The Mariner (14 page)

“You asked me how many patients I have. Well, as you can see, my rehab unit appears small, but on the inside its economical with the space. We can house up to five guests at once, though at the moment we only have three. You’re the fourth.”

“We?”

“Yes, myself and Grace. We run the centre together. The only other patient you haven’t met is Donna; she’s in the infirmary. ”

The Mariner sighed, looking about the grounds with a mixture of content, envy, and the unease of chemical dependency. “You have a wonderful place here, doctor. I can’t thank you enough.”

“Nonsense.” Tetrazzini put his arm around him and began to lead inside. “Thank me once you’re better. You, the patient, are all that’s important. It is addiction that turns man into beast, and when you’re free of that, you’ll be amazed at what you can achieve.”

The Mariner allowed himself to be led, stomach fluttering with excitement. Perhaps it was his addiction that had dragged him down, stopped him from finding the island he’d been searching for all this time? No wonder every day felt like a curse! He had a disease, an
affliction
; once it was cured he would be free of his sins. Free to start anew.

They passed back into the cool building and into a study. It took a few seconds for the Mariner’s eyes to adjust from the glare of the sun to the shade inside. Finally colours seeped into his vision and the room revealed itself. Like the previous, the study was furnished with comforts the Mariner had only dreamed of. Every surface was clean, every chair cushioned. In the corner was a white humming box that when opened spilled out gloriously cool air.

“We’re going to start your treatment right away,” said Tetrazzini as he reached inside.

“Really?” The Mariner was thinking of that last drink he’d been hoping for. “I thought I might... settle in for a bit before we got going?”

“Nonsense, no time like the present.” And then, to the Mariner’s horror, he saw what the doctor had pulled from the box. A beer. “It’s cold,” Tetrazzini said, seemingly unaware of the torture he was inflicting. “We have a generator here, so there’s electricity to run the lights and cool the fridge. Take it.”

Drops of moisture ran down the glass, mirroring the saliva that flowed in the Mariner’s mouth.

“Is this a test? Am I expected to resist already?” The Mariner closed his eyes in misery. Every fibre of his being was screaming for the drink, egging him on to seize the bottle and drain it in an instant. Only then would the pain in his stomach and his head cease.

He began to tremble, and would have continued to if not for the comforting hand he felt placed upon his shoulder.

“Open your eyes my friend. It’s no test. We do not teach abstinence here. In fact, it’s necessary for your treatment that you
do
drink. First, take this pill.” Tetrazzini put the bottle on his desk and pulled a small capsule out his breast pocket. It rattled as he unscrewed the top and shook out a single white pill into his palm.

Still shivering, the Mariner tried to tear his eyes away from the cold beverage. “What is it?”

“An innovation of mine. Blending traditional beta-blockers with Ibogaine extracts. I meant it when I said you need to keep drinking to lose your addiction. It works thus: every time you ever drank alcohol, it reinforced the addiction in your brain. In your
neurons
. It is that connection that needs to be severed. And with these pills it can be. I want you to take one every time you drink. And every time you do, you will lose a little bit more the need to do it again, until one day the addiction will be completely gone.” He flexed his hands like a magician disappearing a rabbit.

“And I’ll never drink again?”

“You’ll never
need
to drink again. That’s the beauty of this drug: you can still drink! In fact you could drink yourself silly every day for twenty years, but if you take this pill every time you do, you’ll never become addicted. You’ll never have
dependency
. It is addiction, not action, that causes a man to become a beast.”

“It sounds too simple.”

Tetrazzini laughed. “Yes, yes it does, doesn’t it? But the best solutions often are, aren’t they? Drink! Drink my friend, you’re in good care. Other doctors preach abstinence, but not me. I don’t tell my patients to turn their backs on their behaviour or their lives. I tell them to embrace their addiction. Don’t run, seize it! Squeeze it! Only when you confront addiction head on will you become free. Confront it and you’ll never feel the pain of want or denial ever again. You’ll once again be truly alive!”

The beta-blocker felt sour and dry in his throat. The Mariner wasn’t bothered though, he washed it down soon after.

Patient Number 0020644

Name: John Doe

Welcomed the new patient today. As I suspected his problem is alcoholism, and a severe case at that. I don’t believe I’ve seen a case of this disease so advanced, at least mentally. I can only deduce that he found a significant quantity on his journeys to fuel it thus-far. Pity that he must have run out (giving him reason to dock at Sighisoara), otherwise he might have had something to trade, though I maintain payment will not be necessary in his case. I feel partially responsible for his near lynching in town and curing his illness is the least I can do for the man. Besides, alcoholism responds quickly to the treatment, I’m sure this will be an open and shut case.

I have explained the treatment and given him his first dose. As expected, the medication has been well received by his system – no signs of side-effects or illness.

Rebecca seems to have taken kindly to him and I suggested he accompany her into town later to witness self-administration. Hopefully this will reinforce his understanding of how the treatment works. I made sure he had a dose to take if he decides to drink, which I’m sure he will, Rebecca will see to it.

It is a pity that his addiction is so straight forward. He seems a mysterious man and I was hoping for a more complex psychological profile. Sadly, this is not the case. I will have to simply be satisfied with curing him.

T.

15
ADDICTION APLENTY

S
IGHISOARA USED NO CURRENCY.
G
OODS
were the only trade worth-while and no coin could be relied upon to accurately represent their worth. For that reason each player at the gambling den negotiated for chips at the start of the game. Rebecca had brought along a collection of paper-back books she’d collected. The Mariner watched her argue with the croupier, pushing for higher price tags to be attributed to each. Some she accepted, others she refused to back down on, returning the items to her satchel with a grunt of disappointment.

When she returned to the Mariner, a large collection of chips were clasped in her hand. “There was a time when I was so addicted to the thrill of gambling that I would have accepted any price,” she whispered. “They knew this of course and I got ripped off every time. Ass-holes. But you must know what it’s like?”

“I must?”

“Of course. Haven’t you come across someone who’d become aware of your addiction and taken advantage of it? Someone who saw your weakness and exploited all you were worth?”

The Mariner had. Absinth Alcott had made promises of limitless alcohol, littered about the ocean in secret stashes known only to him. The Mariner also remembered how little of Absinth the devils had left behind.

The chips Rebecca had been given were misshapen coins of various sizes, each battered, chipped and twisted. Some were small and bright, reflecting the candlelight like a thief’s dream. Others were large dull and tarnished, the once noble visages now no more than framed potatoes. Letters of languages he recognised (and some he didn’t), were crammed around the rims denoting worth that no longer applied. Only one similarity united the coins into two categories: some were silver and some were bronze. Rebecca explained that each silver coin represented five of the bronze.

A few of those bronze coins were thrown into a small pot on the far side of the table and drinks were hastily placed on in front of the two visitors. Whiskey. Perfect.

The Mariner reached out an eager hand, but Rebecca seized his wrist.

“Medication first; otherwise all this is pointless.”

He nodded and relaxed, allowing his arm to go limp and settle beside the glass. Violent compulsion to throw her aside and drain every receptacle was put on hold.

Rebecca rooted about in her satchel, a frown upon her face. The Mariner watched, enjoying the way her hair, mostly held back behind her head, surrendered a few strands to tumble forward and frame her delicate face.

With satisfaction, Rebecca found the small tin containing the beta-blockers. She popped the lid off and shook out two pills: one for her, one for him. He held out his hand, upturned.

“Strange isn’t it?” Her rhetorical question was asked as she placed the small white pill upon the spot in his palm where the lines intersected. “That something so small and can turn our whole world around.”

Rebecca swiftly knocked back her pill and chased it with a swig. A slight grimace indicated that she didn’t like the faint bitter taste either, but it soon passed and then it was his turn.

Something made him hesitate for a moment, no doubt some lingering demon inside, but it was easily quashed. This was the road to freedom, nothing would stop him taking it, and besides, who would ever have thought the road could be so pleasurable?

The Mariner placed the bitter pill on his tongue and washed it down with whiskey. The burning liquid felt wonderful to his tired and raw throat. Only his stomach gave any complaint, but even that was weak.

“So, now we just drink?” he asked, still not fully believing the treatment could be so easy.

“You drink, I gamble. Different addictions, same treatment. Wonderfully simple isn’t it?”

“How long have you been doing this? Tetrazzini’s treatment, I mean, not the gambling.”

“Not long. It starts to work very quickly. You may find yourself losing your compulsion after just a few weeks. Although you will forever be taking these pills whenever you drink, just as I do whenever I gamble, but that’s a small price to pay isn’t it?”

“If I lose the addiction, I don’t think I’ll ever drink again.”

“Possibly, but I don’t think the doctor would advise that. It’s best you drink every so often with a pill. That way the addiction can never regrow and take control. For instance, I still enjoy gambling, and will make sure I do it every few weeks or so, but I’ll never again lose everything down to the clothes on my back chasing the thrill of a win.”

Despite his sexual desire to see Rebecca stripped of clothing, the Mariner was pleased for her. She was clearly on the road to recovery. In a few weeks, would he be in same place, confidently guiding another addict towards the light?

Several other players had taken their respective places around the table, whilst in the shadowy recesses of the room others drank, nursing spirits and private grievances. Some were gambling too, but in private matches between old rivals; only in the central game could a stranger place a bet. The round table was lit up like a bear pit, a stage for the evening’s entertainment.

“I’m going to sit at the side-lines,” he muttered as Rebecca arranged her chips into piles.

“No, stay, you’ll want to be up close for the action.” Although she clearly meant it, Rebecca sounded distracted, her mind already more on the game ahead than her companion.

“No, it’s ok. I wouldn’t know what you were doing anyway. Never played.” The Mariner picked up his glass and made his way to an empty corner and felt instantly more comfortable in the darkness. He wore it as a warm coat caressing his shoulders. He yawned, feeling suddenly weary and eye-heavy. They began to close, focusing his attention solely on the sounds of glasses clinking, soft chatter and the metal poker chips as they were pushed around the table. Slowly these sounds faded and merged into one, until even that couldn’t be heard.

He’d washed, eaten and was now in the process of getting drunk. Times were good. And so was sleep.

When the Mariner awoke, probably not long later, the poker session was in full swing and there were several more drinks laid out for him in a neat line. He sat up in his chair, making the legs screech on the stone floor. Prompted by the sound, Rebecca looked in his direction and saw he’d awoken. She grinned and winked before turning back to the table and throwing another disk. The Mariner took her gesture as it was meant: she’d ordered the drinks, paid for by her winnings. Let them both enjoy their vice. The real tab was picked up by the good doctor on top of the hill.

In a silent salute, the Mariner downed a second and third shot of whiskey, slowing to enjoy the scent of the fourth. The fumes filled his nostrils, tickling the sensitive nerves within.

The thought of his nose oddly made him think of his devils back aboard the Neptune. Were their noses pointing in his direction? he wondered. Their snouts peering into the dark night air? How long would they wait before they sought food of their own?

The Mariner downed the fourth whiskey. Fuck those little bastards. They were like his addiction, something he’d put up with far too long. If they starved or got themselves shot, that was their own damn fault, not his. He wasn’t going to be their pet any longer.