The Mariner

14. THE GOOD DOCTOR’S GRACE

THE MORNING BROUGHT CHILLS AND not just from the morning dew. Waking with pain was familiar to the Mariner, his alcoholism had long ago sent his stomach rotten, but there was a weakness and an ache in his joints that was even more insidious. For a moment he imagined himself on some sort of torture device, ropes tightly wound around his limbs, slowly twisting them in their sockets until any moment they’d snap clean off. No snap came. It was his own abuse that had led him to feel this way, no-one else’s doing.

Drunkenness a distant and fond memory, he sat up, a hand held against his temple to ward off the throbbing pain. Where he lay there was a central grassy slope, overshadowed by an enormous clock tower made from pale yellow stone. The prominence of the time-device had not given it any sense of importance to the peoples of Sighisoara as they had twisted the clock hands to absurd angles, making nonsense of the time depicted.

The Mariner got up and brushed himself down. His hands became slimy from the act, the dew thick on his clothes. As he rightened himself his lungs gave a quiver, air momentarily escaping him. He was wretched. Time to find his boat and recover there, perhaps gather some blankets and get some proper sleep. He’d need food too; that matter of great importance had somehow fallen to the side-lines the moment he’d tasted booze.

The hill offered a good vantage point, and he could clearly see the ocean and the dock. His ship was easily the largest, though there were plenty of contenders for second place. Large fishing vessels of various ages and states of disrepair surround the Neptune like suckling pigs, or perhaps curious children eager for tales of distant lands. The Neptune would give them no child-friendly stories though, hers were all of suffering and darkness. He knew it well, she’d narrated one only last night.

The Mariner shivered again at the thought of the ghosts he’d seen within her belly. Had he actually witnessed them? Or had the only spirits he’d encountered been vodka and whiskey? Had it all been a dream?

A stabbing pain in his gut sent the Mariner crashing to the ground. He skidded forward, knees gouging muddy tracks into the grass. Such was the reality of the alcoholic; more must be found, only then would the pain subside.

And then the face of Doctor Tetrazzini swam into the Mariner’s mind. Didn’t he say something about a cure? Something about salvation? Something about a theory?

All about him, Sighisoara dwellers were watching and muttering. Perhaps they were discussing the fire? Perhaps the grave robbery? Either way, both roads led to the Mariner. All accusations ended with him.

The Mariner got back to his feet. He could see the hill rising up in the centre of town. At the top sat a large shiny building nestled amongst the trees. The sunlight reflected off it; what the Mariner had first thought a lighthouse were in fact enormous glass panels cleaned to perfection.

He could go there, if just to hide from prying eyes full of anger and suspicion. Too much attention had been ensnared in too short a time. He needed a place to hide.

The Mariner made his way up the hill, step by step closer to Doctor Tetrazzini’s clinic.

“Welcome to rehab.” The woman standing before him looked tired, but happy, as if she’d just stepped in from a lengthy afternoon pruning the roses. “Please come in, my name’s Rebecca.”

The Mariner stepped inside the building. The architecture was an odd mix, some parts stone and others shiny metal and glass. He marvelled at the variety.

“It used to be a church, but someone must have wanted it to be larger. Only the core is stone, the structure around it modern.”

“Modern.” The Mariner rolled the word around his mouth, marvelling at how redundant it felt.

“Frank said you might be joining us. He’ll be pleased, this place was going to get a lot quieter in a few days, so you’ll stop us getting bored.”

“Quieter? Why?”

“Beth’s finished her treatment. Cured. She’s leaving in a few days.”

“Really? Alcoholism gone?”

“No, that wasn’t her addiction. The doctor treats all sorts. It’s not my place to talk about other cases, but if you ask, Beth will tell. She’s very open about her illness. That’s all part of the treatment, learning to come to terms with the addiction and be open.”

“Are you open about yours?”

“Sure.” Rebecca flashed the Mariner a smile. “But not to people who haven’t even introduced themselves.”

“Oh,” the Mariner stammered. He was always stumped when it came to this part of interaction. “I don’t really have a name.”

Rebecca nodded, finding understanding where there was none. “When I first checked in, there was a heroin addict who’d abused himself so much he’d forgotten everything other than the needle. But it turns out that’s not a block in the road to recovery; the doctor helped him build a new life. He became the man he wanted to be.”

“Is he still here?”

“No, he checked out a while back.”