Man of Ruin Page 5

  I thought vaguely of my parents and what they were doing over in Kent. Garden-related it would definitely be. I dismissed that thought as quickly as it had come, for I despised my parents and they hardly cared for me, especially since I had quit uni, started talking “like someone from the estates,” broke up with Alice and buggered off here to Crawley. What would they think of my current predicament? Being that they, like my neighbours, were broadly representative of the UK’s population of Daily Mail readers, I found it strangely warming to think that they would probably advocate having me put down. At the very least, I would make a great scare story and a lesson for all young people out there to eat your greens, get some exercise, settle down and vote Tory.

  My mind full of such nonsense, I reached the concrete path that laced around Hope Park. On the other side were parked cars, a road, the town, the wider world that didn’t seem to have any place for me anymore—at least not the appropriate toilet facilities. What should I do? Where should I go? I had no clue at all.

  Spotting a bench nearby, I walked to it, vaguely hoping to figure something out.

  I plonked my behind down and shoved my hands into my pockets.

  So now what?

  I considered my options. I obviously knew what was happening to me was next-level weird. I mean, it was just plain freaky. Perhaps there was someone out there who could help me find out what the hell was going on, but I doubted that would be easy at all. Who’d ever heard of pee of destruction for Christ’s sake? No, my priority had to be simply finding somewhere I could be without destroying stuff. A place to safely live with whatever it was I had. Then I could look into what this affliction possibly was and the reasons for it, though at this stage, I couldn’t even begin to imagine—I’d seen enough horror movies. I didn’t even want to think about that. Not yet.

  So the first point, really important, was to keep things simple. I needed to wee. I would always need to wee. Possibly even number twos were dangerous, though I pushed that horrific thought straight to the back of my mind. I’d cross that bridge when I came to it. The basic point was I couldn’t go around destroying toilets everywhere I went. Parks were an obvious option, yet one that was still fraught with danger. What if I was seen? What if I had another accident with a tree or some other unforeseen difficulty should arise? What if, say, I peed on a spot where a Second World War bomb lay beneath? It sounded ridiculous, but it was possible.

  Nowhere was safe for me—nowhere where there were people and things. There were bad places and less bad places. For now, at least, my life was going to have to be a constant selection of safe-to-pee spots. I would spend my days slinking from spot to spot, always one eye over my shoulder, always the fear that this pee could be my last. It was a sphincter of fate but one I just had to get to grips with.

  Next question. Should I go home, back to the flat? I imagined the landlord and my neighbours waiting for me there. I knew I could pull off a lie or two, but it seemed impossible to explain what had happened without a string of absolute whoppers, all of which would easily get found out. For one thing, I hadn’t been to Guildford, never had been, and had no friends there whatsoever. They’d soon discover there’d been no break-in or anything like that. The whole incident could probably pass as a great mystery, perhaps dismissed as some kind of freak accident—that is, if it wasn’t for my neighbours. To them, it would be obvious that, through some crazy, laddish stunt, I had caused the destruction of my toilet. I could hear them saying the words: “Typical, he isn’t even man enough to admit it.”

  They’d be partly right, at least. Bottom line, nothing good would come from the mess I’d made of my toilet, and I could see no advantage to going back and facing things, aside from sleeping in my bed and having access to my stuff. That was important. Really. I couldn’t just wander the streets.

  The more I thought about it, the more I grew angry. The whole thing was just one big pile of poo that had been dropped in my lap. Was I the doer of great wrong in all this? Of any wrong? Why did I have to struggle and suffer now? Was it my fault my wee had gone radioactive? Had I intentionally destroyed anything?

  I considered that last point. In the pub the night before, it had been accidental. But later, in the playground, that was pure drunken antics; there was really no calling for that. I deserved a get-out-of-jail card for what happened in my flat, since at that point I was still so hungover I could barely remember my name, let alone the previous night. But at the hospital? Could I have avoided that? I suppose I could have, somehow. Only it was impossible to locate the exit and I’d really needed to pee! The whole thing just wasn’t fair!

  This fretting was getting me nowhere, so I attempted to paint a more forgiving picture of my case. Something absolutely unbelievable was happening to me, happening somewhere no less problematic than right there in my underpants. It impinged on essential daily needs that other people barely gave a second thought to. Yes, I had been a fool, but wasn’t that understandable? Wasn’t I under a great deal of stress and strain? Wasn’t I going through some kind of metamorphosis that no man had ever gone through before? People can be forgiven for acting mental when pushed up against a wall. And I was pushed up hard. Very hard. My balls were almost literally in a vice.

  Then it struck me. I had to get help. Professional help. How could I ever expect to solve this on my own!

  I stood up, shaking the worry from my face.

  This was a physical problem. An anatomical problem. What I needed was a doctor. Why hadn’t I thought of that before?

  CHAPTER 6

  AS I STOOD IN THE LIFT on my way up to the doctor’s office, it occurred to me that I could have said something to the doctor when I was in the emergency room. Come clean. What was happening was an emergency—at least to me—though I wasn’t dying and it didn’t seem to be threatening my life. At least, I didn’t think I was dying, but what if, actually, I was? Who was to say? After all, super corrosive acid pee was running around my bladder. Who was to say—?

  The lift opened upon the sparse reception room. I stepped out and tapped my name into the touchscreen to await my turn. One or two frail and glum-looking old people were seated, as well as a mother with a small girl on her lap. I sat two seats down from the mother on an otherwise uninhabited row of chairs. The mother ignored me, but the child fixed a stare on me with large, cautious eyes. I smiled and gave her a wave, then watched as her bottom lip quivered, her eyes moistened, and she descended into a bout of loud crying.

  Spot on, I thought.

  *****

  The pinging of my name on the speakers jolted me from my depression. I had almost gotten used to the wailing of the child, which had continued for the past ten minutes or so.

  I stood and was immediately filled with an urgent dread. Hang on a minute, I thought. What am I actually going to tell this doctor? How could I possibly explain what was happening without sounding like a complete joker? This was an urgent question to which I had no good answer.

  “David Smith?” the receptionist said, glaring at me. “Dr York is waiting for you.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said, removing the finger of contemplation I had pressed to a corner of my lips.

  Consumed with apprehension, I proceeded down the corridor to the door of Dr York’s office. I crossed my fingers and hoped she wouldn’t have me committed. The toilets in those places might have been suicide-proof, but as far as I knew, they were still constructed from old-fashioned porcelain.

  *****

  Dr York was a bored-looking, smartly dressed woman with straight brown hair cut in a neat line at her neck. She greeted me curtly with an overly fake smile and a distinct air of hurriedness and invited me to sit down on the small chair she had arranged to one side of her computer-clad desk.

  “Now, what seems to be the problem?” she said.

  The exact series of words I had been dreading.

  I took a deep breath. On the spur of the moment, I decided to go all in.

  “I’ve been peeing acid. Well, I
think it’s acid. It’s bright green and really strong, like enough to bring down trees. Anything it touches is destroyed. And there’s this smell. It doesn’t matter what it is. Wood, metal, water—”

  “Alright, I’ve heard enough.”

  “Excuse me?”

  She had cut me off abruptly, raising her voice, reminding me of how the headmistress had spoken to me after I’d started one of my famous ink fights in the school canteen.

  “You can leave now. I’m not interested in playing your games.”

  She moved to look at some papers, ignoring me sitting there, waiting for me to leave.

  “I’m serious,” I said.

  “Of course you are. Now get out.”

  She returned to the shuffling of papers. Her lack of interest in even questioning me a little bit wound me up big time. That was plain rude. Plus, what if I had been a genuine psychiatric case in need of care? What if I did need committing? It just didn’t seem like professional treatment.

  “Look,” I said, “I can give you a demonstration if you like. I’d rather not though, for your sake. I don’t want to ruin this place.”

  She stared at me blankly, clearly bored and frustrated. When I didn’t flinch, she let out a deep sigh.

  “Alright,” she said, irritation flowing through her.

  She stood up and went over to some shelves. When she had found what she was looking for, she walked back, holding out a large beaker for me to take.

  “What’s that?” I said, looking at it.

  “Go on then,” she said. “Show me. You can use this.”

  “But I told you. My urine has turned into acid and it—”

  “This beaker is chemical-resistant. Look, I really don’t appreciate the time you’re wasting here. If you insist on showing me your urine, then do so using this. If not, get out.”

  I stared at the beaker, biting my bottom lip. It looked like an ordinary beaker to me. I didn’t care what it was made from; I was absolutely certain it would be melted to mush in milliseconds.

  Ah well, I thought, taking it from her. She was going to be in for a nasty surprise.

  “I’ll do it over here, if you don’t mind.”

  I walked over to the other side of the room, unzipped, then hesitated.

  “Can’t we do this outside?” I said meekly. “In the park maybe?”

  She just glared at me.

  “Alright,” I said. “But I won’t be held responsible for any damage caused to your office.”

  “Just get on with it,” she said, shaking her head.

  Fine, I thought. Have it your way.

  I placed the beaker on a bare section of the carpeted floor by the wall, just below the window. I hung over it, low, so as to ensure I could pee directly into it, just in case, in some crazy turn of events, it did actually hold my wee. I wasn’t bursting like before, but it didn’t take long for me locate a beaker’s worth hiding away somewhere in my bladder. It dripped out at first but quickly became what I would describe as a light tinkle.

  The results were instantaneous. The beaker popped and melted, and the emerald liquid flowed out from the gashes of its creation. As it trickled over the carpet, the fibres became blackened and smoky, as if an unseen fire had set them ablaze. The floor cracked, then the wall. Soon plaster was flaking away where the floor met the paintwork, revealing bricks that were themselves then carved away like sand. In moments the bricks above began caving down. A section of the window slipped and smashed down onto the ground outside.

  “God!”

  The doctor was stood behind me now. I turned and saw the horror in her eyes as she stared down to the car park through the messy hole of plaster I’d made.

  “Look what you’ve done to the wall!”

  “I know,” I said. “I told you to come outside!”

  It took her some time to get over the initial shock. She just stood there staring at it, a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide and glistening.

  “I can’t believe it,” she said.

  Then she said it again for good measure.

  “The colour . . . The potency . . .”

  The door swung open and the receptionist skated in.

  “Dr York!” she said. “Are you alright? I heard a noise. What’s going on in here?”

  I saw a wave of suspicion flash across her face as she saw me standing there. Thank God I had zipped up.

  “Oh yes,” said Dr York, laughing to herself in a way that I found to be slightly unhinged. “I’m fine.”

  The receptionist approached us cautiously, staring in wonder at the untidy gap in the wall and at the scorched floor.

  “What on earth?” she said.

  “It’s alright, Maureen,” said Dr York, turning to her. “Was anybody hurt?”

  “Not as far as I know, no. Lucky your office faces behind.”

  “Indeed,” said Dr York.

  The receptionist peered at me, still that suspicion in her eyes.

  “Lucy,” she said, facing the doctor again, almost as if she was talking to a child. “What happened?”

  “Please give me some time with my patient now, Maureen,” said Dr York, springing out of her reverie. “As long as no one is hurt, we can fix all this later, can’t we?”

  “Yes . . .” said Maureen. “I suppose. I’ll call the . . .” She paused, a blank look on her face. “Who should I call?”

  “Why don’t you call the managing agents? Get someone over to look at the damage. And David and I can use a different room. It’s getting chilly in here.”

  “Alright,” said Maureen, staying put.

  “Well run along, Maureen, would you, dear?” said Dr York, fully recovering her air of authority.

  Maureen left, glancing over her shoulder at me.

  Dr York turned to face me.

  “I owe you an apology, young man,” she said.

  “That’s alright,” I said. “I wouldn’t have believed me either.”

  She indicated for us to leave the room.

  “Sorry about the damage,” I said.

  “That’s okay. Walls and floors can be fixed.”

  She led me to a room further down the hallway, closing the door behind me and indicating for me to sit down. It was laid out the same as her office, and once again I found myself sitting and facing her behind a desk; only this time she did not look so bored.

  “Well, David,” she said, laughing again in that unnerving, hysterical way. “I am afraid we have a problem here. I have no idea what to do with you.”

  I nodded, hating the words but understanding completely.

  “As far as I am aware, this has never occurred in the history of medicine.”

  “Right.”

  “And whatever it is, I must admit I can’t help being somewhat excited by it. You, young man, are an oddity and a miracle. Quite how you are still alive is beyond me. As far as I can see, your internal organs should no longer be functioning. I don’t understand why you have not simply been dissolved from the inside, why your guts haven’t spewed out from your belly. And your penis, well—”

  This was not helpful at all.

  “Please, Doctor. I need to know what to—”

  “But these are only the unexplainable effects of what is happening to you.” She continued her speculations, ignoring me entirely. “As to how or why your body is generating such a corrosive substance . . . that is entirely beyond me. It’s as if your organs have undergone some kind of industrial transformation, as if you yourself have become a sort of . . . chemical works. As if—”

  “Please, Doctor!” I shouted, feeling sick.

  She stopped mid-sentence and looked at me with a smile, not fake like before and all the more unnerving for being genuine.

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “Please forgive me. I am just . . . in awe. And completely flummoxed.”

  “So basically, I’m screwed.”

  She seemed to consider this comment seriously, again for longer than I found comfortable.

  “Let’s thi
nk things through together and we can decide on a suitable course of action,” she said.

  I nodded, hoping that might lead somewhere yet doubting that more and more.

  “First things first, I am not qualified to deal with this.”

  “Neither am I . . .” I said.

  “No,” she said, frowning at me. “The question is, who is? Ordinarily, anything related to urinary issues should be referred to a urologist. But I should think they would be just as perturbed as I. On the other hand, there aren’t any medical practitioners qualified to deal with this, since, as far as I am aware, it is an entirely new phenomenon. The job at hand, the role of a GP in such cases, is simply to diagnose what the patient needs, as far as possible, and to refer you to the most appropriate specialist. So I simply need to decide who that might be and send you to them. Then it would be up to them to appraise and investigate further . . .”

  She went silent as her mind churned, clearly in a conversation with herself.

  “I don’t mind who you refer me to,” I said. “What I’d really like you to tell me is what I should do.”

  “Do?” she said, suddenly with me again.

  “Yes,” I said. “How can I live like this? You saw what happened. This wasn’t the first time. A man’s got to pee, after all. I’ve already had a few . . . accidents . . . in my flat, last night in the pub, and in the park today.”

  “I see,” she said.

  Then she went off in thought again. This was getting frustrating.

  “So what do you advise?”

  She looked at me, no longer smiling. I could see she was calculating her next words very carefully, the professional mask returning, just as when I first stepped into her office.

  “I wish there was more I could do for you,” she said. “Being totally honest, I am sorry to say your case has me completely in shock. Now, if as you say there has been damage to property, my advice would be to get in touch with the police immediately. In fact, I will go one step further and say that if you do not, it is my duty to inform the authorities. Perhaps, actually, we can do that now? Call the authorities together?”