by Iain Maloney
The lads ran, Isobel crouched next to Marcus, someone’s jacket under his head, his leg at a strange angle, everyone else on the stairs, a fug of adrenaline in the air. Simon phoned an ambulance then his boss while Kenny and his pals tidied up. The night was over. After a minute or two Marcus came round.
‘How do you feel?’ asked Isobel, stroking his head.
‘I can’t feel my leg. What’s wrong with it?’
‘It looks fucked,’ said Bill.
‘Ambulance is coming.’
‘Where’s my whisky?’ said Marcus. Isobel shook her head at the spectators.
A siren echoing around the streets. The paramedics came and struggled in the narrow stairwell to get him on the stretcher, watched by a crowd clutching glasses and exchanging stories and advice, a bar full of amateur doctors each with a diagnosis, a prognosis, none of them good. Isobel collected their coats and followed him into the ambulance.
‘Is his leg broken?’ she asked the paramedic.
‘His hip, I’d say. But we won’t know until he’s had an X-ray. You look like you’ve been in the wars, mate.’
So exhausted, the weight on him. He lay watching the roof of the ambulance sway as they changed lanes, took the corners up to Foresterhill. So fucking tired. This wasn’t living. This wasn’t a fucking life. Pissed it all away.
Four fucking weeks in that bed. Four weeks. Orthopaedics. Not a drink in Orthopaedics. Not a drop. A desert. Fuck, he’d kill for a drink. Anything. Campari. Cinzano Bianco. Anything. Maybe not McEwan’s Export. He had some standards.
No, he didn’t. He had no standards and it only took three days to prove it. The DTs. Shakes. Hallucinations. They’d had to sedate him, heavily at first so he wouldn’t do himself any more damage, then bringing the doses down, light sedation, just enough Diazepam to keep him groggy. After two weeks the physiotherapy started, but they kept the drugs in him, the Diazepam, the painkillers, huge doses of vitamins. The cravings were awful, the anger. He was thankful for the drugs. Under sedation he didn’t dream.
Isobel came every day after work, after lunch on the weekends. Up Helly Aa had been and gone without either of them there. She’d chuck him now for sure, now she’d seen it, what was inside of him. But she came back every day.
In the last week a psychologist, Dr Shaw, appeared. He sent her away again.
The next day, Isobel. She had a different face on. Not the bedside face, not the visitor’s face. He guessed it was her work face, her lawyer’s face. They spoke.
The day after, Dr Shaw came back. Isobel came back. They worked out a deal.
‘You’re going home on Friday, Marcus,’ said Dr Shaw, her red hair pulled into a ponytail, a thistle pin on her lapel. She sat on a plastic chair at the foot of his bed. Marcus was propped up, his physio done for the day. ‘Your body has been pinned and fixed, to a point. But you can’t continue like you have been. You’re sick but we can fix that too.’
‘You can make it all better?’
‘We can make it more manageable.’
‘I manage fine.’
Isobel, sat by his shoulder, put a hand on his arm.
‘You have post-traumatic stress disorder, Marcus, which, with treatment, is manageable. You haven’t received treatment. You’ve been self-medicating with alcohol but that doesn’t solve the problem, it just puts it at arm’s length. When you stop drinking, you’re back where you started, yes?’
He hated her being inside his head, but he’d made a deal with Isobel. Treatment or she was gone. She hadn’t worded it like that but that’s what it amounted to.
‘What are you going to do when you leave here on Friday and the sedation that’s been keeping the dreams at bay stops?’
The dreams would come back. He didn’t need her to tell him that. He knew it. Felt it. The dreams would come back.
‘And you are going to drink again, aren’t you?’
A Guinness, ice-cold, condensation beading the glass.
‘Marcus, do you want to stop drinking?’ It was Isobel, but Dr Shaw looked at him like they’d pre-agreed the question.
‘You need to be truthful, Marcus. No one is judging you, but you need to be truthful.’
‘No,’ he said, the word bursting out from somewhere deep. ‘No, I don’t want to stop drinking. I like drinking. I love drinking. I don’t want to stop.’
‘Do you think you can reduce the amount you drink?’ said Dr Shaw.
‘What, aren’t you going to tell me that I have to stop drinking?’
‘Would there be any point? You’ve already planned your first drink, haven’t you?’
He looked at them. Shaw with that endless patience, nothing to rail against. Isobel fiddling with her watch. He was lost. This wasn’t going how he expected. ‘So what are you saying? I can keep drinking?’
‘I’m saying you’re going to regardless of what I tell you, so let’s try something else. Alcoholism is not your major problem. It’s a symptom. If you stop drinking you’ll still have PTSD. You’ll still have nightmares, flashbacks, mood swings, all the rest of it. Alcohol is a crutch. You don’t take the crutch away until the leg is mended. What I propose is this: We treat the PTSD directly through counselling. At the same time we work together, all three of us, to reduce the amount of alcohol you consume. We do both in tandem, reduce your reliance on alcohol while treating the root cause of your need to drink.’
‘I don’t have to stop drinking?’
‘You should stop. If you don’t it’ll kill you. But going cold turkey isn’t going to work. What I’m proposing is common in these situations. It works.’
‘How does that sound, Marcus?’ Isobel asked. ‘We can do this together.’
He walked with a cane, this horrible metal thing that looked like it came in a set with a bed pan and a kidney dish. His mobility would improve, slowly, but his days of munros and running were over. Walking. Soft inclines. That was his range now.
Checked out. Discharged. He thanked the nurses, the doctors. Dr Shaw came by again and they worked out a schedule and a plan for his sessions. Achievable goals were discussed and agreed. Number of units. Number of drinks.
Isobel waiting with a taxi, the crisp February air rushing into his lungs. He took a breath, another. Shuffled like an old man, angled his body into the back seat. Isobel patient, the meter running.
Just a month but the city looked new to him, down Westburn Road and Hutcheon Street, onto George Street. By his old home to his new home. His one-bedroom above the kebab shop. One, two, three, hup out and he fumbled for his keys as Isobel paid. He felt like crying and didn’t know why. Key in, up the stairs to the first floor, a step at a time, rest. He had to get Isobel to push the door, the weight of junk mail behind it, he had no strength, no pivot to rely on. The flat was dark, stank like a crime scene.
‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘Maybe you should come back when I’ve had a chance to clean up.’
‘I’ll help.’
The mail on the floor. That would take him a good ten minutes to pick up. ‘I don’t deserve you.’
‘Let’s get some air in here.’ She opened the curtains, hoisted the windows up. The remnants of his life, still boxed, sat in the living room. He’d dumped most of the furniture, put Carrie’s things in storage. He’d never found the energy to unpack. Temporary. Everything, temporary. He needed a drink.
Isobel pulled coffee and milk from her plastic bag. He followed her into the kitchen. The bin was rotten, the milk in the fridge now a fountain of life. He eased himself into one of the two kitchen chairs he’d kept. ‘This is fucking depressing. Let’s go out.’
‘No. It just needs a bit of care.’ She looked around the kitchen, opened a few cupboards and drawers, her lips moving as she totted something up. ‘Right, you sit there. I’ll be back in a minute.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘The corner shop. I’m not drinking out of those cups until they’ve been thoroughly scrubbed.’
A thought. He fought it. The words rose like
vomit. ‘Bring back a bottle of something.’ He disgusted himself. She’d be out of the door and gone and he’d deserve that too.
‘I’ll think about it. You don’t want to drink your entire ration before lunch. Strip the sheets off your bed and put them in the machine.’
The tears came. ‘I don’t deserve you. This. I’m—’
‘Strip the bed. In the machine. I’ll be back in a minute.’
The click of the door. Stark. Stated like that. Life or death.
The bed, the original marital bed. Another fucking crime scene. He got the sheets in the machine, some clothes on the floor, the worst offenders he hooked with his stick, shoved them in too. Enough for at least two loads and no garden to dry them in. How many minutes was that? The remaining clothes he pushed into a pile, like a park keeper with leaves, added the two sets of pyjamas Isobel had bought him from Marks and Spencer.
Key in the lock. The relief, he thought he was going to cry again, skin hot, heart rising. She had three bags, all different. The neck of a bottle sticking out. Just one. Maybe there were cans as well. ‘Let me help you.’
‘No, you sit down.’
He wanted that bottle. Who was she to keep it from him?
She placed a cold palm on his cheek. ‘It’s going to be hard.’
The heat eased out of him. It was there. He could wait. Four weeks. Another few minutes were okay.
‘Right, Hop-along, you do the dishes, I’ll deal with the rubbish and the washing.’ She handed him a bottle of washing up liquid and some rubber gloves, propelled him gently to the sink. ‘Let’s get at least one room habitable.’
The first laundry load done, the second safely in the machine waiting for sufficient space to dry, the heating on, the windows wide. The wine sat unopened beside the microwave, a Kiwi Pinot Noir. They sat either side of the kitchen table, her back to the fridge, his to the door. Mugs half-empty, the room smelled of disinfectant and instant coffee.
‘So,’ she said. Hands flat on the table.
‘So.’
‘You need a hobby.’
‘What?’
‘Cooking.’
‘You’re going to teach me how to cook?’
‘No, we’re going to learn together.’ She showed him a Thai cookbook. ‘I got this as a present two years ago. There’s not much point in cooking complicated recipes when you’re eating alone.’
‘No. Takeaways and tinned soup.’
‘Well, I ate a bit better than that, but yes.’ He helped her unpack the bags, put things in the fridge. It looked so much more colourful, the tomatoes and peppers, than the solitary carton of milk.
‘What are we making?’
‘I’m going to teach you to make green curry.’
‘That smells delicious,’ he said. They were sitting in the living room surrounded by boxes half-unpacked. ‘Drink?’
‘With dinner. Have you ever been to Thailand?’
‘Twice, a long time ago.’ He’d chopped vegetables while she read out the recipe and sorted spices and herbs. The bottle sat waiting, calling. He needed to keep busy so he’d started emptying boxes. The curry simmering, she came through to help, flattening cardboard and sliding it behind the sofa.
‘Backpacking?’
‘Business.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘Yeah. You?’
‘No, never.’
‘Where have you been?’
‘Russia, Eastern Europe mostly. A lot of time in Germany.’
‘Recently?’
‘When I was younger.’
‘Before the Wall came down?’
‘I was there.’
‘That’s ten years ago. I vaguely remember seeing it on TV.’
‘Vaguely?’
‘1989 wasn’t a good year.’
‘No. For a lot of people.’
‘Russia. Eastern Europe. You were a Communist?’
‘Socialist.’
‘A Socialist solicitor.’
‘There are a few of us. The food should be ready.’
‘Joan Jett. It just came to me. You look like Joan Jett.’
‘Joan Jett’s mother, maybe.’
‘Do you want to watch a film?’
‘Sure. What?’
‘You pick.’
They connected up the TV and video, cleared a space to see. Bowls of green curry, brown bread, a glass of wine each. Some Like It Hot playing.
‘This is nice,’ he said. The smell from the wine. Flowers. Warmth. He gulped, every taste bud shocked, every nerve tingling.
‘Slow,’ she said. ‘That’s all there is.’
‘We can get more.’
‘No.’
The curry. The video. Her, there. It felt like a home. ‘No.’
He was drunk. The first time in a month. A lightweight. Wine and painkillers. He stumbled into the hallway wall, had left his cane by the sofa. The corner shop was two minutes away. Another bottle would be perfect. The taste of it, the thirst. Isobel sat on the edge of the bed watching him. He looked at her. At the door.
‘It’s your choice,’ she said. ‘You can come in here with me or you can go to the shop.’
‘We can do both.’
‘I won’t be here when you get back.’
The door closed behind him. Standing on the stairs. What was he doing? The first step. The second. His hip ached. Was this the choice he was making? Really? The cold air in the stairwell. The rough chipped bannister under his hand. Stark. Stated like that. A choice. He turned painfully, second step, first. Key in the lock.
She had her coat on.
‘I need help.’
‘I know. But will you accept help?’
‘Will you help me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because somewhere in the years we’ve known each other, I fell in love.’
She took her coat off. He closed the door.
She put him to bed and cleaned the rest of the flat, finished off the last of her glass while watching him sleep. There was a good man in there, she knew. For eight years they’d known each other, becoming closer over that time, sex, weekends away, restaurants and long walks up at Balmedie. He’d been there for her while she extracted herself from her marriage to Calvin. Marcus, the drunken jester holding court in Under The Hammer, making her smile after a long day in the office, after another call from Calvin’s solicitor about money. Somewhere along the way she had fallen for him, despite everything, despite herself. Life had kicked lumps out of him, but the real Marcus was still in there. She’d decided in the back of the ambulance she couldn’t just walk away. What kind of a woman ran out when things got tough? She rinsed the glass out and got in beside him.
The sessions came and went. Isobel worked her schedule around his so she could drive him there and back. He stuck to his targets, more or less, his intake certainly down on what it had been. She didn’t ask him about the sessions but she gathered it wasn’t going well.
‘I don’t know how to talk,’ he said as they sat on the sofa in the silence, the turntable arm clicking back into place. ‘Most of the time we sit there. She asks me questions but I don’t know how to answer.’
‘Were you ever one for talking about feelings?’
‘Not really. Hannah and I never talked. Fought, yes, but never talked.’
‘So why not try something else. How about writing it down?’
‘Doctor Shaw suggested that. A way around the blockage. Like a diary.’
‘Do you want to give it a go?’
The next morning, Saturday, it began. Isobel picked up a folding card table from her flat, bought an A4 notebook and an expensive fountain pen. She set him up in the living room surrounded by damp clothes then went to Safeway. He made a coffee. Sat down. Stood up again and checked if any of the clothes were dry. He sat again. Stood up and looked at his shelves. He could organise his LPs alphabetically, by genre, by release date. Listen to everything. A bit of Genesis, maybe, Nursery Crimes. He sat again. Wro
te the date. Drank some coffee. Went over to the window and looked out onto George Street. The charity shops. The halal butcher’s. The betting shop. He sat again, wrote I was born Marcus Edward Fraser in the year of our Lord and scribbled it out. He closed his eyes. He could smell the wine, sitting in the kitchen, the ruby bouquet. Ruby, his Saab. He picked up the pen again, wrote I wasn’t part of the Piper Alpha crew. I was only there for a couple of days. The memories came back, a flood of them, a tide battering into him. He stood up too fast, pain shooting through his hip, knocked the coffee over. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t go there. That door needed to be closed. No words, no wine. He got a cloth, mopped up the coffee.
Key in the lock. Arms full of shopping. ‘Here, let me help you.’
‘How’s it going?’
‘Not great.’
‘Show me what you’ve done.’
‘Do you want to see the two sentences or the coffee stain?’
‘Two sentences is good.’
‘No, it’s not.’
‘It’s better than no sentences.’ She switched the kettle on, rinsed his cup out.
‘Only mathematically.’
‘Did you think you were going to write an entire book in one morning?’ He shrugged. ‘Don’t start with that night,’ she said. ‘You need a run-up to it. Start at the beginning.’
‘I was born…’
‘If you like. You maybe don’t need to go that far back. Start with your job. When did you join the company? Why? Ease into it that way.’ She kissed him, handed him a mug. ‘Take this coffee, sit down and when you get to the end of the first page you can quit for the day.’
