“But I don’t want to die!” Edward was surprised by the vindictiveness coming from Dr Wells. “Even if I’m hooked up to God knows what. If there’s a chance I can recover, any experience is better than death. Why are you saying all this? Is it something to do with the new technique you said you wanted to try on me?”
“No it’s not, Edward. I’m doing this so that you’re able to better understand yourself.”
Edward was frank. “I want to live forever. Call it immature or stupid, I don’t care. I know dying’s inevitable, but that doesn’t make it any easier to take. Whatever happens, I don’t want to miss the sights, the sounds, the smells, the tastes - forever. The finality, the blackness. It’s something I can’t bear to imagine,” he said ruefully.
“You have no idea what it would be like. It’s also important to distinguish between a fear of dying – the process where someone lives through their final minutes of life; and the fear of death itself – where it is the unknown that scares us all so much.”
“Yes but I know what to expect when I die – nothing. And that’s the point. No anything. For ever. That’s what scares me.”
“So, it will be a lot like before you were born.”
“Stupid argument. I am alive now and that’s the point. It’s like I’m cursed, trapped, by being alive. It’s terrifying, because no one can do anything to help.”
Footsteps approached and interrupted their animated discussion.
“Hi, Ed.” His voice too was different, but Edward overlooked this out of sheer amazement at his elusive boyfriend coming to visit. “Eliz is spot on, babe. Death may be the end, but it needn’t be scary. Look back on your life well lived and be proud of what you’ve achieved.”
He rested a hand on Edward’s leg, like his parents had done the other day. “Why can’t you just live in the moment more?” he added, a twinkle appearing in his eyes.
Eliz? Tom just called Edward’s psychiatrist by her first name. Edward heard that correctly, didn’t he?
“Don’t you want our help, Ed?” Tom asked.
Edward didn’t like this, not one bit. They were interrogating him, for what purpose? And Eliz?
“Why are you ganging up on me?” he asked in desperation. The monitor recording his vital signs began bleeping more vigorously.
Tom put his hands on Dr Wells’ shoulder and together, they closed in on Edward. Flabbergasted best described Edward’s reaction.
“Look at him, lying there. So helpless. Powerless and impotent,” Dr Wells whispered. Tom rubbed her back and pulled a cheeky smirk. They stared at him pitifully, as would two parents leaning over the cot of their poorly child.
“No. What’s going on with you two?” Edward said angrily.
Tom leaned in closer, until Edward could smell the deodorant through his shirt. The seductive scent wafted up his nostrils and almost made him sneeze.
Tom then planted a kiss on the doctor’s neck. A little peck, that was all, but it was enough to divert Dr Wells’ attention away from Edward. She swung her head round in one sweeping motion and clinched Tom’s waist. They kissed each other, passionate French kissing that made Edward queasy. He wanted to say something, to protest. Much like a rabbit caught in the headlights, he could only stare transfixed as they carried out this sordid display.
His horror was intensified when four police officers came into the ward. They surrounded his bed and drew the curtain around his bed. They blocked Edward’s view of Tom and Dr Wells engaging in a tight embrace.
“Hey, wait a minute,” Edward started.
The noises from the medical equipment grew louder.
“He’s running a thirty-nine and climbing.”
Before he could say any more, the police officers each grabbed one of Edward’s limbs, pinning him to the mattress. It all seemed pointless; where was he going to go, hooked up to cables and leads and tubes and lines and pipes and all kinds of machinery? He hadn’t stood up in weeks; why then would the police (of all people) be restraining him so forcefully?
“He’s tachycardic, stand by with 6 milligrams of adenosine in the IV line.”
The answer burst through the curtain, confronting him in a brutish fashion that was all too familiar to him.
“Oh, fuck no,” he gasped as Simon Wainwright charged over to him. In his hand was a sponge. It could have been the very same sponge that had nourished Edward when he regained consciousness all those weeks ago. Anything under Simon Wainwright’s control was bad news.
“Have a drink,” Wainwright goaded. “Go on, suck it. Swallow it, you know how!”
He slapped the sponge against Edward’s face. Unlike a conventional sponge, this one did not run dry. Instead, it was continually saturated with water. Wainwright forced back Edward’s throat, the latter gagging as water gushed over his mouth, his nose, his eyes. The flood showed no signs of stopping.
Edward’s head was yanked up, forcing him to resume watching Tom and Dr Wells cavorting in the corner of the room. Now Tom was undressing her, an escalating perversion Edward could not comprehend.
“Can we call a code and infuse 250 milligrams ibuprofen, please? Hurry now.”
Simon retreated and hurled the sponge – still full of water – at Edward. It landed square on his face, with the force of a locomotive. He was blinded temporarily. Simon was standing against the drape when Edward’s vision returned.
One of the police officers, still clinching Edward’s arm, appeared to say something. The words that Edward heard were out of sync with the policeman’s mouth. “Check if Ananthaswarmy is on call, we may need him. Let’s page surgery and prep theatre, ASAP.”
“Core temp is forty, systolics climbing.”
Edward wanted to pinch himself, to show definitively that he was in the middle of a nightmarish TV drama. His arms were weighed down by the police, who chuckled maniacally as they used all their might to keep him in situ.
He wanted to shout, to scream. No sound, only the ringing in his ears that deafened him, as his body burned and his vision blurred.
The room span – this is what it’s like to die! The congregation surrounding him merged into a shapeless mass. The ringing sound gouged at the sinews of his brain, like nails down a blackboard. He was nauseous and strove to fight it off.
There was no escaping this. He did not want to die. And yet…
Sometimes you have to let go and say goodbye.
XIX
Edward roused himself from his drug-induced stupor. He was delirious. It took an eternity to gather his bearings. His eyes once again grew accustomed to the glaring strip lighting directly over him.
Inching his head from side to side, he counted four individuals hovering around him. Helen and Michael sat anxiously holding his arm. A consultant and the nurse fixed him with worried faces.
“Edward! Thank god you’re back with us,” wept Helen, gripping his hand until her nails dug into his skin. “We thought we’d lost you.”
“I knew you were a fighter, son. Never one to give in,” added Michael. Tears trickled over tears, creeping down his pudgy jowls.
Edward struggled to make sense of what was going on. So far, so calm. Was this the start of another demonic nightmare? Did he make it – was this the afterlife that he’d so vehemently dismissed as fantasy? Don’t be ridiculous, he thought. Why would I wake up in a hospital bed, hooked up to all sorts of machinery, the same place I died in?
Understanding his confusion, Mr Ananthaswarmy explained the predicament he was in.
“Edward, we wrongly believed that all the toxins and pathogens that had leaked into your bloodstream had been removed. I’m afraid there was a small cluster of bugs around your brain. These caused an infection that led to a high fever. You struggled to control the fever and ended up suffering a nasty seizure.”
A hush descended on the room. Even the monitors and various medical appliances were subdued. Then Helen sniffed loudly, and the doctor continued. “We had to sedate and help you breathe again. We infused high strength a
ntibiotics, heavy doses of anti-epileptic and anti-pyretic medication to contain the infection, the fever and the fitting.”
Edward’s stomach heaved. He belched and could feel contractions in his throat. He gesticulated wildly. Helen hurriedly handed him a cardboard container, into which he ejected the contents of his stomach.
“A common side effect of the medication we’ve put you on,” Ananthaswarmy conceded morosely. “Your body is responding slowly, so we’ve taken away the oxygen therapy and reduced your sedation.”
For Edward, the walls had only just finished spinning. It took a concerted effort to focus and take in the doctor’s words.
“How long has it been?” he asked, his voice rasping.
“You had the infection three days ago and you’ve been out ever since. It’s been just over two months since the assault. That’s right, isn’t it love?” Michael said, dutifully turning to his wife for clarification.
Helen did not say anything. She struggled to look at Edward, and this made her feel ashamed. Every time she tried, she could only make out his bruises and yellow-tinged skin and trembling fingers and bloody wounds. It made her weep more.
◆◆◆
By the time Edward was able to walk unaided as far as the adjacent bathroom, Christmas decorations had appeared on the ward. Festive adverts appeared on TV. Conversely, Edward’s spirits remained in the doldrums.
When the time came for him to leave the hospital, in the company of his adoptive parents, Christmas was around the corner. He assured them that he could manage the short walk out to the car park without assistance.
As they left the inpatient building, he was thrown about by the gale-force wind and needed support from Michael. Helen dropped the bulging bag of prescription medication and offered her arm for Edward to hold on to.
“I’m fine, honestly, I don’t need your help guys,” Edward insisted.
“Nonsense, if I hadn’t been here you would have gone arse over heels and wound up back in ICU,” Michael rebuked.
“Social services forgave us for not looking out for you on the day you got attacked. We’ll be damned if you risk yourself again under our watch,” Helen said bluntly.
Edward loathed this dependency he had. It was bad enough being wholly reliant on the medical team to save his life and although he was grateful to them, he longed to be self-sufficient again.
The ride back home was quiet, except for the radio blaring the same mind-numbing Christmas pop dross that’s played back-to-back every festive season. His parents gave up trying to initiate conversation with him. He much preferred staring out of the window on this bleak winter’s day and to ponder the questions he yearned to answer.
Tom’s absence left him empty inside. There was no one else with whom Edward had such a strong affinity. None of his other friends who had visited him fleetingly were anything like the sort of company Tom Osbourne was. These friends were as welcome as a takeaway pizza – a forgettable distraction. Tom was like a Christmas dinner with loved ones. Warm, meaningful, memorable. All the best things.
For his first act after returning to the beloved confines of his bedroom, he set about gaming hard. Bass-heavy electronic music reverberated off the fixtures and fittings in the room. His room was familiar to him, and that relieved him of some of the negativity eating away at him.
Lying on the immaculate quilt draped over the pristine bed, his phone ticked away.
Blip-ching-tsh.
“Edward, honey, do you want some soup?” Helen asked, a while later.
“Thanks, but I’m not hungry right now.” His most pressing goal was trying to win the Cup in his football game.
All the while, his phone blip-tsh-plipped away.
Even the PC game was not a priority in his mind. No matter how hard he tried, his head swam against an unremitting current of other thoughts burning away at his psyche.
He gave up on the game and threw himself against his pillows. At times like this, he would refer to the Good Book – namely his diary – and scribble in that until his head was cleared of the confusing sludge that clogged it up. His treasured diary was no more though, and that was a sucker-punch to the gut.
There was only one thing for it.
He picked up his phone, warm to the touch, and silenced the bloops and the pings. Three rings, and a mild-mannered woman’s voice answered.
“Hello, speaking.”
“Hi, Dr Wells, it’s Edward here. Kreus. I’ve been discharged.”
“Edward! It’s good to hear from you. I’m pleased to hear that. How are you?” the psychiatrist asked.
“I’m not in a good place. I feel empty and really need to speak to you. Soon as you can,” he sighed.
“Oh Edward, I can’t imagine what you’re going through. I’ve closed my surgery until after Christmas, and I don’t even have access to a key.” She asked Edward to hold the line while she checked her calendar. “I have literally no availability until next year. I’m travelling to Scotland in two days with my in-laws for Christmas.”
There was a silence over the phone that rendered Dr Wells uneasy. “How about I book us in for an emergency consult at the clinic over at the hospital?” she suggested.
Edward shuddered at the very mention of the words. Clinic. Hospital. No thank you. “I can manage for another week or so. Just wanted to let you know I’m back home and on the mend, Dr Wells,” he said, pretending that he could hang on until then.
“Please Edward, call me Eliz. You don’t need to be so formal. We know each other well enough,” she told him. “OK, I will book you into my surgery on January 3rd, eight-thirty sharp. What do you reckon?”
Call me Eliz. Edward’s skin crawled at the very mention of her first name. All the corrupted images associated with ‘Elizabeth’ flooded his head and made him quite ill. A migraine brewed, and he winced and pinched the top of his nose to stifle it. Having thanked his doctor and hung up, he stood and switched off the lights and lowered the volume on his speakers. Then, he sought refuge under his duvet and drifted into the depths of a fitful sleep. Meanwhile, his phone dutifully blip-ting-tshed away in the background.
XX
The morning of January 3rd was the start of a bitterly cold day. Edward was close to over-sleeping, saved only by the war cry of his father booming across the house.
“Ed, are you almost ready in there? Need a hand getting changed?” he hollered.
Edward rolled out of bed, pulled on the first clothes that were in arm’s reach and hurried into the bathroom to rush through his ablutions: teeth brushed, face washed, fly zipped up, nose clean, bedroom resembling a noxious bombsite. Good, time to go.
“All set?” asked Michael, when his son emerged in the hallway.
“All set,” Edward replied.
The trip to his appointment passed in silence, as Edward contemplated what he should say to the psychiatrist. His sides were killing him; he doubted the painkillers he’d brought in his pocket would suffice to dull the pain.
His adoptive father parked outside the dated building that housed Dr Wells’ office. The engine was still running as he turned to Edward and wished him luck. “Your mum will pick you up from here in ninety minutes, alright? You have your phone switched on and will let us know if there’s a problem,” he told him.
“Will do. And thanks for the lift, Dad,” said Edward. He smiled while avoiding direct eye contact. Michael smiled back and clapped his son on the shoulder to bid him farewell.
Inside, it was the usual routine. After signing in with the pleasant receptionist, he waited until it was his turn to head up the long flight of stairs to the shrink’s office. Trepidation manifested itself in his fidgeting and absent-mindedness.
He set foot in the room with the high ceiling and faded rugs and ancient furniture. The vase of plastic flowers still took pride of place on the mantlepiece, maintaining some vibrancy in an otherwise bland room.
“Hello Edward, it’s good to see you again. Come in and take a seat.” Dr Wells signalled t
owards the chaise in front of her desk. “How was your Christmas?”
Edward made a point of keeping his mouth shut. He had lost weight, giving his former toned physique a more skeletal look about it. His complexion pasty, his face pockmarked in parts and fuzzy in other places. His nose, though healed, was still swollen. Pain was the commanding mistress that dominated his introspection.
Dr Wells tried again. “You're looking better, how's everything?”
Edward was tired of the pleasantries; he wanted to get straight to business. That said, he knew these platitudes were all part and parcel of therapy. “I’m managing,” he answered succinctly.
“You gave a good account of yourself during the fight.”
“How do you know I fought back?”
“I liaised with the police. Their investigation may have come up empty, but I know you’re still reeling.”
Edward scowled. “Aren’t we getting onto the fantastical new treatment you were talking about in hospital?”
“Soon, we’ll get to that. First though…”
She pulled open a drawer behind her desk. Edward’s curiosity grew. The doctor removed a clear plastic folder, and Edward gasped as he saw the fragmented sheets of paper spilling out of it.
“My diary,” he whispered. “They gave it back to you?”
Dr Wells smiled thinly as she wrestled how best to approach this topic.
“Forensics took samples from the scene. They kept it in storage as evidence, but I persuaded them to release these after they checked for prints and DNA.”
Edward said nothing. He gawped at the remnants of his journal and by extension his thoughts of times gone by. Hopes and fears, dreams and aspirations, memories and beliefs. He felt like he was staring helplessly at the very fabric of his mind, defaced and torn. Muddled, and Elizabeth Wells could tell.
“You had no right to snoop.”
“You were bringing your diary to the clinic to show me anyway.”
Screams of Thy Neighbour Page 14