Painkiller (21 page)

But the box carries on shaking its head.
Nothing.

There’s only one explanation. Dominic’s changed his password.
Why would he do that?
The answer is in my head before I even manage to ask the question.

Because someone told him I’ve been looking at his computer.
 

Angelina told him. It’s the only explanation.
 

She wouldn’t, would she? Break a confidence? Was this what the dream meant? Some metaphor? Some weird message telling something
…
What? Don’t trust my friends? Don’t trust my Angelina?
 

It’s not the only explanation.
I’m getting angry with myself now
. Don’t be so hysterical. Dominic could have just changed his password. He might have felt guilty for using the ‘p’ word, and just
…
changed it.

Or:
 

I could have done something when I was on his computer, erased something by accident. He might check his browsing history every morning, or the printer log, or something like that. He might have realised I’d been on his side of the computer and changed the password.
 

Either way, what can I do? Confront Dominic?
 

I can’t. Not now. I’ve lied to him now. Suppose I accuse him of taking photos of me? It would seem so pathetic after what I’ve just done. He would say he’d been absolutely bloody right to be suspicious.
 

Be sensible, girl. I’d just sound mad and paranoid.
 

But I AM mad and paranoid. I know that. The drugs and the pain make me like this. I know my brain is physically different. It just happens to be a medical fact. Just like the shape of my jaw has been changed from the nights trying to grind my teeth, and there are ridges on my fingernails, and chalk-white hairs at my temple where there were none before, my brain has been transformed, it is as different now from before the accident as a cabbage is to a cauliflower. The question is, how mad and paranoid have I become?
 

Just my normal mad and paranoid, or extra mad and paranoid?
 

Evidence. There’s only one way to sort this out. Facts that tell me what’s happening.

Of all the things I dreamt I would do with myself when the pain was gone, this is not what I imagined.

The moon is big, covering the garden in a soft white glow. The wet grass sparkles like the lights of a fairy village, but where I stand, I am dipped in darkness. Good.

At last I get to wear my ‘hers’ wellingtons.
 

I grapple with the bin, push it aside and grasp the shovel. I dig for a long time. My arms hurt like hell, but it is not the scream of my Angry Friend, it is the groan of long neglected muscles.

I hold the spade high, and the damp soil on the edge catches the silvery light, and looks a dark red. A fragment of memory. My mind flashes to another time. A child screams. It is me. My father’s hand on my shoulder. His blood-spattered spade. My mother’s shout.

‘How could you have been so stupid, Adrian?’
 

I will myself to think about other things. Now is not the time to be bothered about shadows of the past.

While I dig, I pass the time by imagining what I will find in the ground.
More photos of me, perhaps, or sophisticated bugging equipment. A computer tracking my car
…
Perhaps even a plastic wrapped file detailing my assignations with a long-forgotten lover?

There is… nothing.

I find nothing. There is nothing here. I must have imagined it.

‘How could you have been so stupid, Monica?’
 

Dominic must have just been putting the bin upright, like he said. Not digging. Not hiding something in the ground.

(
But you can’t be sure
)

I’m just mad and paranoid.
 

(
But you can’t be sure
)

I entertain the notion that Dominic might have removed something, rather than hiding it, but I have already spent too long chasing this rabbit down a hole. I need to know what’s in my head.

It crosses my mind – only fleetingly – that I should come completely off the drugs. See what happens. See if all the blocked memories flood back into me. I don’t think of it long, because the thought of what I might feel – without painkillers, even with the pain diminished – makes me feel nauseous. It feels too drastic.

The dream, Monica. Remember the man in the dream.
 

Who was that man at the end? The one with the unfortunate moustache?

‘Is that everything, Monica?’ he said. ‘Is there anything else you want to tell me?’
 

‘No officer. Nothing.’
 

‘Are you sure?’
 

Not a car park attendant. A policeman.

It’s a week later, and Niall’s texts are coming thick and fast.
U OK? Nx, ANY BETTER? Nxx, CU SOON? Nxx

… and so on and so on. The texts are all practically identical, but it’s funny how some come across as pleading, some angry, some tetchy, some pathetic. Perhaps each XXX from Niall is a Rorschach test opening different windows on my own state of mind.

I don’t reply to any of them. The moment in the bedroom felt dangerous. Out of kilter. I want to forget it. I want to forget
him.
Perhaps another reason why I want to forget him is a reason I don’t want to admit to myself. He reminds me of that time before, when I had pain.

Here’s someone else I don’t want to see. I have an appointment with Dr Kumar, a post-treatment consultation to see how I’m doing.

Let’s put a brave face on it. I think it’s time for celebration, for both of us, and I decide to skip into his surgery to demonstrate how good I’m feeling. I plonk myself in the chair, lean back as if I don’t have a care in the world, and stretch my legs ostentatiously under his desk. Then I realise I’m acting and moving like a slut, and I sit normally, but the grin stays plastered on my face. I’m waiting for praise from teacher.

Dr Kumar is fiddling with his pen.
Click click click
. He looks less than delighted to see me, which is odd. He
always
looks delighted to see people; without fail. Being delighted to see people is part of his character; it’s imprinted in his DNA. I would have thought he would be
even more
delighted to see me, given the context of my successful treatment. Perhaps his personality just works in a weird topsy-turvy way.

‘Good day to you, Monica, and how did you find the capsaicin treatment? Not the pleasantest of experiences, yes?’

‘Well, it wasn’t pleasant. You were right about that. But as you can see… I’m feeling a lot better.’

‘Oh good. I am very glad. How would you gauge your pain levels? How much percentage?’

‘Probably… about forty per cent less. Yes, forty per cent. I would say that. And I think that’s a conservative estimate.’

‘How encouraging. That is very encouraging indeed.’

He asks more questions, making notes as I talk and then, about half an hour later he says, ‘Well I am so glad you’ve had relief for this time. This is very encouraging. I hope this has been a rewarding experience for you.’

‘Well… It has been. Definitely.’

And we sit there, awkwardly, for a few seconds.

‘So what happens now? Do I make an appointment with you now, for another treatment, or do they contact me?’

Dr Kumar takes a deep breath. ‘I am afraid that the process led to the discovery that you are suffering from atherosclerosis…’

‘I know, they told me. They want me in for tests. More bloody tests.’

‘Until we can diagnose the severity of the condition, and due to the adverse effect on your heart, they do not feel they can treat you again at this moment in time. For the foreseeable future.’

‘How long will that take?’

Dr Kumar smiles, embarrassed. ‘There is no way of knowing. It is another new discovery we have to work with. It has probably come about due to the stress you have been feeling these past few years…’

‘Due to the pain.’

Dr Kumar just smiles. ‘I am glad that the treatment had a beneficial effect on you, but this discovery, your condition, at this moment, it makes you too much of a risk.’

‘I can take it.’

‘The point is, Monica, you cannot. You nearly died. You went into cardiac arrest. They do not want to risk your life by doing this to you again.’

‘Suppose I
want
to risk my life?’

He smiles, weakly. Now I know why he didn’t look happy. I should have guessed. My super-sense is never wrong.

Anger is starting to grow inside me.

‘This is irony, isn’t it?’ I say at last, coldly. ‘My heart is fucked due to the stress because of the pain, and I bet the drugs haven’t helped. They won’t have helped, I guess?’

‘I wouldn’t like to say that. I wouldn’t like to say that definitely…’

‘And now my body isn’t strong enough to cope with the only treatment that works. How fucking ironic.’ I’m thinking furiously. ‘Look. It’s fine. I’m fine with it. I’ll sign a piece of paper. I don’t care. I’ll take the risk.’

‘Killing you during a medical trial is not a positive outcome for anyone, especially you.’

‘You’re condemning me to a life with unending pain. Do you know that?

‘Your adverse reaction makes you a dangerous risk. I’m sorry.’

‘How can you decide what’s worth my life? What about
my
quality of life? Suppose my quality of life matters more to me than having a life? Who are you to put such a high price on my worthless fucking life!’

‘Your adverse reaction means you are too much of a risk.’

I’m furious now, and this time there’s no pain to hold me back. ‘You’re repeating yourself now. Coming out with preprepared phrases like the fucking Atos man. At the end of the day, it’s all just an exercise in arse-covering. I get to have my arse covered in magic chillies, and because it didn’t work out how everyone hoped, you get to cover your arse with some… fucking box-ticking form, some red tape, some health and safety bollocks…’

‘Monica, please listen. Perhaps in the future the procedure can be refined but until then… This is not just about you, this is about all the others that this could help. If someone dies on the trial they could cut funding, or even close it down completely.’

‘No. This
is
all about me! This is all about me! Me and my pain! There is no one else, because that’s how pain works, and you should fucking know that by now! I thought you were on my side!’

‘I am on your side, Monica. If you wish you can try the new morphine tablets. The results are very encouraging. We can see if they are efficacious in your case…’

‘Fuck you and your efficacious! You don’t get to use me as a fucking beagle and chuck me back in the kennel the minute I get smoker’s cough!’

I don’t remember leaving Dr Kumar’s office. I don’t even remember taking the morphine tablets with me. I stuff them in the glove compartment. The next thing I know, I’m back in the car, sobbing and banging my head as hard as I can on the steering wheel. Why not? If my Angry Friend is coming back, best to prepare the way with a fat headache.

I should never have told him the percentage of pain loss. You should never tell them the percentage.
 

Thud
.
Thud thud
.
THUD
.

I’m know I’m trying to make the airbag go off, so it can engulf me like the cloud in my dream. It’s not happening. Even without pain, my weakened body… I don’t even have the strength to do that. I fight to regain my composure.

Perhaps the pain won’t come back.
 

(
You know it will. Don’t be a silly bitch
)

What do I do?
 

(
You know what to do
)

I don’t. I don’t know anything.
 

(
Just live. Live your life, and live your life hard. Make love to your husband. Work some of that weight off. Travel with him. Drink with him. Laugh with him. Use this time, because it will be over soon
)

But I’m still angry. ‘This is Keats! This is just like Keats! I’m Keats!’ I yell to the inside of the car. ‘They make it easy on everyone else. Let’s just keep the pain relief back from me, in case there’s a tiny chance of me killing myself.’

And then, after the tears are gone, I decide what to do next.

‘Let’s go away,’ I say.

Dominic looks slightly taken aback.

‘Like where?’

‘A holiday. A romantic holiday.’

He smiles. ‘That’s a nice idea.’

Surely he knows that I will never leave him now. Crippled or healthy, I will always be at his side.
 

‘OK…’ he continues. ‘It’s been a while. A long while. We could take a train up to see my dad. Maybe get a little hotel in the Highlands.’

‘No, let’s really go away. Let’s go to Rome. I know you’ve always wanted to go to the Vatican, kiss the Pope’s ring and all that jazz. I’d quite like to see where John Keats died. God and poetry, the perfect combination.’

He stares at me, searching my face for signals. I know what he’s thinking.
Is she joking? Has she become unhinged by the medication?

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Let’s go.’

‘There are steps in Rome. Lots and lots of steps.’

‘So I read on the internet. The Keats-Shelley memorial house is actually at the bottom of the Spanish Steps. I’m ready for it.’

‘Will we be going on the Eurostar?’

‘No, a plane will be quicker.’

‘Seriously?’

‘No, on a magic carpet. Of course I mean a plane.’

Dominic knows that flying is not good for my condition. It’s not just the stress of getting to the airport, the humping of bags on and off machines and carousels, all that can be avoided with a bit of forethought and cooperation from the airline; and it’s not the sitting in a cramped seat for hours at a time – if I’m clever I can keep moving, and find places to move about.