Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-two
Kenny
Kenny loves his little flat. He’s never happier than sitting at the window, watching the birds and the gently bobbing boats. But he’s not loving it now as it seems as if the sea has somehow washed right through the glass and into his living room – because his entire body is drenched. And now a wave of nausea surges over him and he vomits, loudly and dramatically onto the carpet.
The sea hasn’t really burst into Kenny’s flat. It’s sweat that’s soaking his tartan pyjamas, and somehow he’s roasting and teeth-chatteringly cold, both at once. Kenny is an electrical engineer, a logical man who knows that this is impossible. Yet it’s happening right now. It’s as if his body’s internal systems have been rewired incorrectly and all he can do is sit there, shivering and gazing miserably at the dirty plate from his pilchards on toast, waiting for it to stop.
Kenny woke up an hour ago, at three-thirty a.m., feeling woozy and sick. Thinking it would help to walk around a bit, he fetched a glass of water from the kitchen, even though he never drinks the stuff normally. That’s another thing Carly nags him about. Try to drink more, Dad! Kenny drinks plenty, he always tells her. Plenty of whisky and beer, at any rate.
Unsteadily, he gets to his feet and takes his plate and water glass to the kitchen, wincing at the terrible stench that’s coming, he realises, from the empty pilchards can sitting by the sink. Christ, that’s bad. He drops it into his bin, trying – and failing – not to get any of the saucy residue on his hands.
Maybe he just had his dinner too late. Normally, if Carly’s not coming over, he’ll have it done and dusted by five-thirty, all the better for a long, uninterrupted evening of jeering at the TV. But occasionally, like last night, he forgets.
He also had a fair few whiskies, come to think of it. One wee dram led to another, and it all went a bit hazy towards the end. Another wave of nausea surges through his body and he clings onto the sink for support. Cramps follow, gripping his torso and triggering a fresh bout of the sweats. Kenny lurches out of the kitchen and along the short hallway towards the bathroom where, just in time, he manages to yank down the tartan pyjama bottoms Maggie bought him in Woolworths’ closing down sale and collapse onto the lavatory, where terrible things happen from the other end.
What the hell’s going on?
Kenny sits on the loo for a few minutes, leaning forward with his sweat-dowsed head in his hands.
That stuff! That’s what it’ll be, he decides. Those bloody unasked-for powders that the doctor keeps foisting on him! Of course they’re the culprit – and not the pilchards he consumed six hours ago that went out of date before these flats were even built. Then, as he gets to his feet unsteadily and pulls up his pyjamas, Kenny remembers that he’s never actually eaten/drunk/whatever the hell you’re meant to do with the powders. So it can’t be that. As he washes his hands, then splashes cold water onto his pale and sweating face, he tries to figure out what to do.
It’ll be fine. He just needs to stay calm and it’ll subside eventually. Slowly, Kenny makes his way to his bedroom where he lies down on top of his ancient bedspread. He knows he should go through and clean the living room carpet, but he can’t face it right now. How will he do it anyway? Whenever he allows it – i.e. the carpet is crunchy underfoot – Carly runs around with his hoover. But he can’t hoover up that .
A fresh wave of nausea sweeps through him. Should he call her now to tell her he’s sick? She’s always telling him to, if he needs anything. But Kenny’s default setting is to shun help/interference of any kind. Recently, she offered to do his laundry on a regular basis. Was this her way of saying there was something wrong with the trousers he’d been wearing for a full fortnight and which, admittedly, were splattered with salad cream and chicken soup?
No, he won’t phone, he decides. If he does she’ll come running and it’ll be all, ‘Oh, Dad! Can you really manage here on your own?’ Then she’ll be urging him to look at sheltered accommodation – a ground-floor flat, she’s mentioned that before, with an alarm bell and a warden (significantly, the only other place with wardens is prison). Or, worse, she’ll be on at him to move in with her and Frank. That hasn’t been mentioned – yet. Just as well, as Kenny would rather saw off a hand than do that.
It occurs to him that maybe he should call someone , as now it’s not only the nausea but his breathing too. There’s Ian and Sandra, who he and Maggie used to meet for drinks, but they never call him now, and he can’t focus as he’s finding it hard to breathe.
This is scaring him. He wants to breathe normally – he knows it’s essential for life – but something seems to have gone wrong with his throat and chest. Terrified, and feeling horribly alone, Kenny lets out a faint moan as his entire abdomen seems to cramp. He manages to climb off the bed. From his trouser pocket he retrieves the fifteen-year-old mobile phone that he bought for ￡10 and which does him perfectly well – what’s the point of these stupid smartphones? People photographing their dinner and filming themselves doing silly dances?
He grips it, wondering who he could call. Carly’s away, he remembers now, and the doctor’s surgery won’t be open yet. He can’t think of a single friend he could call for help, apart from Myra next door, and she’s not a friend, she’s a neighbour, and even in this sorry state he doesn’t want her muscling into his life.
Kenny is shivering. He’s frugal with his heating but it’s not that. This coldness seems to be chilling the core of him – his heart and bones. With another groan, he dumps his phone on the bedside table, registering briefly on his 1980s digital clock that it’s 6.47 a.m. The sun is a ball of gold rising over the marina. The water is sparkling, as if sprinkled with the tinsel strands Maggie always insisted on scattering all over their Christmas tree.
A nuisance, they were, getting everywhere. But Kenny isn’t thinking of Maggie or anyone else right now. And he’s fine on his own. He really is. He just needs some peace and quiet and for everything to be dark and very, very still, until he’s better.
So Kenny crawls into bed, beneath his thin faded bedspread, and prays for sleep.