shouting loudly in Catalan to anyone who would listen. But he too was stunned into silence by her entrance. She was beautiful as always and I knew if she were really here with me in the After Wigan, that all would be well.

I confess all this is in retrospect. At the time I was seized with a violent seizure that only slightly abated when I saw her face. I hardly remember now why I lost my reason to such an extent. I called her name. No. I am ashamed to say I screamed her name and struggled to reach her, to hold her in my arms. On the whole not a sane or rational response that is likely to find favour with any woman. But then, as many women have told me, par for the course in my relations with the opposite sex.

It is at this point that my memory has a gap of some days where I retained nothing beyond a series of moments that seem to have survived a period of complete nullity. A glimpse through a car window of a towering structure at the junction of Lower Regents Street and Charing Cross Road during a struggle with several heavy men in the back of a police vehicle. The screaming of a man in a prison cell that grated on the nerves until I realised it was me and asked myself to stop. Another glimpse through a van window at a Government department called the Ministry of Sound. An injection and a courtroom. An injection and a hospital bed. An injection and Sonia’s face. An injection and Sonia’s voice. An injection…