Decade One
‘What’s it like to be so rich?’
The question tugged Splerio away from from his daydream. Something about being on a train with his children when they were younger. He thought for a moment that this place must be softening him up.
‘I have to ask, mate.’ The girl’s accent was hard to place. Southern England, certainly. Essex? Splerio had rarely taken much interest in other people and their roots, but he realised that was changing slightly, at least in here.
‘I’d love to have a few billion meself.’ She giggled and her hand went to a pocket on her robe, before she looked down and emitted a quiet tutting sound. ‘Dunno when I’ll be able to have another smoke,’ she said, more to herself than to her hefty fellow patient.
‘I keep hearing people say that it doesn’t matter how much money you’ve got when you die,’ Splerio finally rejoined, ‘but I suppose I’d rather be a rich sick bloke than a poor sick bloke.’
It was a nice morning. There had been some rain in the early hours, so the huge lawn of the great house was quite wet. The overnight worms had been busy, leaving their countless little piles of knotted soil tubes amid the otherwise tidy grass.
Splerio’s still slippered feet were damp after he’d crunched his way down the gravel path from the breakfast room to the bench he now occupied with his fellow resident. He’d learned to take a towel to sit on, and this morning was more than happy to share it with his young companion. And now some of the early rays of the day’s late summer sun were beginning to warm him from face to waist. It felt calming, reassuring somehow. He decided to take a stab at giving her a serious answer.
‘I think the thing is that you can do what you want. More or less, anyway. So, in a restaurant you can order whatever you’d like, without bothering about the price. Or if I wanted to do something or go somewhere or buy something, I can.’
She looked at him sideways. ‘Like what?’
Before Cardiac, as he was starting to label his old life, he would very probably have bridled at the intrusive nature of the question. Not that he would have ever engaged in conversation with someone like her. But now, he’d come to quite look forward to their meets, even though it had only been a couple of times before today, and her bluntness and absence of filter was something he was beginning to rather like. Maybe she was the sort of girl he really needed in his life, rather than the status-conscious women who had gone before.
‘You… you can do all sorts…,’ he tailed off.
‘But what do YOU do?’ The girl pushed. Splerio thought she looked very pale today. The shadows around her eyes seemed darker.
‘Well, I’m in this expensive private facility for a start.’ He was trying not to bluster. The truth was that in the past few years he’d become increasingly isolated and unchallenged in his preferred way of living and behaving. The huge wealth he’d created had been almost entirely reinvested into whatever would be his next brilliant idea, and this big man, who had no outside interests, had no real inclination to find anything to spend it on. The main things his money probably went on- he wasn’t entirely sure- would be people like Glen and his domestics, mostly people who looked after his personal affairs and brought him food at all hours, often at night time, or whenever Big Brain, as his wider group of employees knew him, wanted feeding. And because he’d worked almost constantly, the food demands had been many and substantial.
‘I like boiled eggs,’ he blurted.
‘What the fuck?’
‘It’s very difficult to find a chef who can cook a perfect boiled egg. Glen’s been through a few without success.’
‘Hah!’ the girl seemed both tickled and bemused at the insight into Splerio’s world. He couldn’t seem to stop himself from continuing.
‘You see, I really like my food. Lots of pizza, curry, ice creams, good cakes…’
‘Washed down by sugary drinks by any chance?’ She was looking at his fat arms.
‘Lots of cooks can do a good pizza or whatever, and if they can’t bake a decent jam sponge, they can fetch something from a cake shop somewhere. But I do like to start the day with with some boiled fresh eggs. Soft yolk.’
She didn’t respond. They watched as two male soldiers in dress uniform, one carrying chocolates, crunched across the far path to where a young man with a leg missing was occupying a wheelchair. A black-uniformed physiotherapist who Splerio recognised was coming out of the main building, carrying a clipboard. Splerio thought he looked very fit.
‘Are you here on insurance then?’ He asked.
‘Nah. Basically, my step-dad’s brother is good with computers and stuff, so he did an appeal. A funcrowd thing.’
‘Crowdfund,’ Splerio corrected.
‘That’s it. I get a lot of words wrong, me. He done this video asking for donations for this poor girl,’ she made the speech marks gesture, ‘who needed a transplant, and the money flooded in. Mind you, he’s a fucking perve.’
Splerio turned his head to look at her. She was biting a nail and looking into the middle distance. He couldn’t bring himself to ask the obvious question.
‘Good that you got it done, though’.
‘Yeah, I guess,’ she said in a flat voice.
They fell silent. The physiotherapist was walking in their direction, He exchanged a thumbs-up with the wheelchaired soldier.
‘Me nan says I brought this on meself, and she’s not wrong to be honest.’
‘How’s that?’ He thought he knew what was coming.
‘I done a lot of gear. Everything really. Anything you can smoke or snort or swallow. And I’ve smoked fags since I was twelve. Didn’t inject though, didn’t fancy that.’
‘Well, we have to have some standards.’
She didn’t get his joke. Another pause. Laughter from the military guys. The physio had stopped and was writing something on his clipboard.
Splerio continued. ‘Do you regret your behaviour? Your lifestyle?’
‘I’m off the drugs. Haven’t had a fag in a few weeks but I’m desperate for one, so dunno if I can stay off ’em.’
‘But do you regret your lifestyle? The behaviour that’s led to you having such a major op?’
The girl paused. Splerio realised he had never asked her name. Perhaps that was a bit rude of him.
‘No. What’s done is done. I can blame some people, point the finger, but it was down to me how I abused my body and it’s done. What I wish is…’ she seemed to search for what she meant to say, ‘well, what I wish is that I’d had some sort of guardian angel. Someone to tell me how good or bad something is gonna be for me. When you’re young, yer mates say stuff like smoke this, it won’t hurt ya, and you believe em. Truth is, they don’t know. Or maybe they just want you to take it cos they hope to shag you or make money. And that seems all right, so you move on to stuff that’s a bit heavier and before you know it you’re a proper junkie, waking up in the night needing a fix, not eating, goin out and doing all sorts of things to get money for drugs.’
She was looking away again. They both fell silent for a few more moments.
‘So,’ Splerio was curious now, ‘a guardian angel to help you make decisions. To weigh up the risks of this or that behaviour.’
‘Yeah. You put it into better words.’
And if you’d had a guardian angel, do you think you’d be in here today?’
‘No way. Healthier life, longer life.’
‘A healthier life, and a longer life. Thanks to your personal guardian angel.’ Something was giving him a sort of tingle.
The physio was with them now. His lengthy name badge said that he was Mark, Senior Physiotherapist and Assistant Manager, Recuperation Services.
‘Morning, Splerio,’ he smiled a sort of professional smile, ‘that weight’s coming off, well done.’ Then he addressed the girl, ‘It’s your session now, and you’re in the gym with Anatoly.’ His tone had changed slightly.
Splerio opened his mouth to say something and closed it again. The girl got up stiffly and took the man’s proffered arm. ‘Splerio,’ the physio said, ‘you’re in the pool in a few mins, so one of the girls will be down for you.’ Splerio watched as the physiotherapist and the young female patient began a slow walk back to the main rear door of the former stately home. After a few yards, the girl stopped and turned to call back to her fellow inmate.
‘Oi, Splerio, I always thought you was called Spermio. Lucky for you that you wasn’t!’
The two continued their steady progression as Splerio’s falsetto laughter echoed around the grounds.
* * * *
Splerio checked the room’s bedside clock for perhaps the eighth time. In what he was beginning to consider his old life, he would have been able to press a call button and order something to eat or drink, to be brought to him within a few minutes by an overpaid, though tired looking, member of his domestic staff. But his priorities had changed, and he was becoming more used to ignoring hunger pangs. He had realised that, although he still wanted to eat during the small hours, that wasn’t exactly the best thing for him, and what he needed more since the incident was to stay alive.
He rolled onto his side and raised himself to sit. There seemed to be the very faint sound of a distant alarm, and he stilled his breath to listen in the dark. Perhaps this had been going on for a while and was the reason for tonight’s insomnia. No, he thought. Active mind. Need to do some scribbling.
His feet found his neatly arranged slippers and he wriggled his feet into them. When he’d first arrived here, the establishment hadn’t been able to provide a dressing gown nor slippers which were large enough to fit him, so they’d had to organise a bespoke delivery. The gear which had arrived was unbranded, having the effect, to his own bemusement, of making Splerio feel a bit less like a paying prisoner; he was the only resident without the institution’s logo emblazoned on his garb.
In the bathroom he was careful to pull the white ceiling cord. The longer red one was to call for assistance, and he’d accidentally tugged twice it on his first day. Perhaps an accidental pull was how the alarm, which he could hear more clearly now, had been triggered; maybe it happened quite often.
He removed his night-time tee shirt, something which he’d noticed he could now do pain-free, and viewed himself in the full-length mirror which was attached to the inside of the bathroom’s door. The weight loss was definitely noticeable now.
Splerio struck a couple of bodybuilding poses. It was impossible to prevent his eyes from being drawn to his impressive chest scar, but he thought he was looking a bit better around his neck and armpits. A long way to go yet, he thought to himself, but ‘Good job, big boy,’ he found himself saying aloud to his reflection.
The alarm had ceased before Splerio shuffled into the corridor outside his room and down the single flight of the grand staircase. He’d committed to avoiding using lifts, and although the sprawling converted mansion was only a two-storey building, this commitment had quickly become one of his little badges of pride.
Unusually, the reception was empty, and the huge front door was ajar, its stained glass refracting the light from a vehicle outside and throwing greens and reds into the hallway and across one wall. Splerio took a few more slippered steps and could see the back end of an ambulance. Someone was closing the rear doors from the inside. Its powerful blue lights began to flash and it pulled away onto the long front driveway.
He was in the doorway now, and he could see a tall man who he recognised as one of the duty doctors. The dark-suited night manager, who Splerio knew as Night Shift Norman, had his arm around a youngish girl in a nursing uniform. She was dabbing her eyes with something. None of the group noticed Splerio.
He began to shuffle back and as he turned to retreat he winced as his slipper caught the edge of a rubber doormat with a flack.
‘What do you want, Splerio?’ From behind him. It was Margaret, one of the managers. Older than the others. She’d met with Splerio three or four times, mostly over administrative issues, but she seemed to have a lot of sway over what could or couldn’t happen within the entire recuperation facility. It was she who had come to tell him that, no, he was not going to be allowed any digital communication tool for the duration of his stay here, which had been expected to be for a couple of months as a minimum. And yes, she was certain that Splerio would find that very inconvenient, but for him work caused stress, and if he had the tools in his hands, he would probably end up working for most of the day. Splerio admitted as much, so, no, he would not be allowed any kind of mobile device, nor laptop, nor tablet. At least until he had made some VERY considerable progress.
Margaret’s lips were pinching together, her nostrils flared. Both hands on hips.
‘Er, sorry, I wasn’t prying,’ Splerio said. Behind him, the other staff were slowly walking back inside. He caught ‘Tragedy’, and then, more clearly, ‘She was only nineteen.’ He spun to look back, but the group had noticed the big man now and they fell quiet.
Margaret had clearly been roused from sleep to help deal with the emergency. Make-up free, her face looked older. Splerio decided her frown wasn’t going to lift anytime soon. ‘Was that the heart and lung girl?’ he asked her, knowing the answer, his chest beginning to tighten.
‘We can’t comment on other patients. This is a private facility and confidentially is essential.’ She sounded as if she’d said it many times before. Splerio knew that she’d fended off attempts by the media to enter the premises by stealth, trying to get a scoop on a famous client or two. Some had even posed as patients or staff, but it hadn’t ever worked, as far as he knew.
The doctor was standing near, presumably waiting to talk to Margaret. It crossed Splerio’s mind that the staff were going to have to do some serious report completion, especially if there had been some sort of negligence, such as, say, a bedroom alarm going unanswered.
‘I couldn’t sleep.’ The emotion in Splerio’s own voice surprised him.
‘Do you want something to help you sleep?’ The doctor’s voice from over Splerio’s shoulder.
‘No, it’s not that,’ he worked his tongue a moment to ease his dry mouth,…’I have some things on my mind, and…I’d like to write some stuff down. Maybe do some drawing.’ He hoped that would make it sound less like work.
Margaret looked at him blankly and shrugged. The doctor quietly cleared his throat.
‘You can’t go in the art room at this sort of hour.’ Margaret’s voice was firm.
‘No, I didn’t mean that. I wondered if you had a writing pad and pen you could lend me. I mean, give me. It’ll help me get back to sleep.’
She seemed to consider it a moment. ‘Well, we can’t access the store cupboards right now. Let’s see if we have something here.’ She moved behind the reception desk and rooted around. ‘How about this?’ She produced a child’s notebook, the cover a very girly pink, and featuring a popular cartoon pig and a great many yellow hearts.
Splerio wasn’t going to argue. ‘Are there any pens. Please?’ She obliged with two biros, seemingly happier in the belief that he was going to get out of her way.
Back in his room, Splerio made himself a cup of lemon and ginger tea, placed his two pillows on the small upright chair and drew it up to the little built-in corner table which was going to double as his desk. He opened his piggy writing pad and stared at it, chewing his bottom lip in thought. Then he picked up a pen and wrote a heading: YOUR DIGITAL GUARDIAN ANGEL- A SPLERIO CONCEPT.
And then Splerio sat on his pillowed chair and stared into an imaginary distance, well beyond the room’s beige-coloured physical wall which was facing him just a couple of feet away.
His tea was cold by the time he began to write.
* * * *
