Chapter Five: Disease

Spoiler Alert!

Please note that this is the most recent chapter in the novel, The Marsh.


Marie was dying. The illness that would eventually kill her had no name, for the doctors had never seen a case like hers’ before. Specialists from every department of the medical sciences had failed to diagnose a known disease; they did tell her there was one surety: it was fatal.

At fifty she was the unfortunate victim of a degenerative muscle disease that had never been seen before. It had no cure and no clear way of slowing down its progress. Her numerous doctors had tried a myriad of treatments, and had, at last, settled on combating it as a form of cancer; trying to kill it with chemotherapy. But, rather than improving anything, this only increased her discomfort and shattered her already fragile body.

In spite of all of this, she bared it well, considering she could speak to no sympathetic ear about the pain that assaulted her every day. She still worked and kept a hold on the house that she had lived in for twelve years. She did it all for her ten 'children'. All of them were orphans, each with their own terrible story to tell, but their pain had been taken away by Marie's immense generosity. There had been many before the kids that she cared for now, and they had all gone on to live successful and happy lives. The 'family' consisted of nearly thirty individuals and they all loved her like a mother.

Marie sat looking out at the river Brent that meandered its way along the flank of South Hethel, before trekking through the Marsh ahead of her. Her doctors told her not to drink, but she took a sip from her brandy. This is real medicine, she thought. They can go shove their chemo up their arses. Her feet ached, both from the disease and the strains of the day. She rubbed them vigorously.

The water was still, mirroring the brilliant blue sky overhead. A lone duck drifted across the water like a paper boat, just idling along to wherever the currents would take it.

They really have no idea, do they?, she asked herself at the thought of the next course of chemotherapy she would be given the following day. She turned her face to the sky and tried to peer at the darkness that lay behind that blue shroud. 'Am I really that annoying?' she asked aloud.

Her right leg began to twitch involuntarily; she chose not to take it as an answer. Rubbing her thigh, she attempted to calm the muscles before it could become a full blown attack. The disease affected every muscle in her body, eating them up at an alarming rate. The struggle to climb stairs, the incontinence, the ragged heartbeat and the lolling of her tongue, she could handle, but it was the attacks that troubled her.

When the convulsions came she was reduced to a paraplegic, powerless to control a single part of body as it bucked wildly. They happened every day now and during those moments she prayed to God that He would make them stop. Whatever he thought she had done, she must have paid the price by now... surely.

A gust of wind chilled her smooth scalp, and the twitching subsided. With that note, she planted a beanie on her head and left the porch.

Inside, the kids had strewn toys and scraps of paper all over the house. With the destruction complete, they sat watching Blue Peter in the living room.

Marie glanced at the television, automatically beginning to clear the table of debris. For the millionth time, the presenter was making Tracy Island out of washing up bottles and other objects that she would have to stock up on, no doubt. She gasped as she looked at the drawing in her hands. A lump formed in her throat and her body froze.

The page was caked in black crayon which had been smudged and swirled to form a hood. Beneath its brim two white eyes burned outward, like flames caught in a wind. She would not have been so horrified if she hadn’t seen the very same thing in a nightmare a week ago.

'Who drew this?' she enquired in the interrogative tone that only a mother could muster. As though she had cracked a whip, all of the kids turned around to look at her, before looking at one another to see who the guilty party was. Little Kyle stuck out like a pig in a suit, staring at his feet.

Marie's eyes locked onto him with the accuracy of a heat-seeking missile. 'Kyle, come here.'

He stomped towards her, his eyes never leaving the floor. The rest of the kids were silent.

'Did you draw this?' she asked.

He mumbled something and began to squirm as if he were a fish caught in a net.

'What?' That single word came down like a thunderclap. Kyle should have been sprawled out on the floor, but he miraculously managed to keep his footing. The rest of the kids sniggered slightly, but they quickly turned back to the TV when Marie's fiery gaze scanned them.

'Come on, Chicken,' she said, leading the little boy out onto the porch. If evolution had not robbed him of his tail, it would have been firmly locked between his legs.

She sat on a bench and tapped her knee for Kyle to sit on. He did so, wiping his eyes. 'So, did you draw that picture?' she asked, hugging him.

'Yes,' his voice quivered, 'but I didn't mean to.' He began to sob.

'Hey boney-bum, there's no need for that. I'm sorry I shouted at you. I was just worried. All I want you to do is tell me why you drew this picture?'

'Well, I don't know, Mummy, I just drew it that’s all. I didn't mean to draw anything bad. It just came out of my head.'

Marie studied the little boy before asking: 'Did you dream about this, Chicken?'

'No. I just drew him.'

She smiled. 'OK, little one. Hey,' she said, giving him a little jiggle with her leg, 'are we still friends?'

'Yeah,' he returned, burying his head in her chest.

She kissed his forehead and let him scoot back into the house. Marie looked at the face on the page again. The eyes pierced into her heart like the chemo, intoxicating her body till it could take no more.

She crumpled the paper up and threw it into a waste bin beside the chair.

Over the marshland, a single seagull cried and dove, racing away on the wind.