Date: Fri, 31 Jul 2009 19:52:46 +0000 (GMT)
From: Alex Douglas <alex_d0uglas@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: The price pt6

Copyright Alex Douglas 2009


Author's note: This is a revised version of a previous unfinished
story. It's taken me 6 years to finish it, so finally here it is. All
feedback greatly appreciated. Email me at alex_d0uglas@yahoo.co.uk and I'll
do my best to reply.

- - - - -


The day of the funeral was sunny and bright, with a cloudless sky. Megan
picked Sean up and they drove to the funeral home in silence. Sean's
muscles were aching after the night before. Owen had called at the house
and before they'd even finished their first beer, Sean pounced on him and
fucked him senseless. It seemed obscene to be so horny at such a time, but
he couldn't help it.

The funeral home was packed with people, the mourners spilling out onto the
lawn. Despite what Cal had said, quite a few people were dressed in
black. Sean fingered his tie, feeling uncomfortable. It had been so long
since he'd worn one. The knot was tight and he pulled at it, staring around
at the crowd. There were some journalists hovering around under a clump of
trees, cameras in hand. Quite fitting for the funeral of a photographer.

"Sean, hi!" A familiar voice. Sean squinted at the approaching
figure. Tall, with hair like flame. Almost forty years old and a body to
die for, smooth inside the Armani suit he was wearing.

"Gary!" he said, shaking the outstretched hand, forcing a smile. He noticed
the other man's eyes travelling over his body, pausing at his belly, his
leg.

"How's the leg?" Without waiting for a reply, he continued. "You should
come back. At least do some work on the upper body, and that gut!" He
slapped Sean's stomach, laughing. "Seriously, we miss having you
around. There are some disappointed housewives out there, missing their
personal trainer."

Irritated, Sean sucked in his stomach. "I've gained six kilos, Gary. I'm
hardly a candidate for the Fat Club yet."

There was a pause. Sean tried not to notice Megan smirking into her
handkerchief. Gary shrugged. "It's a terrible thing."

"It's only a bit of fat, for Christ's sake."

Gary raised an eyebrow. "I meant Jeff. You remember him from the photo
shoots, don't you?" He shook his head. "A terrible waste. He was an
excellent photographer. He really did us proud on that brochure. He even
had Dave looking like a god and that..." he laughed. "That takes
talent. Anyway," he slapped Sean on the back, "I'd better get back to the
wife. Take care of yourself, mate. There's always a job waiting for you if
you're ever up to it." He winked and walked off.

Sean sighed. "I hate that guy," he said to Megan out of the corner of his
mouth.

Tears were edging out of her eyes. "Sorry," she said. "Funerals make me
kind of hysterical. When you said that about it's only a bit of fat..." Her
shoulders started to shake and she pressed the handkerchief against her
mouth, wiping at her eyes. "His face!"

"Shut up and stop laughing," Sean snapped. "We're here for Cal, remember?"

Cal was standing by the door with an elderly couple. Jeff's parents. They
were shaking the hands of the people entering the hall, accepting
condolences, pats on the shoulder and murmured words. Jeff's mother looked
gaunt in an ill-fitting black dress, his father peering at the world
through milk-bottle glasses as if it was all a dream. Cal himself was
dressed entirely in black. His normal clothes.

His face broke into a smile when he saw Sean and Megan. "Glad you made it,"
he said. He hugged Megan, then Sean. "Sit with me," he whispered, his
breath warm on Sean's ear. He was sweating, pale and tense looking.

"Maureen Sullivan," the woman said, holding out a trembling hand. "This is
my husband, Joe. Thank you for coming." The same words she had said all
morning. Her face was blank. Sean's heart went out to her.

"Sean Rooney," he said. "This is Megan, my sister. We're...sorry for your
loss." The platitude didn't come easily. There didn't seem to be anything
else to say.

A man poked his head out of the door. "Better get inside," he said, looking
at his watch. "It's starting."

With Megan's hand tight in his, Sean followed Cal to the front row,
conscious of being watched. He spotted Jude a few rows back from the front,
nodded a hello to her. There was a projector aimed at a screen ahead, which
almost filled the whole wall.  He took his seat, then had to reach under
his arse to get the leaflet that outlined the brief programme. It was going
to be a humanist funeral, according to the blurb beside the blurred photo
of the hall. Jeff hadn't taken that one, for sure.

The same man who had summoned them inside was scanning the room, pulling at
his badly knotted tie, smoothing at his thinning hair. He seemed to be
satisfied that everyone was inside. Sean heard the doors being pulled
shut. His eyes were drawn to Cal's hands. He was twisting his wedding ring,
staring at the floor, looking as if he'd rather be anywhere else in the
world than where he was.

The man tapped a microphone, and there was a screech of feedback. He
fiddled with it for a second and cleared his throat. "To all of you who
don't know me," he said, "my name is Frank Sullivan and I'm Jeff's
cousin. We're..." he pulled out a crumpled page from his pocket and tried
to smooth it out against the lectern, "we're here today to remember the
life of Jeff Sullivan, beloved son, husband and friend. Some of you will
remember from my wedding that I'm not the best public speaker in the
world..." There were a few chuckles, "So I'll keep it short. As you may
know, Jeff was an atheist, so there'll be no religious ceremony, just as he
wished. There's a video, which I won't start telling you about
because...well, you'll see it...and..." he started to blush. "After that
there'll be a chance for anyone who wishes to come to the front and share
any...well, memories or thoughts. So...on with the er, show."

Purple in the face, he went to sit down. Sean heard him whispering to the
woman beside him. "I can't believe I said 'show.'"

The lights were dimmed and the projector flicked on. The screen was lit up
with a familiar room, the living room where Sean had met Jeff for the first
time. Someone was tapping the camcorder, and then Jeff came into view,
sitting down on the sofa and adjusting the camera again. He looked tired,
but his eyes were bright. He took a gulp from a bottle of beer and cleared
his throat.

"Well," he said. "As they say in the best of films, if you're watching
this, then I must be dead." He smiled, but there was no humour in
it. "Always a great career move for an artist, dying. I suppose plugging my
exhibition would be in bad taste?" He took another swig of beer and
laughed. "Shit, I can hardly believe it. Er...thanks for making it to my
goodbye party. There'll be a big piss up afterwards so..." He paused. "I
always express myself better in pictures, so I'll say goodbye and leave you
with this. And Cal..." he held up his left hand and placed it on his heart,
pointing at the ring, "I'm sorry it couldn't be forever like I promised. I
love you. Cheers." He raised his beer and clicked off the camcorder.

Then the music started, along with a slide show. The first one read "My
life in pictures". Images started to flash by, not of professionally taken
pictures but the family snaps, blurred and imperfect, in no particular
order. A blonde boy on a beach, knees purple with cold, holding up a
crab. Jeff's parents, long haired and wearing bell bottoms, beaming at the
baby in the pram in front of a pebble dashed wall. A drunken holiday shot
of Jeff getting pushed into a swimming pool, still holding a glass of
whiskey. Then Jeff and Cal, dusted with confetti, dancing the first dance
of the night after their wedding. The photo had a thumb over the bottom
left corner.

Cal made a strangled noise and whispered "Excuse me" to Jeff's parents,
pushing past Sean and heading for the door.

Megan nudged Sean. "Go on," she urged, gesturing at the door. He looked
helplessly at her. Jeff's mother was weeping silently into her handkerchief
beside the empty chair. The images continued on the screen, Jeff in his
studio staring at a blank canvas. Night time at a bar, Jeff singing karaoke
with his arm around a drunken woman with raccoon eyes. A blurred picture of
Cal and him posing with their new puppy outside their house just before he
got sick.  It was all so desperately sad. Sean got up and headed after Cal,
glad to get away from the pictures.

Cal was sitting on a bench in the garden, his head in his hands. "I'm
sorry," he said when Sean sat down beside him. "I couldn't stand it any
more. Those pictures... I really miss him, Sean." He looked up, his eyes
drifting over the lawn in front, over to the gates where some people were
getting out of a car. "Shit is that...?"

Cal's mother, Valerie, and all three of his brothers. All dressed in black,
squinting at a piece of paper then looking at the funeral home. Two spots
of colour formed on Cal's cheeks as he stood up. "I don't believe it," he
murmured. "They come today of all days?" He brushed the front of his suit
down and walked over towards the gate.

Sean stayed on the bench, the sun warm on his face. He watched Cal stand
stiffly by the gate, talking to his mother. He couldn't hear what they were
saying, couldn't imagine. But it seemed there was no need for words as
Valerie enveloped her youngest son in her arms, stroking his hair, her face
twisted in tears of happiness. His brothers crowded around, hugging him
tight as a scrum. But still no sign of Jack, Cal's father. Sean shook his
head and made his way back inside to join Megan. Jeff's father was at the
lectern, telling the story of Jeff's first photograph and forcing a smile
in all the right places. This is hell. He thought about Jeff, dead at
thirty five, remembered by so many people.  It could so easily have been
me, he thought. If those paramedics had been just a couple of minutes
later. If the rain had been worse. Who'd have been here?


= = = = =


The funeral threw Sean into a black mood. He didn't want to visit Megan, or
see Owen. He told them he was sick with the flu and locked his front door,
hiding from the sunlight and watching mind numbing TV for what seemed like
days, ordering pizza and finally curling up on the sofa with the bottle of
tequila Cal had bought to replace the one he had guzzled the night after
Jeff's death.

As the alcohol kicked in, he took stock of his life. Before the accident,
he'd had a lot of friends, a job, a decent social life. Then after it,
through all the pain of the rehabilitation, he'd pushed everyone away. Now
his old friends from the skydiving centre only called occasionally, and the
people he'd worked with at the gym seemed to have given up on him. He only
had himself to blame. And the worst thing was, he didn't understand why he
had done it, any of it.

"Fuck this shit," he said to himself, standing up, ignoring the pain in his
leg and putting on some music. His head was spinning and he started
dancing, whirling around the living room, sloshing the drink all over the
floor. He was tired of thinking. But then his leg wobbled and he fell
forward, crashing through the coffee table and landing in a heap.

Lying there, breathless, he thought of Cal. It sucked to be in love, he
thought bitterly. It sucked worse than going to the physiotherapist, or
listening to Gary commenting on his weight gain. The timing was so
exquisitely wrong. He crawled over to the sofa and grabbed the bottle,
dispensing with the glass. He had to face the awful truth that part of him,
an evil, nasty part, was glad Jeff was no longer around. Because if he was
still alive and healthy, there would be no hope of ever getting together
with Cal. He might not even have kept in touch with his former friend at
all, if that had been the case. He imagined going to their house for
barbeques, the pretentious conversations with Jeff's arty farty friends
who'd been at the funeral. Seeing Cal happy with another man. It would have
driven him insane.

In another world, he and Jeff might even have been friends. The other man's
snarky personality would have made him laugh. He liked that Jeff wasn't
afraid to speak his mind. And it hadn't been lost on Sean, the music Jeff
had chosen to accompany the slideshow of his life. Time is running out, by
Muse. Anyone who was a Muse fan was OK in Sean's book. He gulped at the
tequila. "Ah Jeff," he said, sniffing, tears welling up in his eyes. "I'm
so sorry, mate."

His stomach lurched and he grabbed the sofa, holding on while the living
room tumbled around him. The self pity was driving him mad. There had been
no second chances for Jeff. And yet he, Sean, had been snatched back from
death and was wasting his days being maudlin and lazy and doing fuck all.

The appointment at the hospital was ringed in red on his calendar for
3.30pm the next day. Visions of crumbled bones on an x-ray. The news that
he'd never walk properly again, that he'd always be in pain. Maybe that was
why he hadn't tried to get his life back to the way it had been. Maybe he
had subconsciously known all along that his body would never let him, not
after what he'd done to it. But...

His thoughts were interrupted by the doorbell. Squinting at the clock, he
saw that it was only 8.30. "Fuck," he muttered. Oblivion was late
coming. He thought about ignoring it, but it rang again and again. "Fuck,"
he said again, pulling himself to his feet. If it was the Mormons again,
they were going to get an earful. Why were they always so damn good
looking?

It took a minute to fumble open the door. But it wasn't the
Mormons. "Jesus, Sean," Cal said, stepping into the hall, "you smell like a
brewery. Are you ok?"

He leaned against the wall. "What are you doing here?" he said, hearing his
words coming out all slurred. "I'm like...sick. Come back tomorrow."

"Sick?" Cal scoffed. "Wasted more like it." He went into the living
room. "What the hell have you been doing?"

Sean pushed the door shut. It slammed a little too loudly. He stumbled in
past Cal and crashed onto the sofa. "It was in the way," he said, gesturing
at the general direction of the smashed table.

Cal stood over him, hands on his hips. "I was going to say thank you for
what you did," he said. "Calling my mum, I mean. We're...well, getting
there."

"Glad I could help," Sean mumbled. He couldn't look at Cal. He felt as if
the evil thoughts he had been thinking were plastered all over his
face. His stomach started to churn. The tequila was going to make a
reappearance if he didn't..."Toilet," he said, his voice thick, and
blundered out into the hall and up the stairs, falling on his knees beside
the toilet just as the first wave of nausea forced the contents of his
stomach into the porcelain bowl. He hugged it, gasping, heaving. Just for a
few seconds, as his stomach almost turned itself inside out, he thought he
would never breathe again. Then he felt a hand rubbing his back. The air
rushed back into his lungs and he wiped tears away from his eyes.

"Drink this," Cal handed him a glass of water. "It makes the puking
easier."

"...'s precious," Sean mumbled, taking a gulp. It didn't stay down long.

"What's precious?" Cal knelt beside him, rubbing his back, stroking his
hair.

When he could breathe again and there was nothing left to throw up, he
slumped down the side of the toilet onto the floor, exhausted. The carpet
was very comfortable. "Air," he mumbled, ignoring Cal's attempts to get him
back into a sitting position. Since when had the carpet felt so soft? And
the spare toilet roll made a nice pillow. "Sweet," he said, and fell
asleep. There would be no dreams tonight.

= = = = =

Another sunny day. It seemed obscene, somehow. The light burned his
eyes. He looked around. How had he got to bed? There was a bucket on the
floor, a glass of water and a packet of Nurofen on the bedside table. And
the time! It was already 12:30. The appointment was at 3:30pm, it would
take half an hour to get there...

He swung himself into a sitting position and groaned, reaching for the
medicine and swallowing a few pills. The headache wasn't there yet, but it
was definitely in the post. His throat ached. He could taste acid and
tequila in the back of his throat, in his nostrils. Never again, he vowed,
pulling on his bath robe and scratching his balls.

A long, cool shower cleared his head. There was a bruise on his arm. When
did that happen? Then he remembered the coffee table and groaned
again. Wandering downstairs, he saw a note on the hall table.

"Had to go and sort out the dog," it read. "Hope you're feeling
better. Will call later. Cal xx"

Cal had been here? He scratched his head. The night before was pretty
hazy. Then he remembered someone rubbing his back. Of course, he had called
round to thank him for getting in touch with Valerie. At least something
good had come out of the whole situation. He fixed himself some toast, but
didn't have enough saliva to eat it. Chugging a can of coke, he tried to
think trivial thoughts, anything than think about what was going to happen
at the hospital.

Somehow he managed to occupy himself with tidying up until Megan arrived to
pick him up. He was silent all the way to the hospital, listening to the
latest updates on Jack's sleeping and eating habits. The sun was pouring
out through a gap in the clouds and his eyes were drawn to it. The hospital
was a grim seventies era structure, which a paint job had failed to cheer
up. Getting out of the car, he felt the familiar bolt of pain travel down
his leg and paused to rest his palms against the roof of the car, breathing
deeply.

"Give me a ring when you're done," Megan said, pulling the door shut. "I'm
going to pop over to the shops to get some more nappies."

Miraculously, he didn't have to wait long between the x-ray and the follow
up. The consultant was a bespectacled man in his mid-fifties with a thin,
pinched face and almost no lips. Sean watched the mole on his chin moving
as he frowned and sucked the tip of his pen, poring over Sean's fat medical
file and comparing the new x-ray to the previous ones. Everywhere, the
all-pervading smell of disinfectant.

"Hmm, as I suspected," he said, looking at Sean over the top of his
glasses. "See here..." he put the x-rays onto a board to illuminate them,
"here and here, the bones haven't healed properly, just where the pins
were, see?" He put the x-rays down and folded his hands. " Basically, you
have a choice. You can do nothing, in which case your mobility will be
permanently affected. Or we take a chance and re-break the bone here...and
here...put new pins in, and well, basically start again. With the extent of
the original breaks, it's quite possible that some small fractures were
missed on the x-ray, but of course now we have a much clearer
picture. Anyway, you'd be in a full leg cast for at least six months,
probably a wheelchair in the beginning." He smiled. "Still, it's nothing
you haven't done before. And there's an excellent chance you'll be
fine. It's just taking a little longer than we expected."

Sean stared at the x-ray, his mouth
dry. Re-break. Wheelchair. Pins. Cast. The words reeled in his head. Not
again. The consultant was telling him how lucky he was to be alive. He
nodded and then rested his head in his hands. He felt the headache starting
to build behind the tears in his eyes. He hadn't cried since he was a
teenager, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. It had all been for
nothing, all that pain and effort. He slumped over the desk, overwhelmed
with a sense of despair as the tears kept coming. His body shook and he
tried to breathe as his nose clogged up with snot. Then he felt a prod on
his back, and the doctor handed him a box of tissues.

"Thanks," he said, wiping his face. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm like
this. I know I should feel lucky to be alive, but I don't. Feel lucky."
Getting control of himself, he blew his nose and crumpled the tissue into a
ball, annoyed that the doctor had got to witness such a display.

"Sean," the consultant's voice was gentle. "I know how much you put in to
the physio. And now you're faced with going back to square one, doing it
again. Of course you're going to feel low. Just think about what I've
said. You might need to make arrangements before you come in, so go home,
sleep on it and let me know what you decide."

Numbly, Sean stood up. "Thanks," he said, shaking the doctor's hand. He
pulled out his phone and texted Megan, to come and pick him up and went to
get a coffee. Its bitter taste matched his mood. He watched a little girl
skipping round the room, around the bored and miserable people and wished
he could throw the coffee down and just join her. The next year stretched
ahead like an empty desert.