I have explained the treatment and given him his first dose. As expected, the medication has been well received by his system — no signs of side-effects or illness.
Rebecca seems to have taken kindly to him and I suggested he accompany her into town later to witness self-administration. Hopefully this will reinforce his understanding of how the treatment works. I made sure he had a dose to take if he decides to drink, which I’m sure he will, Rebecca will see to it.
It is a pity that his addiction is so straight forward. He seems a mysterious man and I was hoping for a more complex psychological profile. Sadly, this is not the case. I will have to simply be satisfied with curing him.
15. ADDICTION APLENTY
SIGHISOARA USED NO CURRENCY. GOODS were the only trade worth-while and no coin could be relied upon to accurately represent their worth. For that reason each player at the gambling den negotiated for chips at the start of the game. Rebecca had brought along a collection of paper-back books she’d collected. The Mariner watched her argue with the croupier, pushing for higher price tags to be attributed to each. Some she accepted, others she refused to back down on, returning the items to her satchel with a grunt of disappointment.
When she returned to the Mariner, a large collection of chips were clasped in her hand. “There was a time when I was so addicted to the thrill of gambling that I would have accepted any price,” she whispered. “They knew this of course and I got ripped off every time. Ass-holes. But you must know what it’s like?”
“I must?”
“Of course. Haven’t you come across someone who’d become aware of your addiction and taken advantage of it? Someone who saw your weakness and exploited all you were worth?”
The Mariner had. Absinth Alcott had made promises of limitless alcohol, littered about the ocean in secret stashes known only to him. The Mariner also remembered how little of Absinth the devils had left behind.
The chips Rebecca had been given were misshapen coins of various sizes, each battered, chipped and twisted. Some were small and bright, reflecting the candlelight like a thief’s dream. Others were large dull and tarnished, the once noble visages now no more than framed potatoes. Letters of languages he recognised (and some he didn’t), were crammed around the rims denoting worth that no longer applied. Only one similarity united the coins into two categories: some were silver and some were bronze. Rebecca explained that each silver coin represented five of the bronze.
A few of those bronze coins were thrown into a small pot on the far side of the table and drinks were hastily placed on in front of the two visitors. Whiskey. Perfect.
The Mariner reached out an eager hand, but Rebecca seized his wrist.
“Medication first; otherwise all this is pointless.”
He nodded and relaxed, allowing his arm to go limp and settle beside the glass. Violent compulsion to throw her aside and drain every receptacle was put on hold.
Rebecca rooted about in her satchel, a frown upon her face. The Mariner watched, enjoying the way her hair, mostly held back behind her head, surrendered a few strands to tumble forward and frame her delicate face.
With satisfaction, Rebecca found the small tin containing the beta-blockers. She popped the lid off and shook out two pills: one for her, one for him. He held out his hand, upturned.
“Strange isn’t it?” Her rhetorical question was asked as she placed the small white pill upon the spot in his palm where the lines intersected. “That something so small and can turn our whole world around.”
Rebecca swiftly knocked back her pill and chased it with a swig. A slight grimace indicated that she didn’t like the faint bitter taste either, but it soon passed and then it was his turn.
Something made him hesitate for a moment, no doubt some lingering demon inside, but it was easily quashed. This was the road to freedom, nothing would stop him taking it, and besides, who would ever have thought the road could be so pleasurable?
The Mariner placed the bitter pill on his tongue and washed it down with whiskey. The burning liquid felt wonderful to his tired and raw throat. Only his stomach gave any complaint, but even that was weak.
“So, now we just drink?” he asked, still not fully believing the treatment could be so easy.
“You drink, I gamble. Different addictions, same treatment. Wonderfully simple isn’t it?”
“How long have you been doing this? Tetrazzini’s treatment, I mean, not the gambling.”
“Not long. It starts to work very quickly. You may find yourself losing your compulsion after just a few weeks. Although you will forever be taking these pills whenever you drink, just as I do whenever I gamble, but that’s a small price to pay isn’t it?”
“If I lose the addiction, I don’t think I’ll ever drink again.”
“Possibly, but I don’t think the doctor would advise that. It’s best you drink every so often with a pill. That way the addiction can never regrow and take control. For instance, I still enjoy gambling, and will make sure I do it every few weeks or so, but I’ll never again lose everything down to the clothes on my back chasing the thrill of a win.”
Despite his sexual desire to see Rebecca stripped of clothing, the Mariner was pleased for her. She was clearly on the road to recovery. In a few weeks, would he be in same place, confidently guiding another addict towards the light?
Several other players had taken their respective places around the table, whilst in the shadowy recesses of the room others drank, nursing spirits and private grievances. Some were gambling too, but in private matches between old rivals; only in the central game could a stranger place a bet. The round table was lit up like a bear pit, a stage for the evening’s entertainment.
“I’m going to sit at the side-lines,” he muttered as Rebecca arranged her chips into piles.
“No, stay, you’ll want to be up close for the action.” Although she clearly meant it, Rebecca sounded distracted, her mind already more on the game ahead than her companion.
“No, it’s ok. I wouldn’t know what you were doing anyway. Never played.” The Mariner picked up his glass and made his way to an empty corner and felt instantly more comfortable in the darkness. He wore it as a warm coat caressing his shoulders. He yawned, feeling suddenly weary and eye-heavy. They began to close, focusing his attention solely on the sounds of glasses clinking, soft chatter and the metal poker chips as they were pushed around the table. Slowly these sounds faded and merged into one, until even that couldn’t be heard.
He’d washed, eaten and was now in the process of getting drunk. Times were good. And so was sleep.
When the Mariner awoke, probably not long later, the poker session was in full swing and there were several more drinks laid out for him in a neat line. He sat up in his chair, making the legs screech on the stone floor. Prompted by the sound, Rebecca looked in his direction and saw he’d awoken. She grinned and winked before turning back to the table and throwing another disk. The Mariner took her gesture as it was meant: she’d ordered the drinks, paid for by her winnings. Let them both enjoy their vice. The real tab was picked up by the good doctor on top of the hill.
In a silent salute, the Mariner downed a second and third shot of whiskey, slowing to enjoy the scent of the fourth. The fumes filled his nostrils, tickling the sensitive nerves within.