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Stephen was having a nightmare, one of many. They were becoming more frequent, as real sleep replaced the exhausted, drugged stupor of the first days.
Jack, after his first triumph and relief, awoke to the reality that nothing was the same, would ever be the same again. The rescue had come too late for that, and had cost him too much. He remained profoundly grateful that they were in time to save Stephen's life, but he could not help the growing awareness that it should have been sooner. It was unreasonable – he could not have known Stephen was taken – and he had learnt from a near lifetime in the service to not rethink the past. Nevertheless he felt, obscurely, that he should have known, should have been there sooner.
Stephen was so profoundly damaged. The obvious ways: so many wounds, burns, torn ligaments, broken bones – his frightful hands above all – it was unbearable to think of their subtle intimate beautiful music, impossible now – and the less apparent: he was passive, withdrawn, looking inward and bearing too much. Every interaction was defined by how much pain, how much humiliation it caused. Jack understood this: had experienced the loss of all control, all defenses; had been fortunate to be in those trusted hands when seriously wounded.
This night he rose and went to him, to wake him; sat with a chair drawn right up to the cot and held him, carefully, by the shoulders; as sometimes happened, the rigid clenched almost tetanic creature he had half-lifted from the pillows relaxed against him, paused, and then folded in on himself, there in his arms, almost in his lap, and wept – soundlessly, heartbreakingly. Jack held him carefully, stroked his head, a patchwork of sutures and sparse hair, gently, murmured meaningless words of reassurance, acceptance. The tears ceased gradually, and after a while Jack began to hum, very quietly, sometimes snatches of their music, sometimes improvisation, dwindling to silence as his friend's breathing steadied.
After a time, he asked, ‘Can I bring you anything? Water, wine?'
'Light, if you please, Jack.'
This was a surprise. Stephen was sensitive about his appearance – ironic in so unselfconscious a man – ashamed of the visible signs of his abuse and degradation. Easing him back onto the pillows, he brought the dark lantern, opened the door partway and set it on the deck, watching Stephen's face to gauge its position. It was a blotched, wet, mucousy face; he brought the small basin and one of the pile of clean, folded cloths constantly renewed by the silent, appalled Killick, sat down and mopped Stephen's face and neck with care, without emphasis. When he paused, Stephen opened his eyes, met his earnest gaze, looked away, took breath and began to apologise.
'Please do not', he interrupted. ‘There can be no need for apologies between us.’ Then, gently, 'Stephen, what can I do for you?'
'You have done everything for me,' with a brief smile. He sighed. 'I think, or perhaps should say I hope I shall be able to improve, but it is slow, so slow. And I keep going back over it all, as if I could change it, or make sense of it. I want to leave it behind, but I remember, dream.' He looked away again.
There was a silence.
'Will you tell me?'
A short, sardonic laugh. ‘I am uncertain whether I could articulate the experience, even to myself.' A pause, then cautiously: 'I might try.'
Jack waited. After a time, he ventured, 'Well, what did you think about?'
Stephen stared at him incredulously.
'No, I mean when they left you alone. They must have left you alone sometimes.'
A humourless snort. Then, slowly: 'I was a mere animal, fettered, panting, not thinking. Curled up and just feeling, trying not to feel. It took longer and longer to be calm, to begin to think. I had a thought, a few thoughts, like a clenched fist, a determination, but no ordered thought, no monologue. Just feeling.’
'Pain, of course.'
'Yes.'
'Fear?'
He nodded. 'Of course.'
'Were you afraid of dying?'
'Jack,' he said, with the first real animation he had shown, 'soul, I was afraid of not dying. I was afraid there was no limit to the pain, it would keep on getting worse and going on longer, until it conquered me, they conquered me, and I just wanted peace, just a minute without pain.’ He swallowed, then continued, ‘They shouted at me, they threw things at me, pissed on me. They did much more than break my bones, tear my flesh. They flung hatred at me. It was so squalid, degrading, and I could do nothing, nothing at all to prevent it.' He had been looking into Jack's face, but now turned away, as if he could hide, or hide from, his emotion. Jack stirred as if to embrace him again, but he shook his head; Jack waited. His breathing calmed.
Another silence.
‘Sometimes, you are right, they would leave me for a while. I would drift into sleep and dream – ironic that I have nightmares here, a haven I could scarcely imagine, and there dreamt of safety and comfort, and of you, Jack. We were here, and I was safe. It was escape. But I would hear something, the brutes returning, perhaps, and before I was fully awake I would be stricken with fear that you were in the same case as I; but I would wake to the same incomprehensible reality, pain, fear, progressive destruction.’
'You could have told them what they wanted.'
'Oh, joy. No. No, I could not. My resolve was all that was left of myself, my undamaged self. Do you understand? They had destroyed me, destroyed me forever, but not what I was.'
Jack made a protesting movement, speaking without the careful deliberation he had used until now. 'Stephen, you are strong, you will heal.'
'Will I? Will I be able to use my hands, do you think? Walk? Dear mother of God, play our music?'
Jack rose, went to the table and filled a glass with wine, and returned, bringing the decanter, which he set on the floor. He proffered the glass; at Stephen's wordless acquiescence, he lifted him in one arm and held the glass for him to sip; let him lie back on the pillows, sat down and drank from the same glass. Stephen smiled at this.
'Truly, brother, I am blessed. I would be ashamed to be so weak, but of your goodness I can feel safe.' Wonderingly, he repeated, 'Safe, as in my dreams, where none of this happened,' with a gesture indicating his slight, battered form in the high-piled cot.
Jack smiled. 'Good, that's good.' He continued, thoughtfully. 'I feel so damned helpless, and sometimes,’ he paused, seeking the word, ‘embarrassed, to be able to stand up. I think all the time, Jack, you great ox, you can do this without a second thought and Stephen – can't any more, oh God -' with anguish, 'Stephen, I am so sorry to be unhurt. All the time, as if I would be ... abandoning you? Somehow letting this happen to you, to allow myself to be happy or carefree -'
Stephen made as if to reach out. Jack put his arm on the cot, so Stephen could rest his hand on it; in a low voice, 'I cannot bear that you are in so much pain, all the time.'
Stephen laughed a little. 'Oh, my dear,' he said, fondly. There was a silence. 'Will I tell you a thing, now?' he said, sounding like the old Stephen, and Jack's heart lifted a little. 'I have thought a great deal about pain. I have seen a great deal of it, and felt it too. I inflict pain, with the best motives, but it's pain, sure enough. I do some terrible things; I restrain my patients because some things I must do are beyond a man's capacity to bear. I cut them – or I used to. Now I could not.'
He sighed. 'There are kinds of pain, just as there are degrees, and it's so much the type that makes it bearable or unbearable. Unavoidable, natural, unthreatening pain, your aching body after a long day's exertion, or, at the other end of the magnitude scale, the pain of parturition: these are forgettable, an integral part of life, with a reasonable expectation of survival; they are even in some sense laudable.
‘Quite different is the pain that tells you that you are damaged – a cut, a burn, a sprain – damaged, but once you can expect to heal, bearable.
'And then there's maiming, damage from which there is no return. A growing tumour, a deepening infection, a lost limb. This requires a degree of resignation, a yielding to superior force, perhaps; to God's will, for some.
'And there are many factors that modulate one's ability to bear it. Being cared for, being helped and supported, diminishes suffering remarkably. But the converse is true, as well: deliberation,’ shaking his head, ‘it is horrible beyond my capacity to express to experience pain inflicted with malice, with intent, with no object but to cause suffering. It cannot be called bestial, it is uniquely human, alas, worse than predator and prey, or the work of mere enemies, who will wound or kill one another in battle, but with no personal hatred.
'Fear, of course. Fear makes any pain worse, makes you more vulnerable. You cannot reason with it, you cannot ignore it. You try to look it in the face, turn it into words, abstract yourself; ignore it, accept the damage, and prepare for the next assault.
'And helplessness. Total loss of control over everything, everything, Jack – everything except that absolute resolve. Until death, which cannot come too soon. You are already in the grave, but they won't leave you alone. It doesn't stop, it doesn't stop.
'Except.' A deep sigh. 'In the middle of all this, liberation, release. Jack, soul, you made it stop.' He shook his head, a real smile upon his face. In a near whisper, but with emphasis: 'It stopped.' With a gesture indicating the cabin, himself, 'This, all this, is just climbing out of that grave.
'More wine, please, my dear.'
He refilled the glass, raised Stephen's shoulders again; he drank more than half the glass before nodding.
Jack saw that he was becoming increasingly uncomfortable – the last dose was wearing off, perhaps, or maybe it was this relative exertion.
'Stephen, what hurts most right now? Can you describe it?’
Surprised, he considered. 'My hands, my right hand especially. It is sharp, strong, composed of many individual sensations: bone grating on bone, torn muscle and tendons, ruptured ligaments, all in different planes, so it is impossible to avoid disrupting whatever healing may be occurring, and swelling, pressure, heat. It's difficult to be still. Movement makes it change, but not for the better, often worse. Like being immersed in a bath of sensation, I suppose, pain, awareness of damage, no escape, no point in struggling.'
Jack nodded unhappily. 'What else, what is next?'
Reluctantly, 'My abdomen, my gut. There was extensive bruising, and I had conceived perhaps a ruptured bowel. Griping, darting pain, a tearing sensation: the foolish thing moves of its own accord. It's improving, however, and I believe it will probably heal: I no longer apprehend my immediate death from peritonitis. A dull ache, and the unpleasant intervals becoming less frequent.'
Jack swallowed. 'And next?'
‘My shoulders, I suppose. Nothing like before the dislocations were reduced, but the supportive tissue is torn and bruised, and any careless movement elicits lancinating pain from the joint itself.'
'There,' said Jack with relief, 'I can do something for that.'
Alarmed, Stephen responded, 'No, do not move it, please.'
'No, I won't.' He lifted Stephen with care, again, and settled him on the reconfigured pillows, then gently touched the exposed back of his right shoulder, pausing at the involuntary flinch. 'Here?' he said, 'here? What about this?' until he had defined the sorest touchable places. He kneaded this small patch of the vast canvas of hurt before him, slowly, steadily, probing carefully, feeling the fibres relaxing.
'Oh,' said Stephen, a purr, ‘that feels –‘ a yawn. Jack smiled. He began softly humming again, as he stroked, watching as Stephen gradually drifted into sleep, his face peaceful.
Jack rose from the chair and settled himself on the floor, leaning against the cot. Never moving his hand from his friend's shoulder, he laid his head upon the cot and slept.