by Liam Brown
I watched as he used the stick to lower the bucket to the ground, wrapping his hand in the sleeve of his coat and pouring the steaming water into yet another container, this one a chipped ceramic pot.
‘What are you putting in there?’ I asked as he pulled a small packet from his pocket.
‘Well, it’s not Kenco I’m afraid, but it’s not bad. We’ve got some chamomile, lavender, a bit of valerian root and…’ he trailed off as he wandered back over to the bushes, returning seconds later with a handful of fresh leaves. ‘Nettles,’ he said as he stuffed them into the mug. ‘Great source of vitamin C, they are. That’ll help with the hangover. Now, why don’t I have a look at those cuts while that’s steepin’?’
Even in the dark, I could make out the thick layer of ingrained dirt that covered his hands, his fingernails so caked in filth they were almost completely black. I hesitated, pulling back as he reached for my arm. ‘Why are you doing this?’ I asked.
‘Doin’ what?’
‘Helping me. You don’t even know me. What’s in it for you?’
Rusty shrugged. ‘You’re in my park. I’ve got a whatchacallit? A duty of care. Besides, you know what I was saying about not killin’ yourself in the park? Well, that goes for all sorts of dyin’. And, no offence, son, but you look like you’re about to keel over.’
I wasn’t surprised. Now that the adrenalin had subsided I felt truly terrible. A deep chill had burrowed its way to my core, so that my whole body shook uncontrollably as I sat hunched in the dark. I nodded and let Rusty take my hand in his lap. Once again he excavated the deep pockets of his coat, this time dredging up a grubby-looking roll of bandage and a small brown bottle. ‘Iodine,’ he said. ‘Real strong stuff. Burns like bleedin’ battery acid, but trust me, it’s better than an infection. I seen a guy lose three whole fingers out here from nothin’ more than a nasty flea bite. Now, you hold still.’
The pain was unbelievable, a pure, white wave that crashed over me, strong enough to make me forget about everything else, so that I existed only in that moment – at least for a couple of seconds.
When I opened my eyes Rusty was bent over the wound. ‘See where you went wrong was your choice of instrument. Glass ain’t no good. Sure it’ll cut you up, but it’s too imprecise. Won’t know what you’re hackin’ at. That’s why those poor old housewives always take a razor blade to the bathtub with ’em when they want to top themselves. You need something clean and sharp. And you gotta slice up the vein, not across. That way you’ll really get em’ squirtin’!’
He moved back, revealing the off-white bandage wrapped so tightly around my throbbing wrist that I could no longer feel my fingers.
‘There,’ he said. ‘Good as new. Or at least, as close to new as you’ll get until we get you to a doctor. Now, let’s see about that tea, shall we?’
While Rusty began decanting the liquid from one container to another, I sat slumped on the bench. My head was swimming so much it was an effort just to stay upright. In the dim light the park looked soft and unreal. I had a powerful urge to sleep, and I was struck by the notion that if I could just crawl up and close my eyes then everything would be okay. I would wake up in my own bed next to Lydia. I would be Adam again.
‘Ahhh, perfect,’ said Rusty with a loud slurp. ‘You know, I never used to be able to stand this muck. Espresso man I was. Seven or eight a day – doubles too. Soon as I woke up. Bang, straight down the hatch. Liquid cocaine I called it. Still, this ain’t too bad when you get a taste for it. Don’t give you the shakes neither. Here.’
I used my good hand to take the cup from Rusty. The heat radiated through my fingers and, as the steam rose up towards my face, I caught a sweet, floral scent. It reminded me of Lydia. I lifted the drink to my lips and took a sip. At first the heat masked the flavour, but as I swallowed I caught a mossy bitterness. Instantly my mouth flooded with saliva. I leant forward and vomited into my lap, at which Bruno instantly leapt up and started barking.
‘Ah, come on,’ Rusty laughed. ‘It’s not that bad!’
I felt him take the cup from me, but I was too ill to sit up. I heaved again, a torrent of watery grey vomit splashing over my knees. I stayed hunched over for a few minutes, my throat burning, a sharp pain needling deep in my gut. It had been years since I’d been this sick, and with the vomit came a weird nostalgia. I remembered an illness I’d had as a child, my mother’s hand stroking the back of my head as I retched into the bowl, my chin resting against the cool ceramic. Her words of comfort came to me again like a lifebuoy trailing across the stormy decades.
It will pass.
I clung to them with what little strength I had left.
When I finally straightened up, Rusty was staring at me. ‘You need to get home, sonny. Sleep it off. When the DTs kick in you’ll want to be wrapped up somewhere warm. Trust me.’
I spat on the floor, too weak to answer.
‘I could call someone to collect you, if you like? I could walk you to the bus stop at least?’
I shook my head. ‘Nowhere to go,’ I said, my voice no more than a dull scratch.
We sat in silence while Rusty sipped his tea. ‘Well, this is a bit of a bloody mess, isn’t it?’
I swallowed hard. ‘What’s a mess?’
‘This. You. I mean, you can’t very well stay out here all night, can you?’
‘I’m fine,’ I said, retching again as if to underline precisely how un-fine I really was.
Rusty knocked back the last of the tea and shook out the cup. He looked torn. ‘I suppose it wouldn’t hurt. Just for one night,’ he said, more to himself than me.
‘Huh?’
‘Ah, blow it. You can stay here. With me, like. Just until you’re back on your feet mind.’
As sick as I was, I had to smile. The way he spoke, it sounded as if he was offering me his spare bedroom rather than a spot on a park bench. ‘What, here?’
Rusty stiffened. ‘Why, what’s wrong with here?’
‘Nothing. Here’s great. Thanks,’ I said, wondering how long I should wait before I made my excuses and left this mad old bloke to his nettle tea and find a bench of my own.
He went over to the fire and kicked it out, scattering the ashes with a sweep of his boot. ‘Right then. Are you coming or what? I might be a big guy, but I ain’t carryin’ you. Not on your Nellie!’
‘What?’
‘Well, I don’t know about you, but I ain’t plannin’ on spendin’ the night on some bleedin’ bench. What do I look like, a tramp? Now, come on.’
And with that, he stalked off into the trees, Bruno tearing ahead of him.
For a moment I sat there. This would be the ideal time to lose him. I could simply get up and walk in the opposite direction, keep going until I’d left the park and the madness of the night behind me. But where would I go? Back to the city? To Lydia? With a heavy sigh I faltered to my feet, realising that following Rusty was the only real choice I had.
The ground lurched away from me with every step, my head spinning so violently I was forced to cling from trunk to trunk just to stay upright as I dragged myself deeper into the woods. After a couple of minutes, I caught a glimpse of a disembodied beard glowing up ahead.
‘Come on,’ said the beard. ‘I haven’t got all night.’
I blundered after him as he turned again, following as he weaved between thick snares of brambles and beneath low-hanging branches, the undergrowth tearing at my exposed flesh as I did my best to keep up.
Eventually the trees began to thin out into a clearing and he came to a stop. I dropped to my knees, gasping for breath while Bruno butted up against me, almost toppling me over.
‘Right then,’ Rusty said. ‘You can have my place for tonight.’
I squinted in the direction he was pointing, confused for a moment. And then I saw it. Perched right on the edge of the clearing was a small, khaki-coloured tent, almost completely camouflaged by a thick layer of twigs and leaves.
‘You comin’ or what?’
‘Easy, son. It’s okay, we’re there. We’re there.’
I tried to speak but the words snagged in my throat, and so I allowed myself to be carried like a child, grateful to have finally ceded responsibility for my actions, to have all choice taken away. Seconds later I heard the sharp scrape of a zip and I collapsed into the warm shell of a sleeping bag. I felt Rusty rolling me onto my side and tuck something heavy over my shoulders, and then he was gone, pulling the zip behind him.
Even with my eyes shut tight I felt the darkness closing in around me. Not just the night, but something blacker. Emptier. As I teetered on the verge of oblivion, as the last trace of my consciousness ebbed away, I felt something pull me back. Somewhere, beyond the tent, I heard a noise. Or at least I thought I heard a noise. Low voices, talking nearby. Arguing maybe, though the words I couldn’t grasp. Just urgent, angry whispers, rattling like the wind between the trees. And then they were gone again. Or maybe they were never there at all? Either way, I couldn’t hold on any longer.
I let go of the world and allowed myself to fall.
SIX
Lydia was already downstairs, swiping through the morning news, a fresh cup of lemongrass tea steaming beside a half-eaten bowl of granola. Flynn was nearby, curled up on the sofa watching his cartoons. Every now and then he called out for yet another bowl of cereal, mewling like a wounded kitten when he didn’t get his way. Olivia was still in bed of course – like father, like daughter – although I hoped she’d slept better than me, tortured as I was by feverish dreams.
I burrowed down deeper under the duvet. In a minute or two it would be time to get up, to face the world. But for now I could forget about everything. Work. Responsibility. The thumping headache. I could simply snuggle down and deal with it all later. If only the bloody dog would stop licking my toes…
That’s when I remembered.
We didn’t have a dog.
I opened my eyes.
Imagine every hangover you’ve ever had happening simultaneously. Confusion. Guilt. Nausea. Panic. It was like an explosion. I sat up, struggling to make sense of my surroundings. The pain in my head was spectacular. I cupped my hands to my eyes and massaged my temples as the world slowly fluttered into focus. I was in some sort of tent, the green canvas walls slick with condensation. Below me was a thick khaki sleeping bag and roll mat, the sort you might find in a military surplus store, at the end of which was a dog’s muzzle, poking through the bottom of the tent. Gradually, the night before came back to me. The park, Rusty – Bruno. I felt the dog’s coarse tongue searching the crevices between my exposed toes, and instinctively I gave a sharp kick. There was a yelp and the muzzle disappeared. I was alone again.
I sat there for a moment, overwhelmed at the extent of Rusty’s worldly possessions. Strewn along the side of the tent was an overwhelming array of boxes, tins, jars, cutlery, pans, clothes, water bottles, bundles of yellow newspapers, several bicycle pumps, a blunt-toothed hacksaw, a two-pronged trowel… the list went on. The ramshackle stacks seemed to be arranged by some indecipherable system, the carefully considered chaos of a junkyard or charity shop. A castaway’s treasure, a hoarder’s lot. Everything in there looked bent or rusted or broken in some way, the recovered garbage of the world, partially mended and catalogued according to usefulness. A mad museum of junk, everything coated in a fine layer of dust and hair and stinking of damp and dog and decay. I decided I needed to leave – immediately.
Before I could move, however, I heard a noise. Rusty appeared in the doorway, a grin on his face and a bowl of something steaming in his hands.
‘Morning, sleepy head. Or should that be afternoon?’
As he manoeuvred into the tent, Bruno took the opportunity to make his return. He dived at me, forcing me onto my back and slobbering over my face.
‘Get off me!’
‘Ah, he’s jus’ happy to see you. Aren’t you, boy?’ Rusty laughed as he dragged him off me, so that his matted tail whipped my face. ‘I’ve brought you some breakfast, though it’s more like lunch now.’
I sat up and took the bowl he was holding out. It was filled with some sort of watery broth. The smell brought a surge of bile to my throat. ‘Thanks,’ I said, hoping desperately that he wasn’t expecting me to eat any in front of him.
‘Leek and onion. Not too bad neither. Here, get out of it, you!’ Rusty yelled, bundling Bruno from the tent. ‘Dumb beast. Bleedin’ allergic to onions too. He’ll be spraying out of his back end for days if he gets so much as a sniff. Oops, sorry,’ he added as he noticed the look on my face. ‘I forgot you was eating.’
I brought the spoon of mush to my face and stopped, letting it hover below my chin. ‘I’m not sure I can stomach anything right now. To be honest I was thinking of pushing off pretty soon.’
Rusty frowned. ‘Nonsense. You’re not goin’ anywhere – you’re as white as whipped cream. You need to line your stomach, sonny. Start getting’ your blood sugar back to normal. That’s half of the hangover that is. Hypergly-whatsit. Anyway, it took me half the bleedin’ mornin’ to cook that – didn’t your mother teach you no manners?’
Seeing no way out, I raised the spoon to my lips. It took a minute or two to swallow the bland paste, which seemed to absorb what little moisture remained in my body. I managed two more spoonfuls before I began to sweat. ‘Mmmm, thanks. That’s really good,’ I said, deciding to change the subject. ‘God, I was out cold last night. What time is it anyway?’
Rusty looked blankly at me. ‘Time? Well, I’ll be buggered if I know! Late afternoon. ’Fraid I don’t get much more specific than that. Light and dark – that’s ’bout all I need to know. I don’t even know what year it is. Mind you, I bet you don’t either, amount you put away last night. How’s the old head doin’ anyway?’
‘Not great,’ I admitted. ‘In fact, I’d say it’s about one thump short of forming its own samba band.’
‘That’s more like it! Samba band indeed! Listen, I tell you what. Why don’t you stay here until you’re feelin’ a bit more like yourself? You can eat up the rest of that soup and then get your head down for a couple of hours. Come to think of it, I’ve got a little somethin’ for that headache too.’
I watched as he began to burrow through his mountain of supplies.
‘Thanks,’ I said as I stirred the soup, which had already begun to form a skin. ‘Actually I’d murder an Alka-Seltzer if you’ve got one.’
‘Ah-ha. Here we are!’ Rusty turned around and held up a bag of what looked suspiciously like pencil sharpenings.
‘What’s that?’ I asked, struggling to hide my disappointment.
‘White willow bark. There’s one growing next to the lake. You probably saw it on your way in? It’s a natural aspirin. It’s the bee’s knees when it comes to fixin’ aches, pains and general maladies, though I have to admit it does taste like sawdust – which I suppose is exactly what it is. I’ll whip you up a pot, if you like? It’ll only take a minute or so.’
I thought of the nettle tea he’d prepared the night before. ‘You know, I think I’ll be alright for now. To be honest this soup has worked wonders,’ I said, hastily forcing another spoonful into my mouth.
This seemed to delight Rusty no end. ‘You see? That’s what I was saying! You’ll be right as rainwater in no time – you mark my words!’ He dropped the bag of tree bark into his pocket and turned towards the doorway. ‘So I’ll leave you to it for a bit, if that’s alright?’ he said, unzipping a corner of the tent. ‘If I was you I’d have a nap – before that bleedin’ samba band strikes up again – I’ll be back later so you can let me know if you change your mind about the tea. Oh, hang on, what’s he up to now? Bruno! BRUNO!’
And with that he was gone.
I sat there for a minute and listened to him chasing after his dog, his hollers growing quieter as he moved further and further away.
As I slid the bowl of soup to one side and lay back down, an unexpected sense of loss settled over me. Rusty’s presence – and his unprompted kindness – had helped blot out the reality of my situation. Now that I was alone again, my thoughts instantly turned to Lydia and the children. Maybe it wasn’t too late to go back? I pictured myself wading through the ring of police cars that encircled the house and knocking on the front door. I saw the children run to me and decorate me with kisses as I fell to my knees and wept and begged Lydia for forgiveness…
The tent flapped in the wind and I snapped back to the present. How had I ended up here? It seemed impossible. I tried to piece together everything that had happened the day before, reliving every moment in reverse, as if rewinding an old video cassette. There was broken glass and gravel, the red lips of an open wound. I watched as my wrist healed itself, the flesh restitching, the blood flowing back into my veins. I saw the vodka bottle un-shatter as I put my mouth to its neck and tipped back my head, filling it back up with booze. I walked backwards out of the park and through the city until I reached the casino. The roulette wheel span anticlockwise and the chips spewed back out of the hole. I took my money and left, returning it to Tamara’s bag before un-knocking her door.
And then I was back home, blowing powder from my nose onto the kitchen counter, un-drinking more vodka, creeping up the stairs and out of my clothes and sliding into the warmth of my bed, back into Lydia’s arms. And it had all been a dream, some stupid story I’d made up to amuse myself. None of it had happened. Because who in their right mind would give up everything so easily? What kind of idiot would swap that life for this?
I pulled my knees to my chest and let the sleeping bag fall over my head.
*
When I woke again it was dark. There was no sign of Rusty. I moved my head slightly and found the pain had lessened a little. I sat up. Something was wrong. Things looked different. I scrunched my eyes and reopened them. Gradually the vague shapes inside the tent began to come into focus as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. The mountain of supplies seemed to have shifted somehow, though perhaps I was imaging it? It was difficult to tell in the dim light. I reached a hand towards the nearest pile and then froze.
