Am I Dead?

by C. P. IRVINE, IAN

  As I bend forward towards her chest, a wave of dizziness hits me, but I recover just in time, my hands steadying myself on the sofa beside her.

  Now steady, gently, I lift both hands and cup each of her breasts in my hands.

  So soft. So silky.

  I stroke each nipple, although both are already erect, and then I bend towards them, taking one in my mouth.

  I massage and stroke her breasts and kiss them all over.

  Caroline moans, but when I look up at her over the swell of her bosom, her eyes are firmly closed.

  She moans again, so I close my eyes too, and lose myself in her bountiful cleavage, pressing her breasts against either of my cheeks, just like I love to do with Sarah’s…

  I stop.

  And pull back.

  The world spins in front of me, and my pulse quickens.

  Not from erotic excitement, but from the overpowering guilt that slams itself down upon me from above.

  As it hits me, I slip from the sofa, but manage to stop myself from falling further by pressing my face against the carpet on the floor.

  For a moment I lie there, remembering the pleasure of Sarah’s breasts, how wonderful she is. How much I love her.

  But when I finally manage to lift myself back to the sofa to continue, to my shock, I discover that Sarah is gone. Instead, Caroline is there.

  My new friend Caroline.

  Who is not Sarah.

  What have I done?

  Guilt. Guilt. Guilt.

  I’m lost. Confused. So alone. But I have just been unfaithful.

  A brief window of sobriety descends upon me, and I realise that what is happening is wrong.

  Perhaps, at another time, then maybe, this could be wonderful. But not now.

  Not now.

  Part of me shouts at me that I am a fool, that what I am doing is wrong, but I ignore me, and instead, lift my hands to her blouse, and close the buttons, gently, and one by one.

  “Caroline?” I say. Several times. But she does not respond, and I realise that she is as drunk as I am/was/will be again in a few moments. Which, again, confirms the ‘wrongness’ of this, just now.

  I stroke her face, but she does not respond.

  Glancing at the expensive antique clock on the wall, it seems that ‘tempus’ has indeed ‘fugit’ed, when I was having fun. It’s late. According to the clock, 3.35 am.

  Knowing that this may be a tricky manoeuvre, and one that I indeed must not get wrong, lest I wish to find myself banished and imprisoned - locked-in – to the Tower of London, I kneel in front of Caroline, cup her in my arms and then struggle slowly and carefully to my feet.

  Aha… I succeed!

  ‘No ‘Home Secretaries’ will be dropped here today!’ I declare to myself, and then begin to move, very carefully, but not completely in a straight line, towards my bedroom.

  Navigating through the wide open bedroom door proves to be more of a challenge than I initially imagined it might be, but soon, my mission is successful, and I am standing beside my bed.

  Gently, ever so gently, I bend at my knees, and lower myself towards the mattress.

  Then Bingo, we’re there. Houston, we have landed! That was one simple exercise for a normal man, but a bloody incredible achievement for a pissed-fart like me!!

  Enormously pleased with myself, I do a fist-pump in the air above Sleeping Beauty, and laugh aloud.

  She doesn’t stir. She’s out for the count.

  Good.

  Next, I get to do something I’ve wanted to do for quite a while…

  Side-stepping my way back into the lounge, I deposit myself in Caroline’s wheelchair, and then take a short rest. My eyelids are very heavy. Very heavy.

  I fight the urge to become comatose.

  Successfully.

  Picking up her handbag and bra from the sofa, and putting them on my lap, I take the wheels of the wheelchair and push them round.

  I struggle at first, but after a few seconds I get the drift, and manage to wheel myself around the lounge several times, only once banging into what is probably a priceless Edwardian antique. I may have chipped it, but it’s old anyway.

  The euphoria of grand-prix wheelchair racing doesn’t last long, and by mid-way through the second lap, I’m really, really dizzy, and tired.

  I abandon the Silverstone track, and instead take the wheelchair through for a pit-stop by Caroline’s bed, so that it’s right where she will need it, when she wakes up.

  Next, I cover her carefully with a few sheets and a blanket, and adjust the pillow under her head.

  The Little Red James on my left shoulder screams at me to get into the bed beside her.

  “Britain expects everyman to do his duty!” I hear ‘me’ beguile ‘me’. “Do it!” he advises.

  I will not lie, I do consider it.

  I stand above the bed and look down upon her.

  She’s loverly. Honeshtly. She iz.

  Her lips are half-open. Enticing. They look soooo ssofft.

  I look around the room. Just checking. But no one is watching.

  So I bend forward, a hand on either side of her torso so I don’t fall on top of her, and I kiss her once, gently, and softly, and perhaps a little, little, lingeringly, on the lips.

  Then I put my forefinger against my lips and say “shoooossh… sleep well!”

  Five minutes later, after another emergency pit stop, this time in the bathroom, Captain Major Tom has landed again back at Houston, and managed to stretch out on the couch. I kick off my shoes, adjust a few pillows, and then close my eyes, waiting for the stars to stop spinning, and the planets and the rest of the room to realign themselves.

  It takes a few seconds, but eventually they do.

  And then I start to time-travel again, Forward in time. From now, until sometime later-today, or tomorrow. Or as long as it will take for the alcohol to evaporate and for my organs to struggle free from my manually induced coma.

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  Roses and Alka-Seltzer

  .

  When I awake, the sun is high in the sky outside.

  The night, and probably the morning too, has long gone.

  I must only have slept for half-the-day.

  As I prop myself up on my elbows to look around the room, I notice that on my chest there is a single red rose, probably taken from the vase on the table. There’s also a note, scribbled on a little piece of paper headed “Office of the Home Secretary”, and a small box.

  My head is killing me, my throat is dry as a bone, and when I move, the world spins.

  Looking at the box, I see the words “Alka-Seltzer” written on them. Hallelujah! I’ve been saved!

  The note reads:

  ‘Not only a time-traveller, but also a gentleman. Thank you. Caroline X”

  I can’t help but smile, but the smile doesn’t last long. Ouch! I feel awful.

  The next feeling I experience, is an overpowering urge to pee, and I struggle to the bathroom just in time.

  It’s here I find my second surprise.

  A big heart drawn on the mirror in red lipstick, underlined by a ‘X’ kiss, with two words: ‘Another time?’

  Her words elicit another smile from me, but that is where the pleasure for the day comes to an end.

  Although I don’t throw up, I spend the next few hours wishing that I could, at least half an hour of that time spent lying in the bath and trying to rehydrate myself through the process of osmosis whilst the shower rains down on me from above.

  All during this time, the desire to live and get better conflicts with a depth of despair I have not felt in a long, long time.

  The more I sober up, the more real my situation becomes.

  I am stuck in a world where the only purpose I have is to be reunited with Sarah.

  But Sarah is married. Sarah Williams.

  Any chances of getting together with her and together bringing up my son, our son, are now gone.

  I’ll be lucky if she even lets
him meet me.

  My son.

  MY son!

  I lie in the bath, staring at the photographs of Sarah and Kenneth from the copies of their passports.

  Sarah is so beautiful, and Kenneth, so incredibly handsome!

  And when I look at Sarah, or think of her, a partial memory of last night comes back, and I am overwhelmed by an overpowering sense of guilt.

  And then loneliness.

  By early evening, I am able to walk, and finding an ability to talk, I order some food from the restaurant, where I am still the only customer.

  By ten o’clock, I am sitting outside on the patio again, and starting to drink.

  A crate of new beers and several bottles of wine were delivered, as per my request, with my meal.

  It’s part of my new plan on how to survive in this new world: I’m going to drink myself to death.

  The attraction of alcoholism has never been evident to me before, but now, right now, it seems as good a solution to my pain as any.

  And thus is set the course of action that I follow for the next few days.

  I wake, suffer from an overpowering hangover, feel nauseous, shower for a long, long time, start to feel incredibly depressed, eat, order some more alcohol for the day, sit on the patio, and start to drink. Occasionally, I eat. And drink. And drink. And drink. And then eventually my drunken existence merges into a slumberous/comatose state, and I awake sometime the next day.

  I discover a danger: that if I wait too long before starting to drink, reality comes to visit me and I discover that yes indeed, I am a drunken time-travelling bum whose wife has married someone else, who has no access to his son, no job, no money, has no way to find a way home to his real world, is trapped in a world without other humans, effectively locked-out from those who are locked-in, and…is…incredibly, incredibly, incredibly alone.

  In moments of lucid thought, often accompanying a bout of vomiting into the basin in my luxury marble-lined bathroom, I realise that I am in a downward spiral.

  And yet, I also accept that I have not sufficient will, or desire, to halt it.

  So I drink.

  Order more.

  And then drink it.

  What the hell, I have a ‘Bluey’… I can do anything I want!

  And for now, there is nothing I want to do more than to drink and forget.

  --------------------

  It’s dark.

  Not it’s not – someone has just switched on the lights.

  Someone else is in the room with me.

  I hear voices.

  So, no, there are two people.

  Two people are moving around the room, talking.

  I recognise the voices.

  No… one I don’t… and there are now three voices, not two.

  My eyes are opening, but I struggle to move or sit up.

  It seems that I am lying on the floor.

  Indeed, I am.

  I turn to my side, and manage to push myself up, turn slightly and rest against a helpfully placed nearby sofa.

  I’m in the living room of my palace.

  Someone is now standing by my side. I look up at them, and recognise the face within the facemask. It’s the woman from the front desk.

  Aha... now there is someone else beside her. A woman in a wheelch… Caroline!

  Oh shit.

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  A right telling off!

  .

  “You stink!” the Home Secretary declares, covering her nose with her hand. “What the hell has happened to you?” she asks.

  Suddenly, I become aware of another voice I recognise. It’s the Professor.

  “James, clean yourself up immediately! You look terrible. Go and shower, now! And shave! It looks like you have vomit in your beard!”

  I’ve never heard the Professor sound so authoritative before. The effect of his sternness, and also the shame that overcomes me from Caroline’s presence in the room, actually causes me to struggle to my feet, and attempt to obey his command.

  I decide that escaping the room under the excuse of following their instructions, is actually a life-line for me to evade further scrutiny and disgust from Caroline.

  Although, as Chicken Little may have declared, it feels like the sky has fallen on my head, I manage to think clearly enough to make it into the bathroom, take off my clothes and step into the shower.

  When I accidentally turn on the water at full blast at the coldest setting, I don’t even complain.

  I need to get sober, fast!

  After a few minutes of shivering in the expensively cooled water - it’s the middle of summer! - I find shampoo and soap and start lathering up both my hair and body. I scrub, and clean, and peel away the crap that has covered me in the past few… how long has it been? - days…?

  After probably twenty minutes of intense work, I climb out of the shower and almost slip on a soaked floor, but catch myself on the washbasin just in time.

  Steadying myself and the world, I reach for one of the posh hotel shavers beside the mirror, and what proves to be some nice smelling complimentary shaving cream, and I go to work on my beard.

  Suffice it to say, that ten minutes later, the person I meet and greet in the mirror, is most definitely not the vomit-covered scumbag that entered the bathroom forty minutes ago.

  As I massage in some really quite lovely after-shave balm, it dawns on me that I may have a problem.

  I have no clothes in the bathroom with me.

  Except for a tiny face cloth, a bath mat, and a few towels.

  For a few slightly erotic seconds, I imagine myself walking back into the lounge, naked, and starting a conversation with Caroline as if nothing was unusual.

  However, I then remember the presence of the woman from the front desk, and I decide she doesn’t deserve that fate, and neither does the Professor, if he’s still hanging on to the video connection that Caroline must have initiated.

  So, I solve the problem, by wrapping one of the wet towels around me, and walking through the lounge with a smile and at a certain pace, towards my bedroom.

  Minutes later I emerge with a casual blue cotton shirt, and another nice pair of brown trousers. No socks, but, hey, apart from that, fairly presentable.

  “Who are you?” Caroline asks as I walk back into the room and sit down on the sofa. “You’re absolutely not the same man who was here an hour ago.” She says, with a prolonged emphasis on the hour.

  Fair point.

  But at the least the transformation seems to have been successful. I am now semi-presentable.

  “I told the Professor we’d call back, as soon as you’d eaten something. You need something inside you to absorb any remaining alcohol.”

  “What makes you think I’ve been drinking?” I ask.

  Caroline gestures with a sweep of her hand that the room speaks for itself. It certainly does. As I glance around the floor and the chairs, there are empty bottles and cans… everywhere.

  “Ouch…” I say.

  “Exactly. I don’t need a law degree to make my point, do I?”

  I half-smile.

  Guiltily.

  At this point I notice a draught, and the woman from downstairs comes back into the room from the patio through the open glass doors.

  “We need some fresh air in here, otherwise we’re going to have to redecorate!” she announces, the polite-edge to her voice now strained. Still, she manages to keep her calm, which, given the circumstances, is rather amazing, and impressive proof of her professionalism. “Your dinner is served, Mr Quinn. Outside!”

  “Let’s go James.” Caroline commands. This time, less the voice of a first date, and more the voice of ‘I control MI5 and MI6 and the police… don’t mess with me!’ ”

  I comply.

  Soon we are once again sitting at the same table where we sat only… days? before.

  “How long have you been drunk for? When did we last sit here?” she asks me. “Is that what you’re thinking?” she asks. Bu
t not laughing.

  “How do you do that?” I ask, both scared and impressed at the same time. This woman can read my mind!

  “James, I can read you like a book.”

  “Paperback, or hardback?” I ask.

  Still no smile.

  “Thriller, or erotic novel?”

  “You started as a time-travel thriller, evolved into a romance, but then quickly became a horror story. And the answer to your question is two weeks.”

  “What? Two weeks?”

  “You’ve just been on a two-week bender. Forget lock-in, you‘re just emerging, I hope, from a knock-out. You’ve been practically comatose and plastered for weeks.”

  “How do you know?” I ask.

  To which she simply taps the front of her smart phone a few times, then places it on the table and pushes it gently across to me.”

  “Voilà!” she points at the phone. “A selection of photographs of you, taken by me, of you, during the past fourteen days.

  I stare at the pictures.

  “You can scroll through them by swiping your finger across the screen,” she offers.

  “I know… thanks…” I reply. But do as she suggests.

  Oh dear.

  There are a quite a few different photographs of me. In one or two of them I am naked. Sprawled out on my bed. Drunk as a skunk.

  “And you smelt like one too.” Caroline adds.

  “What??????” HOW?????” I look up at her. I seriously don’t know whether to be scared of her or impressed.

  “Impressed?” she adds.

  “Enough…now, stop it.”

  “Only if you pull yourself together and stop this.”

  “What?”

  “Your spiralling descent into self-destruction.”

  I don’t answer immediately. Her prodding has rekindled my memory of why I’m drinking. And I suddenly feel the need for alcohol, now!

  “We’ve taken it all away.” Caroline says, quietly.

  “What? Why?” I ask.

  “Because we’re paying for it, and you’re reaching the limit of your free credit.”