Garbled Plea

When she spoke, it was not deafness preventing me from replying. I heard the words, but they were garbled. Her last ever sentence. And I did not understand. Was it a cry for help, a basic need, like hunger or thirst, or was it something more complex? Something she was showing in her oh so communicative eyes.

I sat there beside her hospital bed (HSE provided: won’t hear a word against them) in the living room of our apartment. A bed with all the bells and whistles. Self-adjusting mattress, up-down, in and out, remote control, a real beaut. None of which helped me to understand those words. Well, I say words, but they weren’t words. They were grunts and mumbles, the sounds one might expect from a colony of apes in the Congo. Garbled.

But listen to me, starting in what most would consider the middle. Not me. Never was much of a one for all the scientific theories. Everything must have a beginning, a middle, and an end. Bunkum, I say. The best of my life started in the middle, little beginnings, some life, then little endings; just a mix: no real beginning, no real ending; all mashed together like a kaleidoscope of images spinning at the press of a button, like I’m standing astride a time vortex, some weirdo Doctor Who.

Little Beginnings

It’s not hard to pinpoint when her progression to that bed, talking gobbledegook, started. That little beginning happened when she lost control of her bladder and couldn’t walk up the passage without holding on to the wall. I’d been away, working abroad, and thought at first, she was drinking, unable to cope without that vacuous crutch. Pee stains on the couch. All the food I bought before leaving for a three-day stint was still in the fridge when I got back. Slurred speech. All the signs of a closet dipso. But none of it rang true. There were no empty bottles hidden behind the couch, no inexplicable withdrawals from the bank account. No wine stains to keep the pee stains company. Nothing to say there’s a closet boozer in the house.

Something was wrong. I took her to the doc (she wouldn’t go unless I brought her, some strange fear of doctors), and he referred her to Vincent’s. We spent our last night together and went to A&E the following day. The diagnosis (initial) took all day but came back as possibly MS. We need to do some investigating, the head doctor said. On it went. This test, that test. The third degree for me. After weeks, the diagnosis was upgraded to primary, the type without a cure. Palliative care only, I’m afraid. Don’t blame yourself. There’s nothing you could have done.

Don’t blame yourself. How could I not?

I’m still plagued by guilt. Shrink reckons I have PTSD. Should have spotted it sooner, but the head specialist, the one who diagnosed her, said it wouldn’t have made a difference. The disease, the God awful Primary Progressive Multiple Sclerosis, is inexorable. Untreatable. A killer. If a slow one.

She’ll have a curtailed life, said specialist explained. You’ll need to pull together. It won’t be easy. Of course, we’ll muck in, they said, but they never did. Left muggins to foot the bill. To carry the can; to nurture a three-month-old baby in the body of a fifty-year-old woman. Left me to watch the woman I loved die one day at a time, slowly, the creeping tide washing away the cliffs of her sanity. But not just her sanity: her every function. Her life and being eaten by something nobody understands.

Some Life

Curtailed, for sure. She was wheelchair-bound. Reliant. Vulnerable. I was the hero, the man who provided for a stricken wife. Wheeled her about. Took her to the cinema. Bought her an ice cream. Fed her. Wiped her backside and put her to bed at the end of the day. She had no life outside of me, and I had no life outside of her. Not such a bad existence. We could cope. I felt sure. But I had no idea what was to come.

First to go, the gag reflex. What’s that? I asked. Her ability to prevent food from entering her lungs. We’ll stick a hole in her belly and feed her through a tube. But she loves food. She lives for eating. Sorry. Nothing can be done. No more food.

And then her hands turned into claws, like an early onset arthritic, hooks where fingers once were.

Next to go, her speech. It went slowly. At first, a few words were coming out a little wrong, mispronounced, or out of order. I could see it in her eyes: the frustration, which caused her to stop trying to speak. She was ever a proud woman, and rightly so. The image of a young Sofia Loren, like Peter Sarstedt, I used to know where that lovely went, but no longer, she was trapped inside a head with no release. And I was trapped outside watching. And only watching.

Life was in limbo. We were already dead together. She in that supersized hospital bed, all the whistles and flutes, and me in the dusty armchair beside her.

Little Endings

And if we were already dead, what use continuing with an existence, which was no existence? I sat in that armchair, one of those old rickety yokes that went back when you pulled the lever. Dusty. Smelly. Dog puke green in colour. Bad for a back already bad from lifting her in and out of bed. Helped by a mechanical sling, for sure, but back-breaking, nonetheless. 

My mind wandered, and my eyes wandered and came to rest on the plastic measuring jug.

I sat there looking at that jug, all nonchalant on the tv table, beside the boxes of drugs: drugs for pain, drugs for spasms, drugs for God only knows what. And in the cupboard under them, a bottle of vodka. A mixer. The ingredients of a cocktail, a one-way ticket to the oblivion from the wrong side of our own personal Styx. A substitute for Charon’s ferry. Who pays the Ferryman? I do.

I mixed that cocktail and sat on that dusty armchair all night. A fifty-mill syringe full of her one-way ticket, ready for pumping down her gastric tube, a pint glass beside the chair holding my ticket.

I sat there, watching her through the night, the tickets keeping me company. I felt a tear run down my cheek, and as dawn broke and the birds began to sing, I said, ‘I’m sorry, my love.’

Sorry for what? I’m not sure. Sorry for failing her, perhaps. Sorry for not being strong enough to go on. Sorry that this little piece of our lives was going to have an ending. Sorry I was not strong enough to bring that ending about. Or just sorry. Whatever the reason, she heard me and opened her eyes, and they were full of love and pain and worry, and she uttered her last ever sentence. I smiled at her. I thought I saw the flicker of a smile in return before she closed her eyes, never to open them again.

And what were those final words? I like to think they were a plea for me to forgive myself. A heartfelt plea, even though a somewhat garbled plea.

Check out the upcoming blog tour for Micheal’s next book:

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Check out the upcoming blog tour for Micheal’s next book:

Capri, Italy

The thrill of the sea spray, the wind, the bouncing and jostling of the Zodiac always excited Beni. He could think of nothing he would prefer at three in the morning. Not so his navigator, Stefano, wobbling in the front, armed with the compass, who kept waving and shouting directions when the boat veered, pushed off course by an unforgiving sea. Beni could imagine Stefano’s free hand gripping the rope so tightly his knuckle bones would be shining in the moonlight.

When they reached the open sea, and the shadow of the Sorrento coast hid Capri, the waves tried to knock Stefano out of the boat. Beni screamed at the thrill, and Stefano screamed at him to slow down. Tough on Stefano, though, because Beni had the wheel. And what a wheel. What speed. Someone told him how many knots the Zodiac could do. With no idea what knots were, he still knew that if he pulled the throttle back to the stop, he would be doing more than thirty klicks an hour, which, at sea, was a fantastic and scary feeling.

Stefano started to wave his red dimmed torch, just visible in the predawn black, when a beam of light lanced from a point at sea where no land could be. Beni eased back on the throttle and grinned. The freighter. As soon as they had slowed enough to be gently rocking in the waves, he lifted his halogen torch and flashed a response. It was a game. Scortese had told him the Guardia[i] could do nothing. They were outside Italian waters. The threat would be when they were returning.

Beni didn’t think there was much threat, even then. This was his fourth trip, and he’d seen nothing of the sbirri[ii] or the Guardia. It was as if they didn’t care. They had billions of lire’s worth of hi-tech boats resting idly in the port of Miseno. Sure, he’d listened to those engines booming across the bay. Anyone who lived around Baia had heard them. They shook buildings and made teeth rattle. Beni had never seen an interceptor, but he’d felt one often enough.

It didn’t take long to load the crates into the Zodiac. The men hanging out of a loading door in the ship’s hull held their peace. Beni knew they only spoke Russian and supposed they didn’t care if the AKs went to the correct buyer because they’d get their money either way. Ten minutes and he was again feeling the thrill of pure power. The boat’s bow lifted out of the waves like some monstrous creature from the deep, one of the spooky black and white ones from the American films he’d snuck in to see.

They’d made it into the gap between Capri and the coast when Stefano once more started to wave his torch frantically like he was trying to swat some elusive mosquito. Beni eased off the throttle and let the Zodiac come to a rest, swaying gently in the wash, the outboard quietly chugging and spitting sea spray.

‘What’s up?’

‘Can’t you hear it?’ Stefano asked, stress evident in his tone. Beni could imagine his frown, invisible in the red glow, mouth and eyes nothing but black.

Cupping his ear, he listened. Finally, he could hear a muted roar over the chugging of their engine.

‘What’s that?’ he asked.

‘That’s the Guardia interceptor. They’re coming for us.’

‘How do they know we’re here?’

‘I dunno. Radar, maybe,’ Stefano replied.

‘What are we going to do?’ Beni asked.

‘We’ll have to run for it. Hope they miss us.’

‘Are they likely to?’

‘No idea. Only one way to find out.’ Stefano’s tone was a sure indication of what he thought their chances might be. Beni knew if the light had been enough, he would see Stefano’s face etched with panic lines.

‘So, let’s find out then,’ he said.

They found out quickly.

As they raced out from their cover, someone flicked a switch, and the interceptor glared at them with a halogen beam, which made daylight appear wherever it touched. Tall explosions of water in front of the Zodiac were accompanied by the dub-dub-dub of heavy machine gunfire and a mechanical voice ordering them to heave to. They couldn’t argue with the twin guns mounted to the front of the boat, which would tear the Zodiac into plastic strips while churning Stefano and Beni into shark bait. Beni turned the engine off and waited calmly.

He had nothing to fear.

Before long, a Zodiac like theirs appeared in the light thrown by the interceptor. It was smaller, and Beni guessed it had been launched off the other vessel. There were Guardia in it, pointing guns at them.

‘Get your hands up.’

He could see Stefano shaking. Neither of them had been arrested before, but Beni knew he would not spend more than a single night in custody because Beni made sure to give his tame sbirro the odd scrap of information. His insurance policy. He never told the cop anything of importance, just gossip, but the man was about as bright as a beachball and took it all as though it was Christmas.

Less than ten minutes later, they were pulling themselves up the boarding ladder into the Guardia’s boat. The boat impressed Beni. He couldn’t ignore the beauty of its hard lines and massive engines, throbbing right into his guts, making his teeth ache. Jumping onto the deck, he found a man standing there wearing chinos and a summer jacket. The man had his arms crossed and was grinning.

‘Where’s your uniform?’ Beni asked before he could stop himself.

‘Not Guardia. I’m a sbirro from Pozzuoli. Just observing here.’

‘What? Like watching the boat crew? That’s a bit creepy, isn’t it?’

‘What’s your name, guaglio?’ the man asked, his accent causing Beni to frown. Most cops he dealt with were not from around Napoli. In fact, they tended to be from north of Rome – way north of Rome.

‘You a local?’

‘Baia born and bred. Why’d you ask?’

‘No reason. Curiosity.’

‘So, what’s your name, kid?’

‘Beni Di Cuma.’

The cop smiled and nodded, making like he was on Beni’s side. The idiot thought Beni would be swayed by his false friendship because they were paisan[iii]. He didn’t need any buddies in the cops. He had his sbirro in Pozzuoli, who worked for the Secret Service. His wannabe handler. The one who would have the power to keep him out of La Casa. Beni would be eating lunch in Pescatore’s come midday.

‘This’ll warm you up,’ the sbirro offered his hipflask. Beni took a swig before handing it to Stefano.

‘Who’d you work for, Beni? My guess is the Scortese crew.’

Beni shrugged and turned to look at the silhouette of Capri, quickly receding as they headed into port. He thought the cop knew well enough. He thought they all knew. Did they not talk to each other? He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. All the different types of cops Naples had, and they all thought they were better than the others. The Gatti Neri[iv], the Guardia, the sbirri, all thought the others should bow to them. Never mind the Secret Service, who – chosen by God himself – bowed to no one.

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[i] Guardia di Finanza – Italy’s customs and excise law enforcement agency, responsible for border protection as well as customs.

[ii] Sbirro – Italian slang. Closest English (Universal) would be a cop. Plural form would be sbirri.

[iii] Paisan – Neapolitan slang. Peasant. Used to mean compatriots.

[iv] Gatti Neri – Neapolitan. Black Cats. Nickname for the Carabinieri, Italy’s military police. See notes.

Spring:

The Alcoholic Mercenary is the story of Andrea, ex-para, reformed alcoholic, servant to the most powerful man in Southern Italy, if not the whole peninsular.

Can he keep the grappa at bay, or will unrequited love and murder force him back?

Summer:

Milesian Brother of Justice is the story of Genonn, the disillusioned Druid who has decided to fight for the rights of the common people.

The Battle of Gairech has left the Five Kingdoms in turmoil and his desire to do good is stretched beyond breaking.

Autumn:

The Reluctant Mother is the story of Anna Maria, mother of twin boys, who is determined not to take on the mantle of Matriarch of the clan after her husband’s murder.

Will she succeed in keeping the temptation of rich rewards at bay?

Winter:

Milesian Suppression (working title) is the story of how Genonn defends Druid Island and the Five Kingdoms from the long-feared Roman invasion.