Rhythm

by

John Terry Moore
 

CHAPTER 30

Peter sat in the foyer and waited.  It was not attractive architecture; far from it, more purpose-built from just before the turn of the century.  It suffered from a clash of cultures, he decided; the original American influence had been overridden by the more recent Chinese and Indian partners.  All combined together into a substantial importing group which was a clear market leader with its varied range of passenger and commercial vehicles.  Richard had worked here since university; they had given him extended sick leave, (now without pay) because his boss, Sam Covington was a human being.  Sam had persuaded the directors that not only was Richard the star performer in his Logistics/Quality Assurance Department, but that he intended leaving his name on the succession/progression file until they, (the directors) instructed him to do otherwise.  He planned to retire within five years and he knew without doubt that Richard was the right choice to take his place.  Richard had saved the day and made him look good on more than one occasion; the challenge of blending three different IT systems from each of their major shareholders and business partners into one that was simple and actually worked, was all Richard’s creation.  And in so doing, they had been able to throw out the old North American model and save millions of dollars as a result.  But Richard’s greatest contribution, Sam had decided, standing shoulder to shoulder with him; was the creation of a team.  A team of people so skilled and motivated, they were able to keep the department running in Richard’s absence, with some help from part-time contractors. 

*****

When Peter had phoned Sam there was an instant rapport; both of them deciding that a face to face meeting would be beneficial for both of them.  Sam was a slightly built, handsome, late-fifties man with a magnificent mane of silver hair, combed back along the sides and finishing with a tiny duck’s tail at the back.  His kind grey eyes were welcoming and friendly. 

“Thank you so much for coming, Peter,” beamed Sam across the desk.  “You know, he never stopped talking about you, he told me many times he should have married you instead of that girl.  And that was right after the honeymoon,” he laughed. 

“Then you know what this is all about then?” Peter said. 

“Of course,” Sam smiled back, “he and I share a special bond, and there were no secrets between us at all.  So how can I help to get him better?” 

Peter relaxed immediately and told the story; from the moment of Stephanie’s phone call until now. 

“All we need is time, Sam,” he pleaded.  “Just time to get him physically and mentally fit, so he can resume his career here.” 

“That goes without saying,” Sam replied, “whatever it takes and however long it takes, you have my support.” 

He looked at the gratitude radiating from Peter’s eyes, and thought he would ask the hard question, because sooner or later it would be asked by his superiors down the track. 

“Ah, there’s a delicate question I have to ask, Peter,” he said.  “I have to deal with Chinese and Indian directors, as well as North Americans and Australians.  The Chinese and Indians do have much idea of same-sex partnerships and if I have to sell the idea of Richard’s health at some later date, I really need to include you in the story, if you know what I mean,” he grinned apologetically. 

Peter laughed his full rich laugh. 

“So you want to know if we’re an item, Sam!” 

Sam nodded, having obviously embarrassed himself. 

“Sorry, Peter, I didn’t mean to be nosy,” his voice trailing off. 

“Sam, as I told his ex-wife, I can’t just switch on and off instantly.  There’s a history with Richard which goes back to when we were ten-year-olds at primary school, that’s how long we’ve known each other.  I’ve taken Richard in because if nothing else, he’s my friend, and this is what friends do for each other.  There’s too much ahead of us to worry about anything like that just yet, neither of us need anymore complications to our existence right now.”  Peter sighed, and looked straight into Sam’s eyes.  “To give him some incentive, and at his request, I’ve agreed that we’ll talk about that stuff when he’s well again.  Not before.”  “That’s all I wanted to know,” he whispered, “if he thinks he’s got even the slimmest chance with you he’ll be bloody motivated, make no mistake!  Now I want you to stay for morning tea in our meeting room so all his workmates can meet you.  You’re an inspiration Pete, and I want them to meet the person who is caring for Richard.  You may well be amazed at the level of loyalty they have for him.  They deserve to hear the facts as I’ve done, so we can keep his seat warm for him.” 

Sam, ever the gentleman, opened the door for him, and walked him around the office, introducing him to those who were not on the phone.  As the clock struck ten o’clock, the frenetic activity slowed and Richard’s friends filed into the meeting room, the receptionist taking calls and messages.  Peter, ever the presenter with his own job, suddenly found himself telling Richard’s story again.  They listened in silence, and one of the girls cried. 

“Why does this sort of shit happen to the nice people?” she sobbed. 

“Because we’re human beings,” Peter said gently.  “Don’t worry, we’ll get him well again, I promise, but don’t expect it to happen overnight.  About five months the experts think.  Just keep on doing what you’re doing, I know he appreciates that very much.” 

*****

Life settled into a routine; Richard had never worked harder in his life, and finally seemed to understand that the purgatory that Jared was subjecting him to was actually working; ----- slowly.  Every week there was progress, as the weigh in showed, and very week his diet was varied for one day so he could eat some of the carbohydrates he craved.  His mood and manner didn’t progress as well however; whilst he obviously felt better physically, it hadn’t yet translated itself into a more even and positive mental outlook; his emotional fragility still very much in evidence.  So he was never alone.  Jared called for him each morning and they walked together to the university.  After a two-hour workout and a shower, there was someone delegated from the roster to collect him, drive him home, prepare lunch and simply spend time with him until Peter arrived home sometime after 5.00pm. 

Richard never complained about the supervision; he obviously understood it was for his own protection, but he never commented.  But his passive attitude was wearing Peter down.  It was into the fifth week, on a Monday night when Peter spat the dummy.  Richard sat in an armchair, staring at the television but clearly not comprehending totally what was happening in a repeat of an old English ‘whodunit’.  Suddenly Peter grabbed the remote and switched it off.  Richard looked surprised, but there was a glimmer in his eyes, an expectation that all was not well. 

“Richard,” said Peter, which was a sure way to measure the seriousness of the forthcoming conversation, because ‘Dicky’ was used when things were OK.  “Why don’t you fucking try, for Christ’s sake?” Peter exploded, shouting.  “You were always a leader, now you’re a follower, and a piss poor one at that!  You just fucking sit there like a statue, night after night, and whilst you’re losing weight and looking better, you’re still a fucking zombie,” he screamed.  “This is more than just pumping iron and running on a Stairmaster, it’s about you getting your fucking mind in order!  About taking charge and,” he hesitated for a moment, “about being head of this house for Christ’s sake,” he said in a quieter, even pleading tone.  “I have to take all the responsibility at work, I’d just love to see a glimmer of the old Richard,” he said, “who used to boss me around and yet made me feel so safe and cared for when we were kids.”  Peter’s shoulders slumped and he dropped his head into his hands and wept.  “S-sorry,” he said, “I’m totally out of order, you must really feel like shit now!” 

There was a pause as Richard struggled for words. 

“I don’t know how you’ve hung together so well, so far,” he grinned.  “We’ve got a long way to go yet, but I can feel myself getting better.  Just a little, day by day.  And I don’t mean just physically either.  But I think it’s time we went back to the doctor and he took me down to half a tablet a day.  You see Pete,” he stated apologetically, “I do understand what’s happening most of the time, but I can’t, you know,” he struggled desperately, rolling his eyes heavenward.  “Me brain’s so fried with this shit I can’t fuckin’ verbalise it.” 

Peter looked on in wonder. 

“Jesus,” he said.  “You are getting better, you’re getting angry!” 

“You want me to start sleeping in the other room?” Richard asked.  “This can’t be any fun for you.” 

“Don’t forget that your motivation supposedly relies on the promise I made to you when you’re properly fit and off that shit completely,” grumped Peter with a smile on his face.  “You have to get some practise in somehow!  And I think our cuddles at night are the only thing keeping both of us sane!”  He was rewarded by the most brilliant smile he had seen from Richard since his arrival at  ‘Chez Finche.’ 

“Anyway, you have absolutely no idea what I get up to whilst you’re asleep,” laughed Peter. 

The smile returned, brighter than before.  “You wouldn’t dare,” he whispered.  “Well you’re always zonked out to it,” Peter smirked, “so that’s another reason to get off that shit so you can stay awake long enough to catch me in the act!” 

*****

Peter, Richard and Angelo sat together in the surgery of the local GP.  He wasn’t Richard’s regular doctor, but his clinic, by arrangement with the university, was available for students 24/7.  It helped that the doctor in this case was a gay man, Darren Clarke.  And that he had been co-opted onto Richard’s case from the outset.  He was horrified that Richard had been prescribed his current medication but agreed with Angelo that it was not productive to pursue it further.  What they must focus on was ridding his system of the drug as quickly as possible, but watching for signs of emotional instability.  He looked down at his desk blotter, and then raised his eyes to a point somewhere midway between Richard and Peter’s line of sight. 

“Have you considered,” he said, “that your depressive illness may persist even after removing the underlying cause of its initial onset?” 

Richard struggled slightly for words again, and actually smiled at the young GP.  “No way,” he said.  “I’m just really, really scared of the shit that I’m on and I just want to get off it as quickly as possible so I can get my brain straightened out.  Why would I be depressed with the Sergeant Major here,” he laughed, pointing at Peter.  “I wouldn’t have time to be depressed with him around!” 

The young medico nodded, and raised his eyes at Angelo. 

“What do you think, Ange?” 

“I think there are so many positive signs happening that the dosage has to be reduced.  You have to make the decision as to how much, but we now have to be so vigilant with Richard, because the mood swings can be profound.”  Richard squeezed Peter’s hand as he turned and smiled his understanding. 

“Yeah I realise that, but it’s worth it to have my fucking mind back again.”

“Half a tablet daily,” he said to Richard, “for a week.  Then half every two days for the following week, then cold-turkey, zilch.” 

Jasmine Finche met Richard outside the gymnasium entrance at three o’clock.  Everyone knew these next two weeks were critical for Richard and she was as prepared as anyone.  Smart and practical, and like all the team devoted to supporting him, she knew she needed to be vigilant in this difficult period as his mood swings became more pronounced, from euphoria to despair.  He seemed quieter than usual as he swung his legs into the car beside her.  She noted how fit he now looked; the huge tummy had gone almost completely, and she knew Jared was already concentrating on strength training.  But it was his mental state that concerned her today; and try as she may, he was unresponsive to her conversation; bordering on being surly, which was so unlike Richard, even in his worst moments.  They arrived home and Priscilla was there; doing pleased little circles with her body and leading them into the kitchen. 

“I think I’ll have a lie down,” said Richard with no further explanation, and walked into the bedroom, closing the door firmly.  Jasmine worried that she might exacerbate his mood further, so she quietly filled the kettle for a ‘cuppa’, turning it on and sitting down at the kitchen bench.  Her senses were on high alert; ‘but how far should she go before she intervened,’ she thought.  Just then, Priscilla decided for her.  Her little ears stood straight up and she growled, racing to the bedroom door where she began barking hysterically, scratching the woodwork and creating her own brand of mayhem. 

Jasmine raced to the door, turning the handle only to find it locked. 

“Richard,” she said, “open the door, now!”  There was no answer, and Priscilla increased her volume, biting the timber frame.  Jasmine raced to the carport where she had seen an old axe leaning against the wall a few days prior.  Thankfully it was still there; she quickly grabbed it and ran inside.  Jasmine wasn’t a big woman but she was quite tall and fit for her age.  She reversed the axe head, took aim at the door handle and swung with all her might, hitting the lock dead centre.  The door crashed open and Priscilla flew on to the bed, barking at Richard, nipping at his fingers so he was totally helpless to do anything either constructive or destructive.  On the bedside table, an array of pill bottles stood in mute testament to his failed attempt to put his troubles behind him. 

“Did you take anything at all, darling?” demanded Jasmine.  “Tell me the truth.”  Richard promptly burst into tears, as she and Priscilla arranged themselves around him on the bed. 

“N-no,” he said.  “I forgot the bloody glass of water!” 

They laughed at the absurdity of it; Richard suddenly snapping out of his downer, back to reality again. 

“Jesus Jazzy,” he said, “I nearly stuffed up, didn’t I?”  He looked at the row of bottles. “I don’t even know why I kept those damn things.  Jasmine watched as he swung his legs over the end of the bed and stood up.  Priscilla gave a threatening growl.  “It’s OK Prissy,” he smiled, “time to be proud of me.”  He handed Jasmine three bottles and picked up the remainder, walking into the en suite.  He opened the lid of the toilet and began to empty the medication into the pan.  “Your turn, Jazzy,” he smiled, as she smilingly emptied her bottles.  “Here,” he said, “put your finger on the button with me, let’s flush away the past together.” 

*****

“You did what” yelled Peter, as he stormed around the kitchen.  Jasmine and Richard tried not to look like naughty children, but the look on their faces gave them away.  Whilst Peter had been on edge like everyone else, the damaged bedroom door was evidence enough of near tragedy, and the anger he felt as a response came tumbling out.  “Why do you two always gang up on me,” he pleaded.  “All this would be funny if it weren’t so serious.  You’ll have to get a new prescription from Darren Clarke so you have enough pills to finish the course.”  “Please Pete, just let me try without any of the shit, I’m sure I can handle it,” Richard said contritely.  “I know I nearly stuffed up but I didn’t because your Mum and Prissy were on the ball, so I reckon I’m through the worst of it.”  “What if Dad and I move in for a few days,” Jasmine said brightly.  “We’ll have the other bedroom, so we’ll be here on the job, as it were.”  Peter thought about the proposition.  It made sense, and he actually agreed with Richard that the worst did seem to be over.  He phoned Angelo as the expert on toxicology and he agreed.  So it was cold turkey.  An hour later, Eric Finche walked in with a suitcase and clothes on a hanger, and ‘democracy’ took over.  Richard looked at him, eyes now sparkling.  “It looks like the people have decided,” he said warily.  “More like a revolt,” snarled Peter, “yes, the people are revolting, I can see that quite clearly!”