Free Darkmans by Nicola Barker

occasions).
    He was barely sleeping. Insomnia. He’d always been a light sleeper (needed only four good hours, at most – like Margaret Thatcher), but there was no doubt – no doubt whatsoever – that sleep was a major factor in the whole scenario; a ‘trigger’.
    Nobody dared use the word ‘narcolepsy’, and certainly not in front of him (he was German. Self-reliance was his watchword – and clarity, and precision). There was a stigma – Dory felt – with this particular condition, because of its inevitable connection with childhood trauma; the underlying sense of an inability to cope. At some fundamental level Dory closely aligned coping with his masculinity (coping was something he needed to do, and do well, to be a successful male).
    Isidore’s finer feelings aside, however, narcolepsy was definitely one of the medical conditions which best fitted his particular combination of symptoms. It didn’t fit completely (symptoms could be like that). Elen said it was as though Dory was missing a shoe, and narcolepsy was a slipper (ie they were related, but not entirely compatible). Beede found this description telling. He found it apt.
    The other unsayable word was – but of course – schizophrenia. This word made everybody panic (even Elen). But it was not a fearful word for Beede. For Beede it was just a combination of letters which didn’t even feature in his old Pocket Oxford. The closest they came to it there was ‘schist’; a kind of crystalline rock, whose components were arranged in distinct layers. Beede liked that. He’d tried to tell Elen about it (the ‘layers’ ie the concept of something separate but unified), yet for some reason she seemed to gain no palpable sense of relief from the idea.
    Of course Isidore had been medicated for his condition in the past – so far as it was possible (which wasn’t very far at all), because everydoctor he visited seemed to have a different opinion (and these medical practitioners were few and far between). Dory hated doctors – found them ‘meddlesome’ – flew into a blind panic at the idea of ‘a diagnosis’. To be diagnosed was to be boxed up, to be compartmentalised, to be made separate, to be lost. For Dory a diagnosis represented ‘the death of hope’. His optimism – and he was optimistic, by and large – thrived in unknowing.
    There were some things (some symptoms – side-effects, you might say) which Dory simply wouldn’t factor in during medical consultations (refused to, point-blank, Elen said), and this obviously made it very difficult for any kind of practitioner to complete their medical assessment of him. He could be extremely secretive (for such an extraordinarily ‘open’ person), as if protecting something precious – something vulnerable – inside of him.
    And like nearly all people with serious long-term medical conditions, Dory associated medication – being medicated – with a lot of the bad stuff from his past (things from his childhood which he’d never openly discuss: his mother was over-protective, his father very controlling, the usual stuff). So he was heavily resistant to any kind of ‘help’ (medical, analytical), which obviously made things incredibly difficult…
    ‘ Damn! ’
    Beede suddenly (and unexpectedly) ground to a halt. He put a hand to his chest and drew a deep breath (he was surprisingly short of puff). As he exhaled, he quickly checked his watch. He cursed again. Dory – who was at least ten paces ahead (not even a vague sheen of sweat on him; he was fit as a cheetah) – heard the horse come to a stop. He turned, quick as a flash. ‘Beede? Something wrong?’
    Beede glanced up, almost guiltily. ‘No. Nothing. Just a meeting…’ he shrugged, ‘I’m late. In fact I’ve already missed her. I completely forgot…’
    ‘A meeting at work?’
    ‘No…’ Beede shook his head. ‘Not at work.’
    ‘At home? ’
    Dory looked flabbergasted (this was for comic effect, Beede