Brought to a Head

by Cadwallon
^{(creative writers at www.morewriting.co.uk)}
The door swung shut, banishing the evening sun behind battered wood and unfashionable stained glass. Looking around, Mike could see everything about the place was yellowed, faded and unloved, which suited his melancholy mood just fine.

As normal, Mike felt he deserved a drink after a long day at the office, a reward for struggling with accounts and squabbling colleagues. ‘Yes’, he thought, an ale or two would sort him out - help him face Sarah’s nagging and the Mother-in-law’s moans and groans with a smile.

He tried to look inconspicuous at the bar, to blend in with the crowd. It was best this way. No one would ask him about his job or where he lived. None of his neighbours or Sarah’s darling friends would spot him downing a quick stiffener before an evening in front of the box. He could collect his thoughts in peace and be on his way.

The strong lager boiled in the glass and was brought expertly to a head by the landlady.

Two lagers, a packet of crisps and half an hour later and Mike’s world seemed a much brighter place. Even that idiot Simon Jeffreys’ moans about his work seemed a mellow memory. On the drive home, Mike mimicked Simon’s whining nasal voice. “You’re always late with your accounts and they’re full of errors. Carry on like this and I’ll have to let you go!”

Of course, Mike had protested, but Simon had just squinted over his half moon specs and snorted.

“I’ve seen all this before, you know. You used to be good. What is it now, booze or drugs?”

Mike had stormed out. But after having thought things through over a few beers, he’d realised Simon had probably just had a hard day and was blaming him for his own failings. Mike thought, ‘Me - a drink problem? No, I’ve seen people with real drink problems: binge drinking, lying about in the street, swigging from bottles on park benches. They make a nuisance of themselves, I just take a little now and again to help me relax.’

After closing the garage door, Mike took a quick swig of whisky from the bottle hidden amongst the paint tins - just a small mouthful. The fiery liquid burnt his gullet and sent a shiver down his spine. But the sensation soon passed, so he swallowed another much longer shot. Then he popped a polo mint, took a deep breath and strolled into the house.

Sarah was sitting watching the evening news. “You’re late again. What on earth kept you until this time?”

“Oh, it was some urgent work for Simon,” Mike said, “The man is a slave driver … You know, I could do with a drink after such a difficult day.”

Finishing the mint, he wandered over to the drinks cabinet, poured out a generous whisky and took a mind-numbing swig. “How’s the tea coming on, love?”

“Actually, I’d hoped you’d take me out,” Sarah replied.

“Isn’t that bloody soap opera you and your mother usually watch on tonight?”

“I’m recording it ... You know, we’ve not been out for months? We seem to just sit here watching the box every night until you fall into a coma on the settee.”

“That’s a bit unfair, love. I’ve a demanding job and anyway how was I supposed to know you’d chosen this night to go out? What am I, a mind reader?” he said tetchily.

“I’ve been reminding you about today for some while – and this morning you promised to be home on time. I knew you wouldn’t be though,” Sarah said, taking an envelope out of her handbag.

Sarah was wearing Mike’s favourite short black dress and had her hair up at the side the way he loved it. She’d made a big effort and really looked incredibly sexy.

“Happy Anniversary darling!” she said coolly, handing Mike the envelope. “I really did hope you’d come home sober tonight so we could go out for a lovely meal.”

“Don’t be like that. We can … It was to be a surprise,” he said, trying to talk normally, but hearing the words slur from his lips. “Anyway, I’ve not been drinking …”

“You mean to say, if we go out to the garage now, the whisky in that bottle you keep hidden will be at the same mark as it was this morning? Shall we look?”

“What whisky …? Oh, that. It’s just the dregs of a bottle from last Christmas. I’d been wondering where it had got to.”

For a long moment Sarah just looked at Mike, slowly shaking her head. He saw sadness, maybe even pity, in her eyes.

At last she sighed, “You’re a mess! You need to take a hard look at your life and sort it out before it’s too late. I’ve arranged to go out with Lucy – so, don’t wait up. Come to think of it, you won’t. You’ll be asleep in half an hour. Oh and my mother’s staying round at Doreen’s so you’ll not have to remember her either.”

Sarah slammed the front door on her way out of the house.

“And good riddance, ” Mike shouted at the empty hallway. “You don’t know what I have to put up with. I work all hours, you know …”

Mike tossed the envelope down, marched into the kitchen and made a show of pulling a bottle of red wine from the rack. Reaching into the cupboard, he fetched out his favourite swimming pool of a glass and watched the delicious red liquid gloop into its bowl. He took a long sip and the world felt much calmer. Refilling the glass, he stood swirling and sniffing its contents like a connoisseur.

It was then Mike had a bright idea. If Sarah was abandoning him on his wedding anniversary for a night on the town with Lucy, he should go down the pub with Jarick. It was Friday night and he hadn’t been out enjoying himself for ages. Mike lifted the kitchen phone. It was broken.

‘Oh, yes,’ he remembered – this was something Sarah had put on his wretched fix list. How was he supposed to find time for such things?

Mike fiddled with the socket, but the phone remained dead. Grumbling, he refilled his glass and set off upstairs to use the bedside phone. He couldn’t remember Jarick’s number so lay on the bed to give it some thought.

Next thing Mike knew, he was dancing alongside Ernie Wise in his comedy rendition of Gene Kelly’s ‘Singing in the rain’. He felt the rain soaking into his shirt as he cavorted along the road. But then as the dream faded, his nostrils filled with a rich fruity smell and he started shivering. “What the hell’s going on?” he blurted out, opening his eyes and blearily looking round for the TV. Quickly realising his sodden shirt was clinging to his chest, Mike jumped up and switched on the light.

It was nearly ten o’clock, the room was silent and the bed was empty apart from a horrific looking dark red wine stain on Sarah’s handmade quilted bedspread.

“Oh, shit,” he exclaimed, “she’s going to kill me now.”

But, she almost didn’t need to for at that moment Mike stepped back onto the glass and felt it shatter beneath his bare foot. Sarah swam into his addled head wagging her finger and repeating, “You’re a mess – sort yourself out!”

An hour later, Mike had painstakingly finished plucking the shards of glass from his heel and cleared up the bedroom. Now he was sitting downstairs with a hot black coffee and a throbbing head, feeling sorry for himself.

He spotted Sarah’s envelope. It brought back memories of past anniversaries. Two years ago, the kids had been at home and made quite a fuss. They’d all gone out to the cinema and then for a meal. They’d had a great time together. Where had things gone wrong? Was it simply that he was stuck in a tedious job whilst his kids had their lives before them? Surely, this should be a time of freedom for Sarah and himself. They should be out letting their hair down.

Mike traced his fingertips over the kisses on the sealed envelope before carefully opening it.

Inside, there was a small card and folded papers. The card read ‘Dearest Mike, I forgive you for forgetting our anniversary. I know it can be difficult to think of a gift for someone who has everything. We have everything: wonderful children, a nice house, money for holidays and most of all, each other. I really don’t want to lose this. My present to you is the result of a few nights' research around the house and on the computer whilst you were asleep. If you truly love me, and want to make me happy, then please take the enclosed test and ring me as soon as you have worked out the correct answer. Love, Sarah xxx’

Mike propped the card on the table and unfolded the other contents, uncertain at what to expect. The first sheet contained a short self-assessment questionnaire taken from an Internet site. It was apparently a test doctors give their patients to assess problem drinking. Mike was vaguely intrigued by the name: ‘The CAGE test’, briefly wondering if failure resulted in committal to a padded cell. But, it was nothing like that. The letters C A G and E were simply initials of key words in each of the four questions, the gist of which were:

• ‘Had he felt he should Cut down his drinking?’
• ‘Had he been Annoyed by criticism of his drinking?’
• ‘Had he felt Guilty about the booze?’
• ‘Did he take an Eye opener in the morning to steady his nerves?’

Mike gave a grim chuckle at the last question. He’d made a point of never drinking in the morning because he knew that was the route to ruin. He’d seen it once before in a boss who had to fill himself with gin each morning to steady his hands. It had drained the poor man’s bank balance, cost him his marriage and ruined his health.

But it turned out Mike’s self-imposed rule on morning drinking had made no difference because, according to the questionnaire, having answered yes to at least two of the questions, the test showed he still had a 93% chance of being a problem drinker.

Mike checked the pages of further information Sarah had stapled to the back of the test. ‘Did he drink daily? Did he have a strong desire to drink?’ He could only answer ‘Yes’ and ‘Yes’. There was no doubt about it. He fitted the description of a problem drinker.

Then Mike found a chart of alcohol per glass of various drinks and mentally used it to tot up how many units he normally put away during the week. Sarah had been right about the whisky in the garage. He went through a bottle a week, which was 28 units for a start.

Each of his large glasses of wine was another 2.5 units. Then there was the drinking on the way home and the emergency bottle in the filing cabinet at work. Apparently, the UK recommendations were 21 units a week for men and 14 for women. Mike soon realised he was way over the top. He vaguely remembered reading that a little alcohol was good for you, so was amazed to find his levels of consumption put him at increased risk of: liver disease, depression, impotence, high blood pressure, accidents, obesity and a host of other awful sounding ailments.

Most of all though, there was a real risk of family break down. How close was he to losing his job and his marriage? Mike sighed. Far from perking him up, the booze was probably simply making him depressed.

Mike read on about the help he could get: detoxification, support through group meetings or on the phone. But the most important thing for any person was to acknowledge there was a problem and to want to deal with it. Mike imagined a lonely life on a park bench and shuddered.

Why hadn’t he seen this coming? He’d just slipped into it. It was so easy: wine at the weekend, wine every night, a drink on the way home … Now Mike knew he had to escape the habit. Sarah was right. He had to cut right back, to change his lifestyle before it was too late.

It was a quarter to midnight. Mike hobbled over to his briefcase and retrieved his mobile. He composed a text to Sarah: ‘I think I’ve got a bit of a problem with drink darling, but I’m going to fix it.’

Five minutes later, he received a reply.

‘That was the best anniversary present you could ever give. We’ll crack this together. See you in the morning. Love you, Sarah xxx’

Mike instinctively reached for the wine bottle and then remembered his promise. Surely, one little drink wouldn’t hurt. After all, a small glass in place of a large one would be like cutting back.

He was on his own. No one would ever know.

Just then, the clock chimed. It was morning. Mike never drank in the morning.

‘My God,’ he thought, ‘this is going to be incredibly difficult.’