Just A Silly Conversation
written by: Dave Whippman
It started with a conversation after a meal. You know those rather contrived discussions that often follow a dinner party in the suburbs. There were five of us round the table: George and Helen, the hosts (who had done us proud with beef Wellington followed by Eton mess); Jane, my better half; yours truly, and Ackroyd.
Don’t think for a moment that Ackroyd was any kind of gooseberry. He’s a handsome sod (and he knows it) and I’ve no doubt he could have brought a female companion if he wished. But he rather likes to be the lone wolf at such gatherings. I guess it’s for the same reason that he prefers to be called by his surname. It’s his persona, the maverick, slightly the outsider. You’ve met the type: clever (he knows that, as well), and he loves to play devil’s advocate. I’d suspect him of being an online troll, except that he likes to look his victims in the face when he riles them.
It was Ackroyd who got the ball rolling. “I’ve been giving serious thought as to whether vampires might actually exist.”
“Serious thought about vampires? A contradiction in terms!” said George.
“I agree,” Ackroyd replied, “if you’re thinking of the 1960s horror film rubber bat on strings and plastic fangs type of thing. But that’s not what I had in mind.”
“Give us the benefit of your wisdom, do,” said Jane. My wife is always a bit hostile towards Ackroyd. A lot of women are, I guess, because they both dislike and fancy him. Mind you, I trust Jane totally.
“Well,” he said, “let’s admit that first of all, if such beings existed, you wouldn’t look for them in the Carpathian mountains or some such place. They would be found in an urban environment. More food, and better concealment. The same is true of plenty of species – rats, seagulls, and so forth.
“Then,” he continued, “where precisely would we look for them? I think we might well find them – don’t take this personally, Jane – in the caring professions.”
I should mention that Jane is a counsellor and therapist in the local health authority, and a damned good one at that. Of course, she did take it personally. “Don’t you think my clients might notice if I started biting their necks?”
Ackroyd was undeterred. “Oh, it’s nothing as crude as that. What if these things fed on emotion, not blood? Fear, grief, misery.”
“That’s hardly a groundbreaking idea,” I chipped in. “I mean, there’s actually a German word for getting off on the misery of others. Shandyfraud or something.”
”Schadenfreude,” Helen corrected. “But he’s right, Ackroyd. I mean, this is more Jane’s field than mine, but any art therapist knows that a client drawing a vampire indicates an emotionally draining, one-way relationship. Nothing new about it.”
“True,” said Ackroyd, “but I’m visualising someone, or something, that gains real physical sustenance from negative feelings. Thriving with it, languishing if it is withheld. It’s possible. Some dogs will lose the will to live without affection from humans. But these things would need to imbibe the bad feelings I was talking about.
“And isn’t our modern age – the zeitgeist – tailor-made for such beings? I mean, go back a few decades, and it was all about keeping one’s emotions to oneself. Stiff upper lip, real men don’t cry, etc. But now? It’s all about letting your feelings out, working through things. Everyone is so precious. If you hear somebody fart, you need counselling! Everyone is baring their soul. All that misery on display! These creatures must be thriving like rats on a corporation rubbish tip! Hence, what I said earlier about Jane’s line of work.”
He was in full flow now. “And isn’t it a bit suspicious that people seem to need all this ‘expert help’ for such a long time? Look at Hollywood, plenty of actors are in therapy for decades! Maybe the professionals have a vested interest in keeping them unhappy?”
“Well, that can be explained in financial terms,” Helen said. “The more they come back, the more they pay. Cash cows. It’s unethical, perhaps, but not sinister.”
“That’s one motive,” Ackroyd agreed. “But maybe they’re also a source of nourishment. Cash cows and dairy cows as well.”
“Hang on,” I said. “You call these people beings, creatures, and whatever. Are you saying they’re not actually human?”
“I’m not sure,” he answered. “Maybe they’re a different branch of humanity. An offshoot. Or maybe, yes, they’re an entirely different species. Of course, they would look like us, but that means little. There are some insects that look exactly like twigs or leaves – but are an utterly different form of life.”
The gathering broke up soon afterwards, perhaps because George and Helen could see how upset Jane was. When we got home, she went straight to bed. I watched telly for a bit, then joined her.
“You shouldn’t let Ackroyd get to you,” I told her, slipping an arm round her shoulder. “You know what a wind-up artist he is.”
She snuggled into me. “I know, but he’s so bloody glib. And he hasn’t a clue. I could tell him things, if it weren’t for client confidentiality.
“When you train, they tell you not to get involved. But it’s so hard sometimes. Maybe I shouldn’t even tell you this, but I’ve had this woman on my books for a month or so. She’s in an abusive relationship. When her partner isn’t knocking her about, he’s playing mind games with her. She’s heartbroken and bewildered. Last week, she broke down in the middle of a session. The misery was just radiating from her! I couldn’t do this, of course, it would have been unprofessional, but I just wanted to put my arms round her, to take all that feeling.”
“That’s understandable,” I told her. “You’re human, and you wanted to comfort another human.”
She kissed me on the cheek. “You’re so sweet. Yes, of course that’s exactly what I meant.”
Oddly, as I was drifting off to sleep, I could have sworn I heard her giggle. Imagination, of course.
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