12 Steps
A horror & suspense novel
Iain Rob Wright
Contents
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Introduction
12 Steps
Afterword
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Introduction
My name is Iain and I am an alcoholic. I started drinking in earnest in my late teens/early twenties. I developed the habit in university (and dropped out because of spending all my money partying). It seemed that when I was looking at potential universities, the thing they advertised most was the nightlife. It was certainly a great time, but all that fun led to a stealthily acquired need to get drunk whenever socialising. Thanks for that university!
My drinking increase further when I started dating the woman who would later become my wife. She turned me onto white wine. Oh, how I love white wine. We both do. It’s so refreshing and easy to drink. Before you know it, you’ve polished off a bottle and a half. Each. Every night. For a decade.
Yeah, that sounds bad, doesn’t it? The good news is that today I am two weeks sober and not even thinking about alcohol all that much. I’ve quit before, during both of my wife’s pregnancies in fact, and it’s nice to know I can still quit now. But, still… I’m sure there will be alcohol in my future.
There are apparently different types of alcoholics. I suppose I’m high functioning like the character, John, in this book. My wife and I only drink when the kids are asleep and we enjoy it. We don’t argue or fight. We get up in the morning and work. We are good parents. Good people. Drinking just helps us relax.
But we drink way too much wine.
It wouldn’t be a problem if not for the cost, the hangovers, and the effect it has on our bodies. Me the day after drinking is only 60% of me clean and sober. I write more. I smile more. I do more.
I don’t want to die young. My weight has already ballooned and my heart and liver are no doubt unhappy. I love my family and I want to spend as much time as possible with them. I love them so much.
I love alcohol.
But bejesus do I hate alcohol.
It’s evil stuff. It can ruin a person’s life in so many ways. It can make them uncharacteristically violent. Make them unfaithful to their partners. Make them shirk their responsibilities. Make them lose their jobs. Make them ruin their marriages. One drunken mistake can echo through a person’s entire life forever.
My wife’s brother is a seedy, abusive, manipulative alcoholic — a man who tells lies as if they were the truth. A man who has never been faithful to a partner for more than a day. A man who is so deluded that it’s almost humorous. He will happily tell you that he won’t ever stop drinking. He doesn’t care who he hurts. My wife’s brother is a lost cause. So is the poor woman married to him.
My own sister is an alcoholic. A woman who has barely worked a day in her life. A woman who lets taxpayers cover her bills. A woman who is, nonetheless, a kind and caring person usually — but drinks vodka and ends up getting arrested… in her forties.
Alcohol is evil. I hate it.
But bejesus do I love it.
If alcohol came along today, it would be outlawed. I truly believe it wrecks lives on a grand scale. Nearly every family has an alcoholic. Crime is no doubt exacerbated greatly by the substance too. It makes us feel good, sure, but I can tell you that I feel so much better about myself when I’m off the stuff.
I don’t want my kids to be around alcohol all the time. That’s how my wife and I grew up — and now we have dependency issues. I gave up drinking two weeks ago because I want to be healthy and I want to be a role model to my children as they grow. I hope I can keep it up. So far, I’m beginning to think I can. My wife is sober too. It’s great. Life is great.
I’m one of the lucky ones though. Like the characters in this book, many don’t have the strength to make the changes they need. Alcohol has them trapped like a sadistic jailor.
As much as it’s their fault, it’s also not.
It’s the fault of a society that lets alcohol run riot.
It’s the fault of delicious delicious wine.
But, alas, this is the world we live in. We can’t change it There will always be heroes and villains.
To me, alcohol is both.
God, I love it.
But bejesus do I hate it.
Enjoy this book, and if you you have problems with alcohol yourself, know that you are not alone. There are many of us hiding in shame, wishing our heads weren’t full of whispers telling us how much we deserve a drink after a hard days work.
Maybe you can’t stop today, and that’s okay, but tomorrow is a new day. It’s never too late to make a change.
It’s never too late to stop.
This book is about what happens next.
12 Steps
“We’ve got a body here.” Mike used his boot to move aside the charred remains of a teddy bear and stepped up to a blackened bed. Lying on it was the body of a child, barbecued flesh still smoking.
Danielle entered the room behind him and groaned. She yanked off her helmet and shook her head. “Damn, I just found the mum next door. Smoke inhalation by the looks of it.”
“Looks like smoke inhalation did its job here too.” Mike pulled his cloth neckerchief up over his mouth and nose to combat the smell of cooked meat. “At least they didn’t suffer.”
Danielle didn’t seem comforted by that, but Mike felt better knowing the child had been tucked up in bed, fast asleep and oblivious to the inferno ravaging the house. Boy or girl, this child probably knew nothing. A mercy, if still a tragedy.
Flames had gutted the child’s bedroom, furniture reduced to cinders, walls painted in soot. A bedside lamp sat on a narrow table, twisted and burned into an almost demonic shape. A small patch of the child’s bedspread was miraculously unburned and Thomas the Tank Engine peeked out of the ash. The fire had taken four hours to contain. It would be morning soon.
“I’ll go tell Steve to call in a report,” said Danielle. “He thinks the fire started in the kitchen from a chip pan.”
“A chip pan? Who was cooking in the middle of the night? You found the mother in bed, right?”
Danielle nodded. “Asleep the whole time from what I can tell.”
“Are there no smoke detectors in this place? It beggars belief there wouldn’t be.” Mike studied the dead child and decided it had been a boy. Mike’s own son, Conner, was three years old. This dead boy could’ve been the same age. It sickened him to the bottom of his soul.
Mike had seen bodies before, but it was rare. The life of a firefighter wasn’t always as heroic or dangerous as people assumed. Most times they turned up to a small fire easily contained or a large fire they would have to hose down from outside. Rarely was a person trapped inside a burning building screaming for rescue. Most people got out in plenty of time, and when they didn’t, smoke inhalation usually got them before the flames. The last body he’d discovered had been a pensioner who’d fallen asleep beneath a knitted blanket in front of a ceramic heater. The blanket caught fire and the old lady lit up like a torch. That had been three years ago. Bodies were rare.
Tonight was worse than all the other times. Tonight, a mother and child died asleep in their beds. If they had only known what was happening… Why hadn’t they been woken by smoke alarms? What kind of parent didn’t have them?
Danielle nudged him. “Let’s get out of here. The structural engineer hasn’t cleared upstairs, so
we shouldn’t be up here.”
True, but Mike and Danielle had run upstairs anyway, determined to help anybody who might be in need. But they had been too late, finding only a blackened ruin and two dead bodies.
Mike turned away from the child and stomped out of the room. The carpets on the landing were obviously flame retardant as he could still feel the pile beneath his feet. The plastic fibres had melted and formed swirling patterns in the soot that were quite beautiful. While fire consumed and destroyed, leaving behind unbearable stenches and choking dust, it could also create. Television screens curled inwards like dying flowers. Lamp shades wilted and crumpled into curious shapes. Fire was a force of nature. Its lick could be transformative.
Mike didn’t need to check on the dead mother Danielle had discovered in the adjacent room – couldn’t bear it – so he followed her down the creaking staircase, through the hall, and into the kitchen. A grimy veil covered the lower floor and caused everyone to lower their visors.
The kitchen was long, with a table and chairs at one end where the wife and son must have eaten breakfast each morning. As Danielle had explained, a chip pan appeared to have started the fire. The large steel bowl had buckled and lost its plastic handle, still glowing faintly with heat. The stove beneath was a darker shade of black than anything else in the house, which suggested it had been the scene of a white-hot inferno. The glass of the oven had shattered under the pressure.
Steve, the watch manager, stood by the kitchen counter using a metal spike to sift carefully through the debris. When he saw Mike, he turned and lifted his visor to speak. “What’s it looking like up there?”
Danielle spoke before Mike got a chance, which was good because he didn’t feel like talking. “The fire’s all out,” she said. “Two bodies – female adult and a child, possibly male.”
Steve sighed. “Tonight’s been a bad one. I best call the coroner. The police are out front waiting for our report and we need to clear out for the structural engineer, so we won’t be getting home for a while yet.”
Mike grunted and then pulled up his visor, deciding to endure the dusty air. “This should never have happened.”
Steve nodded. “I know.”
Nothing else to say, Mike headed for the back door. Danielle called after him, puzzled. “You want to check out the garden?”
“I just need some air, and I don’t want to deal with gawking neighbours right now. There’s probably a crowd out there.”
“There is,” said Steve. “I’ll check in with you in ten. You okay?”
“I’m fine.” Mike reached for the handle. He just wanted to be alone with his thoughts for ten minutes. He needed to get the stink of burnt wood and smouldering corpses out of his nostrils.
But Danielle appeared at his side. “I could use some air too. That okay?”
With a sigh, he held open the door and stepped out after her. The nip of the chilly night air was immediate, but beneath his jet-black fire suit his skin was sweating. The house had been oppressive and hot. Dirty. The crisp air of the garden was pure and refreshing.
The outdoor space was half-paved, with a small lawn lit by a row of cheap solar lights, of which only half were working. It was a family garden with a plastic slide set up in the middle of the grass. A small structure stood behind it: a shed or some kind of garden room. A light was on inside.
“Hey, what do you think that is?”
Danielle shrugged. “An outdoor office or something? Lots of people have them. Cheaper than an extension.”
Mike stepped off the patio and onto the lawn. Danielle asked what he was doing, but he ignored her as his curiosity got the best of him. The outdoor room was too well lit for the middle of the night. Perhaps the mother forgot to turn off the lights – or perhaps it was something else.
He crept up to the structure’s door, peering through the windowpane. Inside was a lounge or chill-out space. A large flat screen took up one wall and a minibar took up another, while a small two-seater sofa took up the middle. A man lay asleep on the sofa, his legs dangling over the armrest.
“Danielle, there’s a man inside here.”
Danielle hurried across the lawn. “You’re shitting me? Is he hurt?”
“No, he’s just… sleeping. Let me try to open the door.”
The door was unlocked. Mike stepped in and the stench of stale alcohol slapped his face. A bottle of whiskey lay on its side beside the sofa. The sleeping man was snoring loudly.
Danielle slipped inside beside Mike and huffed. “He’s drunk.”
“He must have been lying here the entire time while his family burned to death twenty feet away.” Mike shook his head and tried to make sense of it. From the sheer number of empties in the room, the man was apparently a heavy drinker – so much so he had built himself a man cave in the garden. Soon, he would wake up to the biggest hangover of his life. His wife and son were gone. Forever.
Jesus Christ.
Danielle pointed to a small round table beside the sofa. There was a plate of overcooked chips on it. “Look at this. Do you think…?”
Mike closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying not to scream. “Yeah, I do think.”
The sleeping man’s eyes suddenly opened and the unexpectedness of it made Mike flinch. Then he sprung up on the sofa and looked around frantically. “What? Who?”
Danielle knelt in front of the man and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Sir, just stay calm. There’s been a fire, but you’re okay.”
The man’s eyes widened. “A f-fire? Katy! James! Are they—”
The man attempted to get up, but Mike eased him back down. “Sir, I’m afraid we have some bad news.”
Adam stood and took a breath before studying the semi-circle of people sitting in front of him. They were people he knew well but would never call friends. Each gave their full attention because he had something important to share with them. Something that required celebration but was awful by its very nature. “My name is Adam French, and today I am one year sober.”
Three-hundred-and-sixty-five days of exhaustedly struggling to stay clean. This is my life now. Hooray!
The group applauded. The sobriety leader, Patrick, stood and clapped loudest of all, a beaming smile stretching across his face. “Congratulations, Adam. I can’t believe the change I’ve seen in you these last twelve months. You should be extremely proud of yourself. Well done! Well done indeed.”
Adam smiled, but it was more of a grimace. He wasn’t proud of being sober because it only reminded him of all the years he hadn’t been. Celebrating the fact he was, at this current time at least, no longer a danger to himself or others didn’t make him worthy of praise. A savage mongrel that resists biting people for a while doesn’t deserve a pat on the head. It should still wear a muzzle.
It can never be trusted.
Patrick remained standing and let his clap fade until his hands were in the pockets of his light blue jeans. “While most of us here know your story, Adam, why don’t you tell it again for us tonight. It’s important to speak our truth regularly so we don’t lose sight of it.”
Adam sighed. Everyone knew his story, which was why telling it always felt like an unnecessary ordeal, but a newcomer had joined today, and Patrick always liked newcomers to hear stories from the group. It made it easier for them to tell their own.
Come on in, we’re all screwups here.
Some more than others.
The newcomer tonight was a young black woman, who was deceptively attractive despite her attempts to hide it. A purple ribbon held her frizzy brown hair in a bunch behind her head, but it was the only colour she wore. Both her jeans and oversized hoodie were black, as were her Dr Martens boots. It looked like she had googled the word ‘depression’ and decided this was how she was supposed to dress.
When the truth is that you’re supposed to wear tracksuit bottoms and week-old underwear like me. Also, if you’re a man, only shave once a month.
Adam edged back against his seat, wishi
ng he could sit back down instead of having to endure Patrick’s enthusiasm any longer. “I-I don’t think I need to reopen old wounds. I’m just happy to be sober.”
Patrick removed his thin round spectacles and closed his eyes long enough to cause an awkward silence. Eventually, he reopened them and beamed. “We can only heal, Adam, when we tell our truths without fear or shame. Your past is a scar you can’t erase. But scars are only a reminder of a wound; they can’t hurt us.”
Adam grunted and stared at his shoes. He wasn’t getting out of this. Talking was why he came to the group – why he came every week – so, with a sigh, he began his tale of misery. His stomach turned with every word. “I’ve been an alcoholic for as long as I remember… since I was a teenager really. I would go on the lash every weekend with my mates, always the last one standing, refusing to call it a night. By the time I met my wife, Kat—” He couldn’t say her name. It would burn his lips to even try. “I, um, I was drinking every night. I moved on from beer and turned to wines and spirits. Whatever would give me a buzz the quickest.” He took a break, surveying his audience. John, the group’s high-functioning alcoholic, turned his gaze to the floor as he often did when he heard tales of woe. Sitting next to John, Kevin was far more attentive, chubby cheeks dimpling as he gave Adam a supportive smile. These people weren’t his friends but they wouldn’t judge him. They were the only people who didn’t, even when he spilled out his worst secrets.
“When my wife got pregnant,” Adam continued, “she gave up the booze. I did the same to support her, but when my son arrived—” His voice hitched and he had to start again. “When my baby boy came along, my wife never went back to drinking. Our son was her entire world. Mine too, but I also found it hard. The lack of sleep, the lack of rest… It made it even more difficult to relax at night, so whenever I had downtime, I drank harder. Eventually, it started to annoy my wife, and the television late at night would keep her awake, so I built a room in the garden to be by myself. Really, it was a place to hide how much I was drinking. Most evenings, I would pass out on the sofa in my garden room instead of making it to bed. My wife started to fall out of love with me then; I could see it every time she looked at me. It was like I had punctured her heart, and her love oozed out a little more each day. That hurt me so much I started drinking even more. Eventually, I was so drunk so often that she stopped cooking dinner for me. One night, I hadn’t eaten all day, so I was hungry. I crept inside the house to cook some chips. By that point I had already necked most of a bottle of Scotch, and when I took the chips back to my garden room, I left the chip pan on the stove and forgot to turn it off.” He shook his head and sneered. “The most pathetic thing is that I passed out without even eating the chips. When I woke, two firefighters were standing over me. The house had burned down with my family inside. I killed my wife and child over a plate of chips I never even ate.”
12 Steps Page 1