Introduction
Group Therapy
The black man waited in the doorway as the Greek tidied up his table, piled up his tobacco and joined him.
“Right, let’s go,” said the Greek, “time for a bit more soul stripping.”
The black man smiled as they walked down the corridor up the dark, spiral staircase to the top floor and turned into the corridor marked with the letter ‘B’. The letter was painted jet black onto the seemingly ancient brickwork; the black man rather admired the building despite himself. They knew how to build, those Victorians. It was the Victorians, wasn’t it? He thought. Yes, it must be, but whoever they were, they knew how to build.
They pulled up outside the classroom and the Greek tried the handle; it was locked.
“Fuck!” he exclaimed.
The black man laughed, “I’ll see if I can find the caretaker.”
He walked off and the Greek smiled, wondering how he could keep in such high spirits day after day. He leaned against the door and stared through the reinforced glass at the bare room. A dozen chairs were stacked neatly in two piles in the far corner. There was a piano against the near wall, it was jammed so close to it that it could have been welded on. There was a small locked cupboard and one low table, nothing else.
The Greek looked at his watch, ten past six already. He looked over the railings and saw a dozen or so people walking leisurely to their classes, then he heard a panting sound beside him; it was John. He turned and smiled.
John breathed heavily, “Ooh, these stairs, they’ll be the death of me, mate.” He thrust out his hand, “how are yer, mate?”
The Greek extended his hand and John added, “Keepin’ all right?”
“Yeah, cheers, thanks,” he said as they shook hands, “Cash is here; he’s just gone to get somebody to unlock the room.”
John steadied his breathing; he was thirty-nine and looked fifty. He had a coarse, hard-looking face, the face of a sadist or a psychopath, but it was a face that lied about its owner’s temperament and character even more than it lied about his age. He was short, no more than five feet seven, very stocky, his hair was scruffy and fell about his ears in untidy locks, but apart from that he was well dressed in a three piece suit, white shirt and tie, polished shoes. He carried a small flexible case, which was pressed under his left arm; taking a cigarette packet from his pocket, he flicked it open and offered one to the Greek.
“Ta,” said the Greek, “‘ave any trouble parkin’?”
“No, I came by train tonight,” he said. “Don’t ‘ave t’be at work tomorrow, so thought I’d go for a jar afterwards. Asked the wife if she’d meet me downtown, but she said she didn’t fancy comin’ out tonight, so I expect she’s watchin’ TV.”
“Don’t blame ’er in this weather,” said the Greek, then looking round he said, “Here’s Cash now.”
The black man was followed by a man carrying a small bunch of keys, “Sorry about that, lads,” he said, “don’t see the point of locking the room really. ‘Spect they’re afraid of someone nickin’ the peanner.”
They all laughed, then John said, “Is that other chap comin’ tonight, Graham?”
“Oh, Mr Murray. Yes, he should be, ’e’s out of the ’ospital now. E’ll ’ave to ’ave an escort though.”
John turned to the black man and felt a twinge of guilt at having momentarily ignored him. “Cash old mate, ‘ow yer keepin’?”
Cash pumped his hand and a smile lit up his handsome face, “Managin’ John, managin’.”
The door was opened for them, “There we are, gents, I’ll see about the other chap.”
“Thanks, Mr Lake,” Cash said as they entered. The tall man jangled his keys as he walked off down the corridor. John offered Cash a cigarette, forgetting his friend’s dislike of the habit.
“Not f’me, ta John; ’ow’s the missus?”
“Oh, yer don’t, do yer? Oh, she’s all right, in good ’ealth if not spirits.”
They closed the door, and with the light on they set about making the room as comfortable as possible. The Greek pulled the curtains. Cash drew up four chairs around the small table. Then they sat down, Cash and the Greek on one side of the table, John on the other. John put the cigarette packet on the table and next to it a box of matches, then he unzipped his case and took out a pile of assorted papers.
“Right gents, let’s see what we’ve got.”
He threw them down onto the table, “Latest copy of the journal.”
Cash picked up one of the magazines and studied the cover... NEW LIFE it read in block letters, and underneath in smaller block: JOURNAL OF GAMBLERS ANONYMOUS.
“Some leaflets here too, Cash,” said John.
“Yeah, ta John.”
John and the Greek made small talk while Cash read the journal. They were all three just making themselves comfortable when John looked at Cash and said, “Anyone else coming tonight, Cash?”
“Only that Murray bloke.”
“What about that Irish fella?”
“No, he’s been transferred.”
John nodded, “Then that just leaves...” he broke off, “talk of the devil.”
He stood up as a man on crutches was led into the room by two uniformed helpers. He was tall, muscular, fair-haired and his eyes were slightly glazed. His helpers led him to a chair.
“All right, old love?” one asked.
“Yes thanks.”
He spoke fluently, and despite his somewhat somnolent appearance, he was wide awake and aware of everything that was going on. He eased his plastered leg into a comfortable outstretched position and sat back holding his crutches, lowering them gently; his helpers left the room. John stood up and crossed to where he sat. He held out his hand, “Glad you could make it; will you be coming every week?”
“Yes,” said the fair-haired man, “I hope so.”
They shook hands firmly. “Smoke?” enquired John.
“No thank you, one bad habit is enough.”
He smiled freely as he spoke.
John sat down and suppressed a smile.
“Ever been to a GA meeting before?” he asked the newcomer.
“No, no, never.”
“Well, I’d best explain what we’re about.” He flicked his cigarette ash on the bare floor and went on: “Firstly, my name is John; the black fella is Cash; the Greek fella is Steve. You are Guy. We only use first names. That’s all we need. We all of us have two things in common – (a) we’re all of us compulsive gamblers – (b) we’ve all of us made a resolution to stop gambling. We all want to stop.
Now before I go any further I must make one thing absolutely clear. Whatever I say, or you say, or anybody else says in this room goes no further.
“I’ve been a... I’ll do it properly: my name is John and I’m a compulsive gambler. I’ve been coming to GA meetings regularly for the past four years and I’m secretary of the Acton branch. I’ve been a compulsive gambler for twenty-three years, since I was sixteen. During that time I’ve stolen, I’ve broken the law on numerous occasions, I’ve robbed my children’s piggy banks to subsidise my gambling. I’ve got one broken marriage behind me.
I’ve lied. I’ve cheated. I’ve attempted suicide on account of my gambling. I’ve been in the gutter. Over the past four and a half years I’ve attended over three hundred GA meetings and I’ve heard stories that would break your heart. Believe me, whatever you’ve done. Whatever has happened to you because of your gambling, I’ve seen it before.
“Nobody in this room is any better or any worse than anyone else. We’re all of us where we are now because of gambling, and we’re all determined to do something about it. And nothing anybody says in this room goes any further: right?”
Guy nodded his head slowly; John fished on the table in front of him.
“Right, there’s some stuff for you here.”
He walked over to Guy taking with him several pieces of paper and pressed them one at a time into his hand.
“New Life, he said, “that’s our journal. You can read that later. There’s various leaflets here, and this is our bible.”
He held up a small, slim sixteen-page booklet.
“It tells you a few things about GA and the GA recovery programme.”
John sat down again.
“Right, we have a saying in GA, that is that every gambler has his rock bottom. It’s different for each of us, but when we reach it, we know we’re there. That is the lowest we are prepared to sink, so from there, the only place that we can go is up. Rock bottom for you is different from rock bottom for me, or Cash or Steve here. Or from any other compulsive gambler.
“We all of us know that by gambling we’re destroying ourselves; we’re always looking for that one big win, but it never comes. When we lose, we come back a soon as possible to recoup our losses. When we win, we’ve never won enough. We carry on and on until, inevitably, we wind up in one of three places: in prison or some such institution; in the gutter, which is perhaps worse; or in the river, which is definitely worse.
“We all, each and every one of us knows that if we carry on gambling we’re going to wind up in one of these three places. Eventually. Make no mistake Guy, every compulsive gambler who continues to gamble, can, will and does end up either in prison, the gutter or the river. There is no escaping that fact.”
Steve the Greek was listening intently to every word John said. Cash though was not, he was thinking, thinking of the past. Then as John continued, one word he said caught fast in the black man’s mind.
“Gambling has, for each and every one of us been a nightmare...” Cash heard the word and it echoed over and over again through his brain, each time a little louder. Nightmare... nightmare... nightmare... NIGHTMARE!
Cash closed his eyes and thought back to when he was fourteen years old; he hadn’t realised it for a long time, but for him, that was when the nightmare had begun.
