New Year’s Eve, 2014
NICK HAD QUIT cold turkey. What a fucking stupid idea.
Trish had warned him. She’d Googled the dangers of stopping suddenly after binge drinking for over a month. She’d been right about all the withdrawal symptoms.
The tremors and anxiety had started almost immediately, followed by a blinding headache, prolonged nausea and vomiting
Now, his heart was racing, he was sweating constantly even though the room was cool, he was irritable and confused. He paced his room the whole night, suffering acute insomnia, and when he did manage to fall asleep in the hours before dawn, nightmares plagued him.
Over the next three days, the symptoms worsened. Trish wanted to call a doctor, but Nick didn’t want to be medicated—he wanted . . . he didn’t know what he wanted. He just wanted it all to end.
His skin itched or felt like it was burning, and he scratched mercilessly until bloody wheals appeared on his arms and legs. He started seeing things, hallucinating for hours at a time. His mum cried and his dad was at his wits’ end. Trish sat with him, talking to him, reading to him, sometimes just holding his hand.
And finally, nine days after his last drink, the fever broke.
Nick cried with relief.
February 2015
“Breathe deeply and count back from ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .”
As the cool anaesthetic took him, Nick couldn’t help thinking, What’s the point of any of this?
The darkness closed in, the walls shrinking around him, and his body fell limp.
The surgeon peered at the anaesthetist.
“Douglas?”
“BP is 120 over 80; pulse ox is 82; looks good. Yep, you can tee-off now, Gerald.”
The surgeon followed the black pen mark down Nick’s right calf, the scalpel slicing through the tough outer epidermis, leaving a red, bloody trail behind.
“Vertical and medial incision . . . good God! Look at this mess,” said the surgeon, poking with his scalpel. “The ruptured tendon looks like the head of a mop. There’s rotten tissue in here—I’ll have to cut it out. There’s only a tiny string of good tendon to work with. I don’t know what butcher performed the last operation . . . very shoddy. What did you say this fellow does again? Footballer?”
“Rugby,” replied Douglas. “Or he was. Had a bit of a hiatus.”
“Hummph,” said Gerald, cutting into the frayed tendon. “Poor sod should have come to me in the first place.”
“He got here in the end,” said Douglas, watching the monitor closely, his round spectacles sparkling in the light from above the operating table.
“Retractor!”
A surgical nurse slapped the Gullis hook retractor into Gerald’s waiting palm, watching as he tugged Nick’s skin and tissue out of the way then squinted at the wound and sighed.
An hour later, Nick was wheeled into recovery, his bandaged foot adjusted to hang above his prone body. As he started to come around, he couldn’t feel his feet and some bastard had stuffed his head with cotton wool.
He heard the sounds of people moving around him.
“Is he famous?”
“Don’t think so. I don’t know. I don’t watch rugby.”
A woman laughed.
“I might if they all looked like him.”
More laughter.
“He’s waking up. Nick! Nick, can you hear me? That’s it, you’re doing really well. Just breathe normally. That’s it, that’s it. Can you open your eyes for me, Nick?”
Nick breathed deeply, listening to the nurse’s calm voice. He peeled open one eyelid, trying to remember . . . he had an important question to ask . . . what was it . . . ?
“That’s it, Nick. Both eyes. The surgery went well.”
Oh yeah. That was it, the important question.
“Okaay?” he slurred.
“Yes, you’re going to be fine.”
His eyes closed again and he drifted, a tiny ship in the middle of the ocean, rudderless, powerless, in danger of sinking. Drifting . . . drifting . . .
The next time he woke up, Nick knew exactly where he was: flat on his back in a hospital bed with a raging thirst, a fiery pain in his right leg, and a cloud of depression settling over him like a cold mist.
“Hello, luv. How are you?”
His mum’s voice was close by, and he opened his eyes to see her leaning over him, her anxious gaze belying the smile on her face.
“Alright,” he said hoarsely. “Thirsty.”
She helped him take a sip of water.
“Dad and Trish send their love. They’ll visit this evening. Everything’s going to be fine.”
Nick loved his mum. But she was a terrible liar.
Nick was back at his parents’ house again, back in his old bedroom.
He stared moodily at the pale blue walls of his childhood, still covered with posters of sporting greats Sugar Ray Leonard, Chris Eubank, and Nigel Benn—all boxers—and the obligatory Pirelli calendar from seven years earlier. He couldn’t even smile at the ‘improvements’ Trish had doodled on every busty model.
He knew the routine and was trying not to feel daunted by the recovery regime. Trish had also told him point blank that every drop of alcohol in the house had been removed, even his mum’s Amontillado dry sherry.
Trish was also strictly monitoring his use of painkillers. The last hour before he got his next fix was excruciating and worse than after his previous operation. Trish was worried that he’d become addicted to painkillers. Nick was worried that the pain would drive him crazy—crazier.
“You’d better be a model patient,” she said, leaning over him threateningly. “It’s been a shit Christmas and New Year.”
Nick sighed as Trish eventually sat down next to him.
“And stop being all mardy, it’s giving me a headache.”
Nick cracked an eye and scowled at his sister.
“Is this what they call tough love?”
“Who says I love you? Yeah, fine, call it whatever you like. You’re going to get better.”
Nick looked away.
“You don’t know that.”
“You’ve got to think positive!” she snapped, her patience waning. “And the surgeon said the operation was a success.”
“So did the last one,” Nick pointed out.
Trisha was silenced. She smoothed the duvet and avoided his eyes.
“Nick, have you thought about what you might do if you’re right and you can’t play rugby?” She hesitated as he closed his eyes. “I’m not trying to be mean, but after . . . well, you know. Do I have to worry about that . . . again?”
He opened his eyes to meet her worried gaze.
“I won’t try to drink myself to an early grave again.”
“Promise.”
“Yeah.”
“Promise you won’t . . . try anything else either?”
Nick sighed.
“I can’t promise I’m going to be all sunshine and rainbows. But . . . I won’t try to off myself. Okay?”
Trish didn’t look completely reassured but nodded.
“Well, seeing as you’ve decided to join the land of the living again,” and she gave him a weak smile, “I’ve got you a new phone with a new number. The only people who’ve got it are us and Mark Lipman.”
Nick glanced up.
“Has he called?”
“Yes, he wanted to know how the operation went. I told him what your surgeon told us. He was pleased. He said he’d be sending out your CV to a few clubs.”
Nick grunted.
“Good luck with that. No one will touch me—post-surgery, criminal record.”
Trish slapped him lightly across the head.
“You’re supposed to be thinking positive.”
Nick shook his head, irritated.
“I’m supposed to be realistic.”
Trish grimaced.
“What?” Nick asked, anger and frustration leaking into his voice.
“I went to your house to pick up any letters.”
“And?”
“I opened them.”
Nick frowned.
“You’re overdrawn at the bank, you know that, right?”
Nick shrugged, finding it hard to care.
“All the money you got from the Minotaurs went on paying the fine and your operation. There’s nothing left. You won’t be able to pay next month’s mortgage.”
A cold trickle of fear made him sit up straighter and lancing pain shot through his leg.
“I didn’t realise it was that bad. I could sell my car, but that would only help for a few months then I’d be back to square one.”
“Mum and Dad said that they’d . . .”
“No!” Nick’s voice was sharp. “I’m not having them using their savings. This is my problem.”
Trish’s eyes were bright with unshed tears.
“I told them you’d say that. I’d help you if I could . . .”
“I know that, sis.”
He reached out and held her hand, and she gave him a watery smile, squeezing his fingers.
“So,” she said after a long pause, “I talked to an estate agent. He said that it’s not a good time to sell . . .”
“Fuck.”
“But he thinks you’d do better renting out the place. It would cover your mortgage—just. There wouldn’t be anything left over. What do you think?”
“I think I don’t have any choice,” Nick said tiredly.
Trish’s smile was brief.
“Okay, well, I’ll help you get that sorted. You’d better get some rest. And, um, maybe make an appointment to go to the Job Centre and . . .”
Nick’s heart missed a beat.
“Go on benefits? No.”
Trish grimaced.
“Don’t rule it out.”
Nick closed his eyes. If he had to apply for welfare now . . . he felt Trish’s hand on his arm and looked up to see the sympathy and love on her face, the pain that matched his.
She didn’t need to tell him that his family cared about him, he could see it in everything they did.
Trish cleared her throat.
“I’ve brought my laptop up in case you want to watch Netflix or anything later.”
She turned to leave the room, but he stopped her.
“Thanks, Trish. I mean it. Thank you.”
“You’re my brother,” she said simply.
Life carried on for everyone but Nick.
No one came to see him. During two months of drinking, he’d pushed away all his old teammates, the whiskey and paranoia making him feel as though he couldn’t trust them. He suspected some of them of having known about Ken and Molly. He had no proof of that, so maybe in truth he was just too ashamed to see them.
A few of the lads had been in touch, the ones he was closest to, but now they were getting on with their lives, training hard, and he wasn’t part of the team anymore.
When Nick stopped answering messages, the calls became fewer and fewer.
So, when his parents were out at work and his sister was doing data entry in the kitchen, the radio playing softly in the background, Nick was utterly alone.
He’d deleted his social media accounts and had to change his email address. The media interest in him had died down, thank God, and there’d only been one short article about his operation.
The parole board had given him a month before he had to start his community service. He’d told them that he’d still be wearing a surgical boot, but they’d promised to find him “something suitable”, whatever that might be.
The thought rolled over and over in his head: what if this is it? What if my rugby days are over? Trish had asked him what he’d do and the choices were bleak. He could probably go back to the paint factory, a thought that he could hardly bear. He couldn’t imagine trying to go to evening classes—he’d hated school the first time around. He honestly didn’t know what he’d do.
Mark Lipman had been working hard, keeping his ear to the ground, finding out if anyone was looking for a new Fullback next season. But no club would touch Nick—no one was willing to take a risk. Either on his fitness . . . or anything else. He’d pleaded guilty to assault: club managers looked at their insurance policies, then looked away; publicity departments stamped any potential interest with a big fat NO.
“I’m sorry, son. I’ll keep looking. It’ll be a different story once you’re fit again, but . . .”
“What is it?”
“I won’t be able to get you anything nearby. If you’re prepared to travel . . . there are clubs in the south that might take you, or what about France? Italy, perhaps?”
Nick sighed.
“I’ll take anything,” he admitted with humiliating honesty.
Alone with his thoughts, Nick stared at Trish’s laptop. And he remembered something she’d said before, about him thanking the people who’d helped him.
She was right: there had been a few people who’d stood up for him. Maybe he wasn’t as alone as he thought.
He balanced the laptop across his thighs, thinking about what he wanted to say. He stared at the blank screen for a long time, and then he started to type.