52. Adam

52

ADAM

I have a perfect winter’s Sunday planned for me and Nat today: a walk in Windsor Great Park followed by lunch at a fantastic pub just outside the palace gates. The pub may be ancient—and tiny—but those in the know come far and wide for its roast sirloin.

All of which makes it extremely exasperating that I’ve woken up feeling bloody awful and realising that the mere thought of roast beef makes me want to hurl.

I don’t get sick these days. It’s a point of pride for me to maintain my immune system in ship-shape condition. I follow an anti-inflammatory diet, for the most part, designed by my nutritionist, Louise, and executed by Kamyl. I take enough supplements each day to make me rattle. I don’t drink much—especially since meeting Nat. I make regular use of both the ice bath and infrared sauna in my basement. I meditate and adhere to a workout regime that balances the obligatory weights and cardio with more somatic movement to maintain my mind-body connection.

That is to say, someone who manages their wellbeing and immune system in the tightly controlled way that I do has no business feeling this bloody horrific.

I lie there for a while, careful not to wake Nat, who’s slumbering peacefully next to me, as I edge the covers off me. It’s still dark outside. I’m boiling hot and my head feels like a power drill has taken up residence inside it. The pain is so bad I can barely move. I try to turn my head towards Nat, but a flash of agony sears my skull.

Fuck.

I’m unsure how long I spend in this tortuous state, but at some point, a dim grey light bleeds into the edges of my blinds and Nat rolls towards me, tucking her lithe, naked body against mine. It’s a move I’d usually treasure, but I’m too fucking hot to endure any further human heat.

Thankfully, she rolls right away as though I’ve scorched her.

‘Woah. You’re like a furnace.’

I groan my agreement, and she puts a hand to my forehead.

‘Jesus, honey, you’re burning up.’ She scoots onto her knees and gazes down at me, her lovely face tight with concern. ‘How do you feel? You definitely have a fever.’

‘Don’t feel my best,’ I croak, because I’m not one to whine. There’s precisely nothing to be gained from self pity. I learnt that lesson a long time ago. ‘I’ll just…’

I’ll just grab some meds is what I’m thinking as I attempt to swing my legs over the edge of the bed, but I find I have neither the energy nor the mental capacity to construct the end of the sentence. Nor, it seems, do I have the energy to get out of bed.

‘No!’ Nat shouts. ‘What are you doing?! Don’t move. Stay there.’

She leaps out of my bed and pads over to my bathroom, where I hear her rummaging around in the medicine cabinet under the huge vanity. She emerges and comes around to sit on my side of the bed.

‘Let’s get you dosed up, and then I can call Dyson?’ Her voice is hesitant, and I nod. The retainer I pay him is certainly hefty enough to warrant disturbing him first thing on a Sunday morning. This feels like a textbook flu, so there’s not a huge amount he can do. But at the very least, he can administer an IV or two and help me feel slightly more human.

Nat busies herself with popping capsules from the Nurofen and Lemsip packets. She lays them on my bedside table and grabs one of the extra pillows from the floor before slowly, carefully, putting her arm around my neck. Even with her help supporting my weight, the effort of raising my head enough to insert the extra pillow behind it is agony. I suck in an involuntary breath through my teeth.

‘Poor baby,’ she says, bending to kiss my forehead. She stuffs the pillow behind me and I lean back against it gratefully. The shock waves of pain recede as I still, and this elevated position feels better for the pressure inside my head, full stop.

She feeds me two of the capsules before picking up the glass of water I took to bed and holding it to my lips. I swallow, and then swallow the next two capsules. I’m not the biggest fan of pharmaceuticals, but fuck knows I’ll do anything to relieve this pain in my head and the terrible cramping in every muscle in my body. I feel a hundred years old.

‘Thanks,’ I murmur, letting my eyes drift closed. ‘Just give me an hour and then we can get going.’

I hear a little laugh. She brushes my hair off my face before placing a damp washcloth over my forehead—she must have grabbed it from the bathroom. It feels wonderfully cool, and I hum my appreciation.

‘You’re not going anywhere, mister,’ she whispers. ‘Your only job today is to rest and get better. Okay?’

I frown, and the washcloth shifts. ‘But what about…’

‘Nothing.’ She readjusts the washcloth and gently presses down on it with her hand. ‘Today we’re chilling. I’ll cancel the pub.’

For fuck’s sake. I had very specific plans for today, and they involved showing Nat what my Aston Martin is capable of before strolling around Windsor with her like a lovesick puppy and feeding her forkfuls of Yorkshire pudding. Sundays are precious when you work as hard as she does. I wanted to make today count. At least once Dyson gets here, she can escape and salvage her day. See her family, maybe. Catch up with some friends.

But I don’t have the energy to say any of that.

The next hour is a blur. Dyson shows up with a nurse who sticks a needle in my arm, telling me this IV should sort me out.

‘Trish will stay with you,’ he tells me. ‘Nasty fever you’ve got, though plenty of rest and fluids should do the trick. Looks like a standard flu to me.’

While I’m pretty sure I pay him far too much for that kind of vague diagnosis, I’m also aware that there’s not much doctors can do to treat the flu except manage the symptoms and provide relief.

Trish is far too chirpy for my liking. She can’t be far off retirement age, and while she seems capable, she’s already exhausting .

‘Don’t worry, my dear, I’ll stay right here,’ she trills in a soft Edinburgh accent. Oh dear God.

‘Just stay downstairs, thanks,’ I tell her hurriedly. ‘I’ll call if I need you.’

‘Right you are, dearie,’ she says with a beam and thankfully takes her leave with Dyson.

I squeeze Natalie’s hand. She’s been sitting beside me on the bed this whole time. ‘You can head off, too,’ I tell her. ‘Trish will keep an eye on me.’

‘Are you kidding me?’ she asks. ‘Of course I’m not leaving you! I’m staying right here. Just let me grab some breakfast and I’ll be right back, okay?’

Of course she needs to eat. I hate that I didn’t think of that. I hate that she’s here, fussing over me, when I should be the one caring for her, making sure she has everything she needs to stabilise her glucose levels.

‘Go,’ I growl, feeling frustrated and shitty and guilty in equal measure. ‘Go and feed yourself. I’ll be fine.’

She hesitates before bending to drop a kiss on my cheek. ‘I’ll see you shortly.’

I’m alone in my cell. My dickhead of a cellmate, Ronan, is in the infirmary—lucky twat—but they don’t have room for me. A brutal flu has swept through the prison, felling an alarming number of inmates and staff. That’s what I hear, anyway. They’ve locked us down, but I’m far too ill to leave my cell even if I wanted to.

Jesus, I’m burning up. I soaked through my sheets last night and they fucking stink, so I pulled them off and threw them on the floor. Now I lie on my bare, rubber-covered mattress, slick and revolting with sweat, in a world of pain .

I swear I can feel my pulse pounding in my skull, so badly does my head throb. Every muscle in my body is atrophying. I’m as weak as a kitten. With the staff decimated by illness, the only care we’re getting in our cells is a couple of capsules of paracetamol with our meals three times a day and the recommendation to drink as much of the metallic-tasting water from our in-cell washbasins as we can to keep our fluids up.

I open my eyes with the intention of rolling off my bunk and crawling over to the basin. I’m on the bottom bunk, but even that seems an impossible mission right now. My vision is pin-pricks—probably dehydration. I remember collapsing en route to the bathroom when I was younger and suffering from chickenpox. This feels like that: a helpless, hopeless chaos of delirium and misery.

Even Mum was a better caretaker than the screws are.

I’ve been in here for four months. I thought spending Christmas Day behind bars with only my relentless grief and guilt was a low point, but this is the fucking pits.

I close my eyes again.

I hear a voice. ‘Addy. It’s okay, Addy.’ A plastic stethoscope is pressed to my chest. A tiny hand soothes my sweaty brow. ‘Nurse Ellen is here.’

I’ve told her so many times that Addy’s a girl’s name. It used to make her laugh so much, the little monkey. Still, I fucking loved it.

‘Addy’s sick.’

I know she can’t really be here. But it seems so real, and this hallucination is a blessed silver lining—a message from my baby sister that I’m not entirely alone in this godforsaken hell-hole. I’m not prepared to open my eyes and face reality just yet.

The puddle of sweat on my mattress has cooled, and now I’m shivering uncontrollably. Jesus fucking Christ . From somewhere in my broken, dehydrated body, the tears appear, and I begin to weep.

‘Adam.’ She’s saying it correctly now. What happened to Addy? ‘Adam, honey. It’s me. You’re okay.’

‘Ellen,’ I whisper. Fuck, my mouth is dry and my lips feel like they might crack open.

I’m pretty sure she sobs. ‘No, honey. It’s Nat. You’re okay. I’m here.’

Nat? At her name, at the jolt of recognition that rocks me as I traverse that trippy chasm from delirium to lucidity, I open my eyes. Ellen’s gone, drifting backwards through some celestial portal, no doubt, but I swear I can feel her presence. My first rational thought, though, is relief. Yeah, I’m still shivering, but I’m in my bed. In my home . Not in that cell that will haunt me for the rest of my days. And my beautiful Nat is here.

I’m safe.

‘It’s okay,’ she croons, taking the now-cold compress off my forehead. I look up at her, startled and unsure, my heart pounding. My face is wet with tears, but her beautiful brown eyes are tear-filled, too. Why is she crying?

‘Jesus, you’re shivering,’ she says, sniffing and blinking briskly, like she’s trying to pull herself together. She grabs a tissue from the bedside table and wipes the tears from under my eyes. ‘Let me grab Trish and we’ll change your sheets. They’re soaked through.’

‘No.’ With what feels like herculean effort, I reach up and snag her wrist. ‘Stay with me for a sec.’

‘Okay,’ she says softly. ‘Of course.’ She extricates her wrist and rounds the bed so she can climb on and snuggle up next to me. ‘You were asking for Ellen.’ Her voice is so quiet and hesitant. ‘I didn’t know what—are you all right?’

God, I feel so stupid. She must think I’m a nutter. My voice sounds thick, sluggish, as I hasten to reassure her. It hasn’t caught up to my inner panic. My confusion.

‘I was having a nightmare, I think. I’m not sure. I dreamt I was in prison—or remembered.’ It must have been a flashback of some description. It was precisely the same as that horrific bout of flu I had my first winter there—minus the saintly apparition of my late baby sister.

None of the unpleasant physical symptoms of being ill or having a fever come close to the horror of that terrifying hinterland in which I just found myself. It has me determined to stay awake. I can’t bear to be sucked down into that dystopian twilight again.

‘It’s over now,’ she says, stroking my hair off my head. ‘I’m here. You’re safe.’