JONATHON - Book 1 [Watty Awards 2012]

Chapter 4

The sun was bright again that day and she banked up the fire and piled covers on him as he slept, then opened all the doors and windows in the house to let in fresh air and drive away the dreadful smell of the sick room. He drifted in and out of delirium and she poured as much fluid as she could down him to replace all that he lost during those fretful nights.

The afternoon became chill and she closed up all the doors and windows, banked up the fire again, lit some scented candles and heated up some broth. Jonathon could only manage fluids now and sometimes he could not hold on to even that for long. He became more and more restless as the day wore on and Bea dreaded the night when all his troubles seem to increase tenfold.

She had been resting beside him in the early evening.

‘Get them off!’ his voice rose in shrill terror. ‘Get them off! They’re on the bed!’ he began kicking at the covers and flailing his arms.

‘What’s on the bed, Jonathon, I can’t see them.’

‘Rats! They’re enormous, big as cats.’ He was brushing frantically at his chest, his belly. He screamed in agony. ‘Stop them, stop them! They’re biting me. Christ! They’re eating me alive!! Hold me Bea.’ he begged. ‘Hold me. Oh, don’t let them get me! Don’t let me go. Don’t let me go!’

His terror and anguish were real and she was powerless to help him save hold him as he asked and rock him like a baby as he shrieked and fought and cursed and wept in his own private hell… the nightmare of his own making and Bea wept with him and prayed for strength to help him through it. His cries echoed round and round the small house and Bea wondered, though her neighbours were a quarter of a mile away, whether they could hear the demoniac noise he raised.

It went on and on until she thought he had lost his mind and that she would soon follow but the strongest man could not continue for ever and he was by now greatly weakened.

Slowly, he was reduced to whimpering like a child left too long without comfort and then at last with one final shudder he lost consciousness again and slid into merciful oblivion. He was soaked in sweat and most probably urine too, so she bathed and freshened his whole body again and soothed and massaged him with the baby lotion she herself used. His dear face looked thin and pinched, his eyes had dark circles beneath them, his beautifully chiselled cheekbones now seemed about to jut through his pale, pale flesh. His once shiny hair was dull and lank and matted where he had tossed and turned into his pillow.

Bea eased him to one side while she rolled the damp sheet from under him and folded a fresh one beneath him, rolled him back onto the dry sheet and pulled the damp one free and unfolded the new one on to the other side of the bed. The top sheet too was changed and she wrapped him up warmly again. He seemed to rest easier against the cool, dry fresh linen.

She took the crumpled damp bedding and put it to wash. She would need to internet shop for more if this continued. She wished now she had acceded to the tumble dryer her sister had suggested. She loved to see her washing billowing on the line but at this time of year and the rate she was going through her linen cupboard, the dryer would have been the better option. Too late to worry about that now. She dragged herself back to bed and lay atop the covers in her dressing gown and prayed for a little sleep before he roused again.

In the horrendous days and nights that followed there were moments of calm; little oases of peace which she was so greedily thankful for and he had times of lucidity and cunning. But years of alcohol abuse had left him so dependent on drink that the absence of it caused his body and mind to punish him and demand its instant and relentless gratification.

Mostly it was the rats he saw and felt and she wondered if at any time in his younger life his living conditions were such that he had shared his existence with the fearsome, loathsome creatures that now tormented his poor unbalanced mind and body. Sometimes it was snakes, sometimes spiders but the other creatures that seemed to torment him most were ants, crawling inside him, stinging and biting, inside his veins, his belly, along his arms. He tore at his flesh till his arms bled and still he gained no ease.

And it seemed that whatever she managed to ease down his throat he vomited up double. She was very, very afraid for him, body and mind. She had brought in her laptop and set it up – her whole life seemed to revolve around this room – and him. She had taught herself how to use it and had ordered many things online. She was concentrating and jumped when his painfully dry, husky voice asked

‘Are you Googling me?’ and still he was able to make it sound full of sexual innuendo. She glanced up startled and blushing and saw the ghost of his mocking, taunting smile on his pale lips. ‘They’ve got hundreds of pictures of me stark boll… stark naked.’ he amended.

‘I hardly need bother with that when I’ve the real thing beneath those sheets.’ she informed him and made a sudden grab as if to pull the covers back and reveal him. He was quicker than her, as she had hoped he would be, and his hand covered hers and stopped the movement. ‘Called your bluff.’ she teased. He chuckled and let her win.

She put down the laptop and rose and moistened his dry lips and eased a few sips of water down his raw, parched throat.

‘What…. What…?’ the effort drained him and he waved a limp hand at the laptop.

‘I’m trying to find the best treatment for you.’ she explained. He tried to speak and pointed to his mouth. She gave him a few more sips of water.

‘Cold turkey.’ he managed to gasp. She thought a moment.

‘I’ve only got chicken….. would that do?’ She was totally unprepared for the gale of powerful, rich deep laughter that burst from him and rolled round and round the room. He doubled up and clutched his poor, sore, aching belly as the guffaws of mirth went on and on and tears coursed down his face,

'What …. What did I say? What’s so funny Jonathon?’ She asked in total confusion. Gasping for breath, he brought himself under control.

‘Darling Bea.’ he said, mouth trembling. ‘You’re such an innocent.’ But he was weak and breathless now, though the laughter had brought some colour to his pale cheeks.

He indicated the laptop again and wiggled his figures in an approximation of typing. She understood. Google. She typed in ‘cold turkey’ and immediately page after page of millions of hits was on screen. She might as well start at the top.

Bea knew that he was watching her as she read of the relentless, brutal treatment the total denial of alcohol and drugs to an addict entailed. The treatment called ‘cold turkey’ by those forced to endure it. There it was, all that she was doing to him and all his suffering. She had seen it and now she was reading it in stark black and white.

There were other ways…. Medicines to help wean him off. It didn’t have to be like this. She didn’t have to punish him so harshly. He saw the silent tears slip down her tired, worn face and how her body shook with suppressed sobs and it near broke his heart.

‘Don’t Bea.’ he begged her. ‘Don’t cry for me….. not worth your tears.’ She brushed them away quickly.

‘I’ll get you some of this…. I can’t pronounce it.’

He shook his head. ‘Restricted … only doctors, rehab.’

‘Don’t you have any what do they call them……contacts!’

Again that sweet, sad smile for her innocence and he shook his head.

‘Been…. here….before.’ he panted and then, eyes widening and darkening in pain and terror. ‘Oh, God……Oh God.’ As he descended once more into his own, private hell where she could not follow but she would have done. She would have done anything to save him it.