105: Carbolic

I try to care. Something about this place seems to say “care”. Something in the cold, still atmosphere. Something in the road that stretches out before me, featureless and unwinding fading into the blue wash of the mountains, themselves fading into the twilight blue wash of the sky which holds fast to its motionless moon. The chill of this barren landscape seems to make my bones brittle. And yet, “care” is the word that seems to hold me here. I try to run. Because something about this place also says “Run”. But however far I run, the landscape remains, unflinchingly static, and the mountains linger on the horizon. So I try to move in the other words this world presses against me. I Jump, I Kick, I Leap, I Veer, and, sometimes — in eventual desperation — I try to Dive to into the ditch at the side of the road, roaring at the yellowish mud banks, arms flailing, but, before I can pitch myself into that welcome void, I stumble, and fall to my knees just before the bank. And that looming word hangs above me: “Tire”. I tire. And then I remember the vial of carbolic formula in my pocket. It was singing its clinks and jangles to my doomed ditch-dance. But now it’s in its silence that I finally hear its voice. “Pour me out” it flatly requests. I pour the solution along the verge, where it ebbs up before the ditch, and it seems to hover slightly as the trickle gathers into a pool, before darting away with its own current, down into the void. That’s odd. The usual behaviour is for the fluid to somersault through the air, until it spirals into invisibility in the dusky blue. That word again: Care — it’s heavier than usual; its weight just above my head, pressing me down flat on my belly now. “Care” — You try crawling towards the ditch — “Care” — forcing your arms before you — “Care” — dragging your body — “Clare” — forwards — “Clare” — I roll down the bank and land softly on my back in the darkness. “Clare … Clare” — Eyeballs sliding about, eyelids pinching down upon them “Clare … are you there … Clare, can you hear me … Is that you…?” Slowly the lids crack and the light floods in, eyes opening… … You see … a face — You haven’t seen a face for … well … have I ever seen a face…? The mouth of the face — You seem to know this is a mouth at least — is moving, blobbing open and glomming shut like a budding cowslip on a ping-pong time-lapse — the word clacking at you like a heel on anxious ground: “Clare … Do you remember, do you know what happened?” Slowly, over the next few instants, the knowledge begins to fill in, as if you’ve turned to face the empty road behind you as it slowly fills with traffic; the vehicles shapes in your life; events; faces — As the face before you continues to speak, everything unravels. You’d been involved in a road accident, hit by a confetti-spreader on the way back from buying lemons. You’d been in a coma for thirty years. And the worst thing was, you’d left the oven on; and the pan on the stove; and the heating on max; and the bath running; and all the windows open; and the radio, the air con, the dehumidifier, and the sump pump on; and Disney Plus on auto-play; and the milk, butter and herring out on the worktop; and the dog in the yard. And you hadn’t unloaded the washing machine; you hadn’t brought the awning in; you hadn’t returned your library books or your DVDs; you hadn’t set up a Direct Debit to pay off your minimum monthly credit card repayment; you hadn’t cancelled your gin-club subscription; you hadn’t picked up your dry cleaning, or the kids from school. It was all so utterly irresponsible. “I stopped calling you Mum 15 years ago, when I learned just how careless you’d been”, says the face, scrunching up in grey indignation. “Hold on, I have something for you…” After a while, the face returns into the room, rolling a grey filing cabinet before it. “The lower drawer is from the energy consortium. The middle is coms and subs. Top is childcare and hospital bills. Your lawyer will be here in the morning to go through everything with you. She’s ward-issued.” And with that, the face turns and sinks into the greyness behind the ward door. You don’t like it here in the bed. You want to go back on the road. Scanning around the room, you notice a vial of carbolic fluid (or something) on the bedside table next to a syringe. “Pour me in”, it flatly requests. You uncap the bottle and swallow it all down. And before long, the light drains out. … I’m back on the road. But this time, in an armoured vehicle, in a turret facing behind. Just beneath the turret is a thick spool of golden paper, being fed into a cross-cut shredder, which emits little ticket-sized golden leaves that flurry down in the wake of the vehicle. And running after the vehicle trying to snatch up big wadges of the tickets are all the people from my past that silently slipped away while I was under. The memory of each flares and fades as I glance upon them: Ron, Jim, Kit, Leah, Vera, Di … faces now just words, empty huffs in the breath of time, and nameless others in frenzied pursuit. Some fall and are clambered over by others, in turn who fall and get clambered over again, on and on, until there is only one left untrampled: You, 30 years older, in a hospital gown, crying out, waving fistfuls of golden paper. You’re shouting something I can’t quite hear, about the driver. Then, we hit a bone-crunching bump in the road and suddenly come to a halt. You shriek and dive into the void. I look over my shoulder and see the mountains bearing down, blotting out the moon. As the clarity of the landscape rolls away, I’ve one final thought: I just don’t care.