by Peter Hall
Cal sighed. “I don’t really know. I could pretend I didn’t want to put us in their debt, but that’s bullshit. The truth is, I was okay in their company for a short time, but it quickly became… uncomfortable, is the best way to describe it. All those questions about where we’d been and what we’d done.”
“So what’s wrong with that? They were just curious about us. It’s completely natural. Most folk would be glad to talk about their adventures. I would. It’s called conversation.”
“I know. Sorry.”
Juliet was glaring at him. “You talk of settling down somewhere, but in reality you can’t spend more than an hour with strangers without getting anxious. Strangers are only strangers until you get to know them. We’ll never find a permanent home if you run away after an hour.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t just keep saying ‘sorry’ and stop talking. That doesn’t help, you irritating man. Tell me what’s happening in that excuse for a brain you’ve got.”
Cal sat back and pondered how to respond, but before he formulated a reply, Juliet continued. “Part of the problem is this macho persona you’ve created for yourself, isn’t it?”
Cal frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve invented this false past in which you’re a combat veteran and military superhero. I understand why you did it. But it’s doing more harm than good—if it ever did any good. Are you aware that individuals with autism are notoriously terrible liars?”
“Yes, I was told about that and I do hate deception—both giving and receiving.”
“And yet you’ve set yourself up so you have to lie about your past to everyone you meet. Doesn’t that seem a little bit bonkers?”
“Well, if you put it that way.”
“Cal, there’s nothing wrong with your past. You were a web developer, and I’d put money on the fact that you were a damn good one.”
“Yeah, well—”
“It’s a skilled job. Not everyone could do it. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. I understand you want to be seen as a military expert, but you served in the T.A. infantry for seven years and you studied warfare for decades. So you are a military expert. Why invent a load of bollocks about fighting in Syria when you’ve never set foot in the country?”
“That’s a fair point. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I didn’t anticipate the consequences. It probably was a mistake.”
Juliet sipped her tea. “Well, it’s decent of you to admit that. Thank you. And stop poking the stew.”
“Sorry.”
“And stop saying sorry.”
“Sorr—” He drank from his mug. “There’s something else.”
Juliet sat up. “Well, go on.”
“Remember I’ve said I’d received therapy for my autism.”
“Yeah. You’ve never wanted to talk about that, but I’ve wondered about it.”
“Well, I had an awful lot of therapy—the ‘full monty’. No expense spared. Personal tutors, child psychologists, mental games, coordination exercises. I had more therapists than relatives. All from the age of three, for Christ’s sake.”
“When did it stop?”
“The therapy? I don’t think it ever did.”
Cal read the confused look on Juliet’s face. “What I mean is Mum was always trying to push me and encourage me to socialise and leave my ‘comfort zone’ as she called it.”
“Oh, I see. Mothers do that. In her eyes, you’d always be her little boy.”
“Yeah. Well, I suppose I can’t blame her. The psychologist sold this package to my mum as some sort of fix. Dr Kendall told her the human brain is very plastic in young children, so can be moulded. He said they could re-wire my brain.”
“Well, I’m not sure I agree with that. If it were possible, there’d be no adults with autism. They taught me autism is a fundamental part of the personality. You simply can’t train somebody out of it, only help them cope with it better.”
“That’s my point. What if all the therapy didn’t re-wire my brain? What if the results of all those therapies was I learnt some new tricks, habits and behaviours which help me fit into normal society? A couple of years back, Mum wondered whether she’d been right to try to normalise me. She was afraid she’d created… what did she call it? A hybrid. Somebody who was no longer happy alone, but unable to mix socially. The worst of both worlds. I’m starting to think all I got was a bunch of coping techniques which need to be practised, or I lose them again.”
Juliet moved closer and put her arm around him.
“I think I understand. You’re worried you’ve been on your own for so long now you’re losing your ability to mix with others? Perhaps regressing back into full-on autistic behaviour?”
“Yeah. Something like that. Thinking back, the first months following the Death were great for me. I could do whatever I wanted, and there was plenty of everything. That must sound awful when most survivors were in terrible shock and grief. But for me, months passed before I felt any sort of loneliness. Even then, all I needed was an occasional meal with other travellers. Just before I met you, I was in a dilemma. I realised travelling alone on the road was becoming untenable, and I was genuinely missing human company. Yet the idea of joining with another group terrified me. I’d have to be sociable and fit in with others and lose all my freedom.”
“And then you met me?”
“That’s right, and it was perfect. We just clicked, and you fulfilled all my needs for company. If the two of us could just keep travelling forever, I’d be a happy bunny. I realise that’s not normal, or even healthy. And I understand that most folks, including you, need a social circle of friends and colleagues—but I don’t.”
“Cal, that sounds so sad. And you know, living like we do is becoming impossible. Scavenging, or whatever else you want to call it, is getting more and more difficult. We have to settle down somewhere and you’ve said yourself we can’t be self-sufficient on our own.”
Cal nodded. “Very true. It’s driving me crazy. I can’t live with people and I can’t live without them.”
“Listen to me. You’ve been to uni and held a regular job. So you can live with other people. We just need to find a settlement which is right for us. Perhaps one where we get our own house, or living quarters. I’m a doctor and you’re a military guru, so any settlement will be glad to have us. I reckon you just need more practice being with people. The longer you spend mixing with others, the better you’ll get at it. If you make an effort to socialise, to meet others, to talk—and I mean really talk—then eventually those techniques may become ingrained, habitual, and you won’t have to make so much of an effort anymore.”
“I guess you’re right. I’ll tell you what, the next time we meet people, I’ll try really hard to be more sociable. Promise.”
“And less of an arsehole?”
“Yes, much less of an arsehole.”
“And will you seriously think about dropping this military hero bullshit?”
“Okay. I’ll think about it.”
“Good. Thanks, Cal. That’s all I can ask for.” Juliet squeezed his hand. “That stew must be ready, if you haven’t poked it to death. I’m starving.”
Shit. What have I let myself in for?
CHAPTER 19
John's Exploding Disc
TIMELINE: 2 years before Yellow Death
“Panic is a sudden desertion of us, and a going over to the enemy of our imagination.”
Christian Nevell Bovee (1820–1904)
John was attending a battle-shoot weekend. They were highly popular and one of John’s favourites in the T.A. training schedule. This was a chance to have a go at live firing every infantry weapon in the British Army’s inventory. There would also be the opportunity to try out interactive firing ranges where they would practice moving through realistic terrain whilst targets popped up from the ground. The experience was real ‘Boy’s Own’ adventure stuff, the type of thing John had joined the T.A. to do.
Unfort
unately, there was much preparation. Transporting mountains of ammunition from the armoury to the firing ranges was hard and boring work. Everybody helped and there was a long line of soldiers outside the armoury. In turns, they walked through the small armoured door and returned a few seconds later, straining under the weight of a metal box or canister.
John waited in line with the other troops. The soldier in front of John was a behemoth—over six feet tall and built like a yeti on steroids. Four ammo boxes remained in the current stack and yeti-man bent to pick up two of them. Most soldiers carried only one box at a time.
John was proud of his physical fitness, so followed the example of yeti-man. He bent over to grab the two crates on the floor. They were an awkward shape, with sharp edges. He bent lower and lifted with all his strength. Nothing. The crates refused to budge. He was aware of the others watching him from outside the door. It would be humiliating to have tried and failed, so he braced and prepared for another supreme effort.
“Aaaargh!”
Instant white-hot, searing agony exploded in his spine. It was as if molten lava had been poured on his bare skin—but worse, because this was inside him—the most excruciating pain imaginable, and it did not lessen as the seconds passed. His torso was in spasm, forcing him into rigidity. Embarrassing as it was, he could not straighten up, nor lower himself to the ground. John had become a statue.
“You okay, mate?” the man behind him said. John could only whimper in response. It took four of them to carry him out of the bunker and lay him on the grass, curled into a ball and moaning.
He spent several pain filled hours in the local Accident and Emergency Department until a doctor gave him the bad news.
“The X-ray’s show that you have a prolapsed disc.”
“A what?”
“Your spine consists of bones―vertebrae―that are separated and cushioned by shock-absorbing flexible discs. These intervertebral pads have a soft inner core. You put too much pressure on a disc when you tried to lift that weight. Essentially, it burst and is now pressing on the nerves of your spinal cord. Most people call this problem a slipped disc, but it hasn’t actually slipped, more like exploded.”
“Oh, Christ. That sounds bad.”
“Well, it’s not good. The disc will heal by itself, but it’ll take some time. Unfortunately, there’ll always be a weakness and a predisposition to aggravate the problem. Also, the damaged disc will be misshapen and flattened, so it won’t do such a good job of absorbing shock. There’ll be a tendency for the disc to press and squeeze nerves in your spinal column, causing pain. If it becomes persistent, we can refer you to a specialist pain clinic and, as a last resort, there’s the option of surgery. But we’re a long way from thinking along those lines. With any luck, in time you’ll make a full recovery.”
The doctor gave John a professional, patronising smile, which was unconvincing.
An ambulance transported John home, flat on his back. He felt as if a white-hot knife was inserted between his vertebra. Every bump in the road brought a fresh wave of agony.
John spent the next four weeks almost exclusively lying down, except for when he needed to go to the toilet, when he braced himself for torment and crawled on all fours. Valium and Ibuprofen dulled the pain, but only morphine provided respite, and the doctor never let him have enough. The simplest activities, such as washing and shaving, involved Herculean feats of courage and endurance, leaving him drained. Alcohol became his route to escape from the suffering.
No position was remotely comfortable. Any movement caused pain, yet remaining motionless soon generated even more discomfort. The constant agony meant he only slept when overcome by complete exhaustion. Then he might slip into blissful unconsciousness for an hour or two. Besides the physical pain, there was fear. Was this his existence from now on?
Doing his job was out of the question. Pain, drugs and booze dulled his concentration and using a laptop lying on his back was impractical.
He remembered telling his mother that as long as he was able to move his fingers, he could work. How wrong he was.
Weeks turned to months, with passaging time marked by weekly visits from a physiotherapist to record his so-called progress and adjust his therapeutic exercise regime. Even the physiotherapist struggled to stay positive. John watched Winter turn to Spring and then Summer through the windows of his chalet.
He worked his way through a variety of pain relief machines and devices bought off the internet, but only booze brought any meaningful comfort.
Life was miserable and tedious. Hours felt like years. The chilling prospect of spinal surgery began to sound more and more tempting.
John’s Journal: Age 32
Received a letter today from the Army. I’ve been medically discharged, in other words, scrapped. I’m not surprised. It’s been 18 months since I fucked up my back and it doesn’t seem to get much better. None of my so-called T.A. buddies have contacted me for months, but I’ve not contacted them either. I actually thought I had real friends, but it appears not.
I do those exercises the physio gave me religiously—despite the pain. Occasionally, there’s an improvement, but if I make a sudden movement, or twist without thinking, it’s back to square one.
Mornings are the worst. I always wake with my back in a spasm. Just getting out of bed is agony. It loosens up after a while, but I’ve got to move carefully to avoid aggravating it. I get about in slow motion like a snail. Painkillers don’t seem to do much. A few shots of vodka help—the pain is still there under the surface but feels more distant. Mum refuses to buy me more than a bottle a week, so I’ve been ordering booze online. Eventually Mum will guess and I’m not sure what she’ll do then—probably start vetting the mail.
Mum paid a surprise visit to my cabin today and said what an awful mess it was and there was an overpowering stink of sweat, curry and farts. She really lost her rag and I don’t blame her. When I looked in the mirror, it wasn’t a pretty sight. Red sunken eyes and yellow teeth. Not had a haircut or shaved for God knows how long. A hippie would look good in comparison. Anyway, Mum ran back to her cottage in tears. Well done John. Must make an effort to shave and cut my hair tomorrow, for her sake at least. It’s not as if I even like having a beard.
What I’d do for a decent night of sleep. The moment I fall asleep, the back pain starts to increase. At most, I’ll get a two-hour stretch before waking. I wriggle a bit, change position, and then I’m good for another hour or two.
I checked on Brit’s Facebook page today. She’s married with one kid and a second on the way. I considered emailing her, but don’t want her to know how low I’ve sunk.
I’m living off my savings now. It hurts to sit at a desk and I can’t be bothered to do any website coding. Besides, there’s no work. I made a few careless mistakes on the last couple of sites I coded. Not sure whether it was the booze, or lack of sleep. Whatever. There were some bad complaints from clients and new enquiries have dropped off.
Going running is impossible, of course. But I take a short walk up and down the lane each day. Otherwise, I’d never leave the cabin. Beginning to hate these four walls.
Next week I’ve an appointment with a spinal consultant. About bloody time. I’m not getting my hopes up, but I’m desperate to try something different. Surgery is risky and not always successful, but I’m willing to give it a go. Anything is better than this.
“John, what are you doing here?”
“Morning Mum. How’s things? I thought I might have breakfast with you. If that’s okay?”
“Why yes, that’d be lovely, dear. What a nice surprise. We haven’t done that for months.” She closed the cover on her iPad and put it to one side.
John hobbled to the breakfast bar and sat down. The early morning sun through the French doors painted bright rectangles on the floor.
Next door’s rooster gave a raucous ‘cock-a-doodle-doo’.
John smiled. “Blimey. He’s a bit late today. The sun’s been up for hours.
”
Sarah began filling the kettle. “Maybe he had a late night. What about you? How are you? Is there still a lot of pain?”
“It’s worst in the mornings. I’m in my loosening stage at the moment.” He wriggled in his chair. “But, overall, I’m much better. I think I’m seeing some benefit from those cortisone injections. Look at me—I’m actually sitting in a chair like a normal person.”
“That’s wonderful. How long since you had the last injection?”
“About two weeks, so if they’re going to do anything, now’s about the time when I should see some improvements.”
“Fingers crossed. I haven’t soaked any porridge. Would you like toast and marmalade? Coffee?”
“Yes and yes, thanks. Since this is a special occasion, I’ll skip porridge for once.”
“This is lovely, it’s so, well, normal.”
“Yes. And it’s going to be normal again. I’ve wasted enough time moping in my cabin. My back feels stronger than it has for months. If it doesn’t keep improving, I’ll press for surgery. I’ve spent too long lying down.”
She put a mug of steaming coffee in front of him and slid four slices of bread into the toaster. “I’m so glad to hear you say that. Shall I put the news on?”
He sipped his coffee. Hot, strong and smooth, just how he liked it. “Yes, please. Sounds like it’s gone crazy in America. Did you see the reports last night?”
She frowned. “Yes, I did. It’s happened so fast, I can’t keep up with it. They said hospitals in New York were overwhelmed and not taking new admissions. That’s terrible.”
“Yeah. It’s worrying. It’s as if COVID-19 has a faster, meaner older brother. That quarantine’s not turning out well.”
“No. Those scenes of the National Guard soldiers firing on those poor people running through the road blocks. It was horrible.”
The aroma of toasting bread wafted across the room. “That has to be one of the best smells in the world,” John said.
