JOHN FINNIE

When John woke up something was different. The doctors were all over him, taking blood, reading data from the machines, and rushing around like a frenzied bee colony, and he was the queen. They poked and prodded him, shone lights in his eyes and ran gadgets up and down his body.

John smiled, he actually smiled. It almost felt alien to him for the muscles in his face to move, it itched as his skin stirred, but it felt wonderful. The months of sitting or lying in his bed, wearing nappies, having other people clean him had made him a bitter man. Sarcasm reeled in his mind, and he wanted to loose it on the world. But that was over now, wasn't it?

Eight hours he sat through tests, still unable to move, but he was definitely different. By the end of the first day there was one doctor left in the room, it was late. Her back was to him as she poured over his notes. A blonde ponytail swished behind her bobbing head. The white lab coat she wore was immaculate, and as he watched she scribbled notes down on the clipboard she held. She put the pen in her mouth, scrunched her nose up, and then underlined two words. Body responsive.

Something about her seemed familiar. No, not her, someone like her. John couldn't shake the feeling. She placed the clipboard at the end of his bed, then pushed her glasses back onto her nose. She smoothed the bed sheets out and sat down, facing John.

'I bet,' she said, 'That you're wondering what the heck is going on, eh?'

John sat half propped up, still unable to move. So he smiled. That, at least, he could do.

'Well,' said the doctor, 'we still aren't sure what happened. You know you have been in a coma for seventeen years, yes?'

John smiled again. Did she expect him to nod? To say yes? Pffft.

'Good,' she said. 'During that time you died at least twice a year. You were resuscitated each time.'

John's head spun. He died? What the fuck! He died... Remember me... Eh? Remember who. Oh Christ, he'd died. How was he still here? Was he still here, was this real? His stomach lurched. Oh God, he felt sick.

The machines to his left beeped, the doctor looked over. She took a gadget out of her pocket and tapped at the screen. A feeling of melting drenched him--something she pumped into his veins.

'Morphine,' she said. His smile came easy. Her glasses looked funny. 'It will help you relax and get rid of the pain.' She smiled. 'Better?'

No drugs...Why no drugs? Man this felt cosy. And her glasses, so funny.

'Great,' she said. 'Seventeen years is a long time John, during this time you suffered many strokes. You had a large amount of damage to your brain, almost unrecoverable. Or so we thought.'

She reached for the clipboard again and wrote something else down. 'Anyway, we watched the CC television feed. When you sneezed, something happened. It looks like your spinal cord was pressurised near the axis of your skull. Somehow we missed this.' She paused for a second, then shook her head. 'Okay so,' she continued, 'this pressure was somehow released when you sneezed, and the electrical signals are now firing off in one hundred percent of your brain. Do you understand what I am saying John?'

John smiled again, now fully immersed in the warm and comforting embrace of the morphine. Inside he giggled. The doctor's glasses sat on her face like a praying mantis rocking on a leaf.

'So,' she said again, 'It looks like you will regain full control of all your body's functions over time. It will take a lot of rehabilitation John. And some substantial surgery as your tendons are shortened in your left arm and left leg. Yet the prognosis is good.' She laughed. 'What am I saying! The outlook is wonderful.'

Giddy with morphine, all he could focus on was the doctor's ridiculous glasses and her ponytail swishing like a horse's tail. Somewhere beyond that his mind registered hope. She got off the bed and walked to the door. 'You must have someone looking down on you John; I think your guardian angel is working overtime.'

A sudden pain hit John hard, the warm blanket of the morphine was ripped away, leaving him cold and naked on the bed once again, his eyes opened wide. The machines beeped again. The doctor took out her gadget. 'Only one more John, the computer is programmed to give you pain relief throughout the night.'

The warmth of the morphine ran through his veins once again. John's body relaxed, his mind went fuzzy.

'Goodnight John,' she said. 'Sweet dreams.' And closed the door.

But John's dreams weren't sweet. They never were.

No more sleep please! No more sleep...no more sl...no mor...remember me....

The car, the child and the horrid old lady screaming at him, but her voice was muffled as if she were behind glass. Over and over she would scream until he fell into the deepest part of his sleep pattern. What waited there in a large dark box was worse, a scruffy woman with a gold tooth, her throat slit from ear to ear. Something black and monstrous held her up by her legs, as giant maggots with sharp teeth crawled into her mouth and out of her throat. The sound of the creature rending of her flesh made him retch. John would try to run, but would slip on the blood covered floor.

A huge foot would push down on his chest, he could feel ribs break as he got crushed to death. As he tried to push the foot off his chest a maggot would crawl out of his arm and bite off his fingers. He would scream, but it wouldn't stop. Something was laughing above him, a deep and evil laugh. A laugh that promised painful torment, then it would speak the word that killed his heart. A high pitched voice.

'Tiggggerrrr!' Then that laugh again, over and over and over.

#

Four months on and Samantha sat on his bed. She was rubbing his legs, working the muscle to get them strong again.

'Your progress is remarkable,' she said as she worked his calf. 'Your voice is getting stronger every day.'

John grimaced as she pushed her thumb at the Achilles. 'I couldn't give a flying fuck about my voice Sam. I want to walk again.'

The hurt look on her face gave John a pang of guilt, but only for a second.

'I know it's taking a while,' she said, 'but we're getting there. Every day I can see improvement. Your speech is better, your muscle tone is improving.' She turned his left arm, the scarring and stitches were minimal now. 'And your arm is looking loads better after the surgery.'

'Whoop dee fuckin do,' John said in a flat tone, staring at her slack mouthed.

Sam stopped what she was doing and looked him in the eyes. 'You don't need to be like this John, it's been hard on us too. But you're back and getting stronger. You're a fighter John Finnie, you always have been.' Her warm smile resurfaced that darned guilt he kept burying.

There was only one way to fix it. John looked towards the window in his room. 'Well, that was inspirational,' he said. 'It makes me just want to get up and dance. No, wait, it makes me want to run. I'm a fighter, I never give in. Brilliant! Have you been thinking that up all fucking day?'

He'd hurt her and he knew it, but it was better than feeling helpless and guilty over every fucking second of his existence. Samantha stood up and walked out of the room. The sound of her crying followed her out into the hallway.

'Nice one John,' he said to the empty room. 'Brilliant effort. How to win friends one on one, by John fucking Finnie.'

Drugs is what he needed, not sarcasm. This sarcasm shit wasn't working. He flicked the morphine switch and helped himself to a double dose. It had taken more than a bit of arguing to get a manual switch installed, but Mam and Dad trusted him. Samantha had argued against it, something about his original doctor not wanting him to have drugs.

What the fuck did she know? Did she have to go through this pain? Was she in a living nightmare every fucking day? Was there any way she'd known the indignity of having someone change your nappy three or four times a day? No she hadn't, so she could fuck off with her rules. Bitch. Stupid bastards, every one of them.

The familiar buzz of the drug calmed him and he sank back into the pillows. Mam walked into his room and shut the door. She made her way over to the bed and cupped John's hand in hers. For a while she was silent, then she reached forward and moved John's rather long fringe out of his face.

'Don't hide your face John, I have waited too long to see that wonderful smile again.'

'I'm tired,' John said. 'Can't this wait? It's Samantha yeah, she's crying again.' The morphine did wonders for his sense of morality. Fuck the world was the basis of it now.

Mam gripped his hand a little tighter. 'I don't understand son, she wants to help. Yet all you do is be nasty to her.'

'Fucking sack her then,' John spat out as he wrenched his hand from his mam's.

'Do not speak of her in that tone young man,' Mam said. It reminded him of a day long ago, when she'd told him off before the School Headmaster. 'She has stuck by us throughout everything; she is like a daughter to me and your father.'

John turned away from Mam. 'You already have a daughter,' he said. 'She's the lazy bitch that can't even bother herself to come and see her brother when he comes out of a coma after seventeen years.'

The door slammed--Mam had fled the room. In the hallway he heard her tears, and they wrenched a bit of guilt past his morphine induced indifference. Only Mam's tears could do that. Dammit.

'Nice one John, you're on a fucking roll today,' he said once again to the empty room. With a short bitter laugh and double click to the morphine switch, he fixed that and floated away on a cloud of pleasure.

#

When John awoke the room was dark. Had he slept that long? But then morphine did have that effect on him. Marty stood looking out of the window. Outside rain pelleted the world, and the wind drove the rain hard into the window pane. John lay and looked at his friend, enjoying the comforting sound of the rain. After a while Marty turned around, he saw John was awake.

'Hello gay boy,' said John as he struggled to sit up. Ugh, his throat was dry and scratchy with dehydration. Well he had just the right remedy for that.

Marty walked over and helped him up, stuffing two pillows behind his back.

John looked up at his friend. 'What's up with your miserable fucking face?' he said.

Marty sat down on a chair to the side of John's bed. 'John, I have something to tell you. Your parents have asked me to do it. They just can't bring themselves to tell you. You look like shit by the way. Still not sleeping well?'

John shook his head. 'For fuck sakes! I only made her cry. Bloody hell, we all have off days. Samantha should grow up, I'm the one having surgery, I'm the one who must learn almost everything from scratch. It's me that still can't fucking walk.'

Marty put his hand up. 'John, just listen to what I have to say please.'

John sighed. 'Fucking hell mate if it's that serious get the whiskey out. It's in the cabinet there.' John pointed to the cabinet by his bedside. 'Under that towel.'

The cabinet door creaked, Marty grabbed a large bottle of Jack Daniels and pushed the closet shut again. The bottle was half empty.

Marty gave him the stink eye. 'You've been busy mate. When did you get a taste for this?'

John could tell Marty tried to make light of it, but that it bothered him. The sadness in his eyes when he smiled, the concern creasing his brow though he treated it like any other hobby. Fucking hell, the morphine had worn off, and now he felt that aching guilt he'd been working at drowning for all these long months.

'The ice is over there.' John pointed at the small fridge across the room. 'One of the cleaners said it is good for taking the edge off, he was fucking right too.'

Marty walked over and removed a bag of ice from the freezer section. They were stuck together, so he hit the bag on the floor to loosen them. He dropped two ice cubes in each plastic cup on the bedside cabinet, then filled them until the whiskey just covered the ice. One he passed to John. Thank god.

'Cheers.' Marty raised his plastic cup then downed it all in one go.

'Yep.' John raised his own and took a sip. 'Nice going mate, done that before eh?'

'Once or twice.' Marty helped himself to another, then leaned back in his chair, sipping at the cup.

A strange silence filled the room. The kind of silence that wanted to be broken. It wasn't the absence of noise so much as the absence of a thing that wanted speaking of. The rain tapped and slapped against the window pain, the wind roared outside, a dull roar from within the room. Marty's feet moved of their own, and the ice clinked, doing its own dance.

Marty looked out at the window. The suspense built till John thought he might explode.

'For fuck's sake Marty, what do you have to tell me? This silence is killing me.'

Sadness filled Marty's eyes, but he kept staring at the window pane as if the rain could take his silence too. 'I'm a copper now, you know that right?'

'Yeah, Mam says you're an inspector now, right?'

'Yeah,' Marty said, 'An inspector.' The silence grew and grew till it seemed it would crack his skull. John coughed.

'And as an inspector,' Marty continued as if the cough had been an elbow in the ribs. 'I have to deal with some horrible cases, some of the worst cases.'

Where was all this going? Having no bloody morphine in his blood got him so fucking pissed off with everything. With a hand near trembling, John took a sip of the whiskey. The cold fiery liquid trickled down his throat. 'Change you're fucking job then if you don't like it,' he said with more bitterness than he'd intended.

Marty shot out of his chair, coming face to face with John. 'You have become a fucking prick, did you know that?'

John set his drink down. Yeah, he knew that. That was why the morphine was there, so he could forget. 'Firstly, get your fucking face out of mine. Secondly, you chose your job, not me. Thirdly, I didn't realise you were an expert on my life and how I should live it. Please.' He moved his right hand in a royal wave. 'Continue on while I take notes.'

Marty looked at his friend like he was some sort of alien. 'You've changed John.'

'Yeah, I've fucking changed!' John spat. 'Of course I've fucking changed, I have slept longer than I have been awake. I remember being fifteen, that's it. I woke up with a face I don't recognise, a useless fucking body that doesn't obey me. The agony I am in every day makes me want to die, I think I'm getting addicted to this shit.' He held up his morphine clicker. 'I don't recognise this fucking world, Jesus! I don't even understand it. What the fuck are these machines, Marty?' John pointed at all the monitors.

Marty shrugged.

'I have woken up in hell, this is my fucking hell, Marty. So yeah, I've changed. Fucking deal with it or fuck off.'

'You sure remember how to use the 'F' word though mate.' Marty smiled. A smile kind of like the one they'd shared when they'd pissed off Acko the bastard back at school.

John paused for a second and then laughed. 'Yeah, well some things don't change.'

Marty grabbed John's left hand and sat down. 'It's about Charlie,' he said all serious again.

John looked away. 'Look, Mam already told me she's in Australia. If she can't bother her arse to come and see me, I couldn't give a fuck what she is up to. Okay?'

Marty gripped John's hand tighter. 'She's not in Australia mate.'

'No? Where is she then?' John looked at his friend and was surprised to see tears rolling down his cheeks. He tried to grip Marty's hand with his own pathetic weak left hand. 'Where the fuck is she, Marty?'

Marty put his head down. No. A wicked premonition flooded him. The memory of those nightmares and the eerie voice saying 'Tigeeeeer'.

'She's dead mate.' Marty folded in on himself, still holding John's hand.

'No.' A numb feeling spread from his fingers through his body. His heart slammed against his chest, and at the same time he felt like a man sucked into a vortex.

'I'm so sorry John,' Marty whispered into his lap. 'She was killed seven years ago.'

'No!'

'I was on the case, I'm so sorry John. I...'

'No, fucking no. No. No.' How could this be happening? Why did he have the feeling he'd known this day would come? Was it the dreams?

Lightning struck outside, for an instant John thought he could see someone standing in the corner. Then the thunder rumbled overhead and he screamed.

'Get out. Get the fuck out! No! No!' he clicked the morphine switch.

'I'm sorry mate,' Marty choked on his sobs and drew his hand away from John's.

'Get the fuck out. Get out now!' Tears streamed down John's face. He shook his head from side to side. He clicked the button again; the warmth of the drug flooded his system, but not fast enough.

Marty met John's eyes. His face was red and blotched with the crying. 'I'm so sorry mate. I'm so sorry.'

'Get out,' John whispered. The morphine finally took hold and he closed his eyes 'Get out... get out... remember me.'

With his eyes closed, he heard Marty stand and leave the room, shutting the door after him, and he didn't care. He didn't care about anything.

But the morphine couldn't get rid of the dreams. Nothing got rid of the dreams.

© Steve Ford and Joy Cronjé 2018