CARRY ON JACKSON - A Christmas Interlude
"Aaron, I need to get changed. You need to get changed." Jackson burled his wheelchair in front of his boyfriend, looking at him expectantly.
Aaron looked up at Jackson from their bed as he twitched his wheelchair backwards and forwards impatiently. He was sprawled full length on the bed; he had been watching telly...he had been half watching telly, half dozing, anticipating a lazy evening, leaving Jackson to work on the last maths assignment Caitlin Stoddart had set him before Christmas.
"Why?" he asked, rather confused.
"We're going out," announced Jackson, turning his chair away from Aaron, knowing he would follow him.
"Out? Where?" questioned Aaron, swinging his legs over the side of the bed until he was sitting up, still looking at Jackson, waiting for an explanation.
"Church," replied Jackson, keeping his chair turned away from Aaron, so that he couldn't see the slightly embarrassed look on his face as he admitted their destination.
"Church?" echoed Aaron, his voice incredulous. "Why? You never go to church! You don't believe in God."
"I know," admitted Jackson sheepishly.
"So?" he demanded. "Besides," he continued, "you've only just got over that chest infection, you're still on antibiotics for goodness sake! You shouldn't be going out in the cold!"
"I know," repeated Jackson, turning at last to face Aaron. "And who are you anyway?" he demanded, "my mother! It's just a carol service... but it's been such a year...I could have missed the last six months of it..." he paused. "I just feel I need to do...something." He pressed his lips together, looking down at his lap, unable to explain any better how he felt.
Aaron quirked a resigned smile at him. "So what do you want to wear then?"
It didn't take them to long to get ready; these days Aaron was more adept at moving Jackson, less afraid than he had been of hurting him and very quickly he had helped Jackson into the shirt and hoodie he had chosen, topped off by a hat and warm jacket.
"Thanks," said Jackson, as he operated the remote to open the front door.
"What for?" asked Aaron, pulling a puzzled face as he looked down at him.
"Coming with me," said Jackson, carefully guiding his wheelchair down the sloping ramp, it was bitterly cold, the paths freezing despite their generous salting and he didn't want the chair to skid.
"Anytime," smirked Aaron, his tone, the sparkle in his eyes, enjoying the innuendo.
They made their way slowly across the road and down the lane opposite Dale Head; many of the houses had lights in their windows, coloured fairy lights outlining the frame, a curtain of white lights filling the space, Santa or snowmen cheerfully looking out into the night, spreading their magic.
Other people were making their way in the same direction; Betty and Pearl, clinging to each other for balance.
"Mince pies and Christmas Spirit at the pub afterwards," called Pearl coquettishly as they caught up with Aaron and Jackson.
"Wouldn't miss it!" chirped back Jackson, catching Aaron's eyes with his own, dark pools of innocent mischief, as he spoke.
"It's lovely to see you here," Edna stood just inside the door of the church, just out of reach of the bitterest of the cold night air. She handed Aaron a sheet with carols printed on them. "If you go down to the front, Jackson can park easily and you will get a good view of Belle, Sampson, Sarah and the other children."
They made their way as indicated, Edna was right, there was plenty of room for Jackson to park in the corner at right angles to the pews; from here he could see the altar, the pulpit, the setting for the nativity play and he could look back into the body of the church. He saw the look of surprise on his mother's face as she came in a few minutes later with Bob and caught sight of them; she waved furiously then, only prevented from rushing down the aisle towards them by Bob. Jackson was very grateful to Bob sometimes. Many times.
The church was filling up, the bubble of voices flowed between the pews; turning, Aaron saw most of his family, Zac and Lisa, Cain and Sam, it looked like they were bickering until his mum hushed her brother and cousin.
There was a warm, cosy feel to the building, the windows dark from the night outside, bright inside from the decorations that graced each sill, each lit by a glowing candle.
Debbie slid into the seat next to Aaron. "Didn't expect to see you here," she whispered.
"His idea," replied Aaron, nodding towards Jackson, smiling as Debbie raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Yeah, shocked me too," he grinned.
Suddenly music filled the building, conversation giving way to song as the first carol of the evening began. Standing at the front of the church, next to the crib waiting for the Baby Jesus in the nativity play, Ashley looked around at the sea of faces before him, seeing some regular church goers, some rarer visitors. His Christmas vestments glowing, he greeted his congregation as the notes of the first carol faded away and looking around at them all, he smiled.
The nativity was fun, the singing was jolly, it was only during the prayers that Jackson felt his attention wandering. Earlier in the evening it had seemed important that he came to the service, he had seen the leaflet lying on the kitchen worktop and suddenly it had been imperative that he be there, give thanks to...to what? To some god that he didn't believe in? To some celestial superhero that was as much of a fairytale as Father Christmas. He raised his head and glanced at all the heads around him, still lowered in prayer. His eyes strayed to the decorations, to the evergreen holly and ivy draped in elegant garlands, to the Christmas tree in the corner beyond Ashley, to the Santa on the windowsill nearest him.
To the Santa on the windowsill nearest him... that winked at him.
He blinked and looked again.
Santa smiled.
He seemed bigger now, Jackson thought and coming closer. "Aaron! Aaron!" he whispered urgently, wishing he could nudge him, get his attention.
"He can't hear you," said Santa smugly. Standing in front of Jackson now, their eyes were level.
"What d'you mean," asked Jackson urgently. "Aaron! Aaron!" he whispered again, although a little more loudly this time
"Like I said, he can't hear you," said Santa, "none of them can. It's just you and me." He paused and looked intently at Jackson. "You've had a bit of a year of it, haven't you?"
"Who are you?" asked Jackson. "How do you know anything about me?"
"More than a year really," Santa continued, "since the accident. You've wondered how to go on, haven't you? More than once...you've come close to it haven't you...not being here. And they would have helped you, you know...your mum and Aaron...if you had pushed them just a little harder that night. Begged them just a little more. Are you glad you didn't?"
"Yes, of course," replied Jackson quickly. "Well most of the time," he added more slowly. "It's difficult though." His voice was quiet now, reflective; his thoughts turning back in on themselves.
"Is it?" questioned Santa. "Difficult for you or for them?"
"Me...them...all of us? Oh I don't know!" exclaimed Jackson. "Who are you anyway? You never said."
"Didn't I?" said Santa, annoyingly enigmatic. "I have had many names over many years. You know me as Father Christmas or Santa Claus, to your ancestors I am Saint Nicholas, earlier still I was King Winter, called upon at the dark of the year in the hope of springs to come."
Jackson shook his head; he must be dreaming. "Aaron!" he whispered again.
"Come on," said Santa briskly, "It's time for us to go."
"Go?"echoed Jackson. "Go where? I'm not going anywhere with you! Aaron!"
Even as he was speaking the scene around him changed; suddenly he realised he was no longer in the church, that Aaron was no longer beside him. Instead he was in Dale Head, at least he could see Hazel kneeling on the floor by his bed...his empty bed...where was he? Out with Aaron somewhere? No! His chair was there.
He turned towards Santa, no, it wasn't Santa, it was a taller, thinner, more serious figure, it was Saint Nicholas beside him now.
"What's happening?" he asked.
"You want to hear? Listen then," said Saint Nicholas.
It was quiet in the room; at first he could hear nothing...nothing but his mother sobbing. Suddenly a loud, authoritative knocking came on the front door and he saw Hazel heave herself up to answer it.
A woman he recognised strode into the room.
"Mary Coggins, Occupational Therapist. Here to see Jackson Walsh."
For a moment there was silence.
"Jackson died last night," Hazel said at last
"Oh!" exclaimed Mary. "I'm so sorry. What happened?"
Again there was a pause, a silence. Jackson could see Hazel gathering her strength, steeling herself to say the words.
"He asked us to help him...Aaron and I. He said he couldn't go on any more. So we did. We helped him kill himself." She sounded firm, defiant. She sounded as though she was trying to convince herself that they had done the right thing. She sounded as though she was about to burst into uncontrollable tears. "Aaron is at the police station now," she added.
"They charge him with murder," whispered Santa in his ear.
"No!" Jackson whipped his head around, looking at the figure beside him. "I would have sorted it, made sure the police knew it was what I wanted."
"Oh you did," reassured Santa, "but that didn't stop them. Now keep watching."
Jackson turned his attention back to the room in front of him. He could see Mary, could see the shock spread across her face as she shook her head in disbelief.
"I could have helped him," she whispered. "I came as soon as I got the referral...if only he could have hung on for another day."
"He tried," whispered Hazel. "He tried for nine months...it was too much for him. He felt he had nothing else to live for."
"He still had so much," Mary said sadly, "I could have made him see that."
Almost imperceptibly, the scene changed again. In his mind, Jackson jumped to find himself looking at the mangled remains of a crashed car, the very air about them still seemed to be shivering and reverberating in the aftermath of the collision. In eerie silence, one wheel of the mangled car was still turning as though it didn't know it had stopped; been on its final journey.
"What's happened?" Jackson asked, unable to pull his eyes away from the horror in front of him. Where were the blue lights and sirens? Where were the police cars and ambulances?
"It was Mary Coggins. She left Hazel's house, she was upset, she wasn't concentrating," replied Santa, matter of factly. "She died at the scene, before any help arrived."
"No!" Jackson looked towards Santa now. "Not Mary! Why are you showing me these things?" he asked, tears stinging his eyes.
"It's an insurance policy," replied Santa, "for the next time...the next wobble. To remind you that your life is valuable, has purpose and affects everyone around you."
The scene changed again; they were in a street, a nameless street, a young woman was pushing a buggy laden with bags along the road.
"That's Andrea Bidwell," said Santa, "mother of two. This will be her last walking Christmas; in two weeks time a car will skid on the ice on this very road and will trap her by the legs against that wall there." He nodded, directing Jackson's attention towards the path her feet were taking.
"Her life will never be the same," Santa continued. "Mary could have helped her...Mary would have helped her if she hadn't died. But now..."
"Stop it!" said Jackson. "Stop it now, take me back."
Even as he was speaking, the road was filling up, people were appearing from everywhere, nowhere, suddenly they were just there, walking slowly along the length of the street. Yet there was something else strange about them, thought Jackson, watching them for a moment.
"There are hundreds of them but it's as though they can't see each other," he breathed.
"They can't," replied Santa, smug again. "They are consequences. They are all the people whose lives will be changed if you die at the wrong time."
"The wrong time?" questioned Jackson. "Is there a right time to die?"
"Of course," said Santa, now in the more stately form of Saint Nicholas again. "There is always a right time and a wrong time."
"I should have died in the crash," said Jackson quietly, still watching the parade of people in front of him.
"Perhaps you should," agreed Saint Nicholas. "It might have been the right time, but you didn't die then. Taking your own life..." he paused, nodded in acknowledgement of the wheelchair, "...asking others to help you take your life; that would have the wrong consequences." He glanced down into the street below them.
"I know that, but..." began Jackson.
"But you didn't think about them," Saint Nicholas interrupted him quietly. "Now you have seen the consequences...now you know."
"This can't be real,"murmured Jackson.
"Well that entirely depends on how you define real," chuckled Jackson's companion, Santa again now. "Am I real? Are you real? Are you alive or dead?" He paused, his coal-black eyes twinkling at Jackson above his white beard. "Come on, there's more to see."
The scene changed again, suddenly they were in a room; it was dark, almost too dark to see anything, but as his eyes got used to the gloom, Jackson realised the heavy curtains were pulled, keeping out any daylight. Eventually he recognised the room, it was Dale Head but not as he had left it earlier that evening. His bed was gone, his chair, the hoist, instead there was a single armchair facing away from him and a small table with a dining chair tucked underneath it.
At first he didn't notice that anyone was sitting in the chair but gradually his view changed and he realised the chair was occupied although he didn't recognise the figure, its head bowed, sitting silently.
Jackson felt like he had been staring for hours, but at last the figure in the chair moved. It was a woman, stooped and old, her hair rat's tails at her collar. She turned, and Jackson could see her face, wearied with the weight of the thoughts carried in her mind. She looked at him then, looked at him and through him, not seeing. It was only her eyes that he recognised.
"It has been a hard six months," this time Saint Nicholas stood quietly beside him. "She puts on a brave face for the world, but in here..." he paused, "...she's only got her memories. And time stretching ahead of her."
Jackson said nothing; he couldn't believe the shell of a woman his mother had become. In the silence he gradually became aware of a sound outside, of quiet singing, carol singing.
"It's Christmas," said Saint Nicholas. "You can hear the carol singers down at the church."
"Take me back," whispered Jackson. "Please."
"No!" said Santa briskly. "We've one more call to make."
Dale Head faded; suddenly they were in a bedroom, an unfamiliar bedroom.
"Where are we?" asked Jackson.
"Upstairs in the Woolie, Aaron lives here now."
"Eh?" Jackson made a disbelieving noise. "How did that happen? He lives at Smithy Cottage, with Paddy."
"Well, with everything that happened and the baby...Rhona wasn't keen," replied Santa, as though that explained everything. "Just watch, he'll be here in a minute."
Jackson looked around the room as he waited; it was bland, bare and impersonal. No mess of discarded clothes, no piles of cds and dvds on every available surface, waiting to be listened to or watched. No oil-stained overalls decorating the floor, lending their distinctive smell to their room.
The door opened, Aaron came into the room. He shut it behind him then stood for a moment, his eyes closed, as though he was trying to steady himself, calm himself. After standing for what, to Jackson, seemed an eternity, Aaron began undoing his jeans. He stepped out of them, then pulled off his tee shirt and turned towards Jackson, the light from the window suddenly falling directly upon his body.
Jackson gasped! "Oh Aaron!" he cried. Already he could feel sharp tears at his eyes; he made no move to stop them falling as he gazed upon his lover's body, criss-crossed now with scars, some older, healing, some fresh, raw and angry looking.
"Oh Aaron! How could you?"
"He was hurting," said Saint Nicholas. "Guilty that he couldn't make you want to live, guilty that the court didn't punish him as he felt he deserved."
"But why?" asked Jackson. "He knew, knew! it was what I wanted!"
"But it wasn't what he wanted. He loved you, however inadequately he expressed it. He's hurting and cutting helps. His family don't understand either; when Paddy and Chas found out, they sent him to counselling. They think he's stopped now."
"But he hasn't?" he asked it as a question, but he knew it wasn't; it was a statement.
"No," agreed Saint Nicholas. "He hasn't stopped. He won't stop."
"But he must!" Jackson almost sobbed as he spoke. "Aaron...Aaron!" he called.
"He can't hear you," said St Nicholas.
"But if he won't stop..." Jackson paused, "...what happens?"
"Are you sure you want to know?" St Nicholas looked at him, concern in his fathomless eyes.
"I'm sure," whispered Jackson, a chill feeling a dread washing over him.
"In a few months Paddy and Chas realise that he is still cutting himself, they try to find help for him, but it's too late."
"No," breathed Jackson.
"It was too late for Aaron from the day you died. From the day he did as you wished and killed you."
"Why have you shown me all this...this misery," asked Jackson.
"To show you what might have been; you still have a long road in front of you, it won't always be easy and sometimes you might not want to fight so hard. But remember this night and appreciate the wonderful life you have."
"Can you show me," asked Jackson hopefully.
"Cheeky boy!" chuckled Santa, "there must be some surprises!" He looked at Jackson, one hand tugging at his beard thoughtfully. "One thing I can tell you," he continued, "your life is full of the warm and fiery reds and oranges of love and laughter and passion and excitement."
"With Aaron?" The question tumbled from his lips before he even had time to think about it.
"What do you think?" smiled Santa indulgently.
Jackson looked around him, the sad bedroom had gone, he was back in the church surrounded by people singing, the warmth of the Christmas colours making the building shimmer and glow. In front of him the children who had performed the nativity play were fidgeting, tweaking and poking each other, fed up now their part was over and anxious to be free.
Jackson looked up at Aaron, standing beside him, singing. Feeling his eyes upon him, Aaron looked down and smiled, slipping one hand onto Jackson's shoulder, he gently touched the skin at his neck.
"Okay?" mouthed Aaron, interrupting his singing for a moment.
Jackson pushed his head harder against Aaron caressing fingers in confirmation as he joined in the words of the carol. He looked at the small figure of Santa on the nearest window sill; it had winked at him, hadn't it.
...
"Mulled wine?" sang out Diane to everyone as they entered the pub.
"I'd rather have a non-mulled bottle of beer," said Jackson as he trundled his chair past her.
"Oh no you don't, sunshine!" exclaimed Hazel, following him in. "You are still on antibiotics and I saw Aaron sneak you a bottle earlier this evening. It can do funny things to you, mixing those pills and a drink!"
"Coke it is then," agreed Jackson, resigned but not, for once, inclined to argue.
It was some time later that Aaron and Jackson made their way back to Dale Head, leaving Hazel to organise an impromptu karaoke session at the pub.
"You ok?" asked Aaron, "you've been kinda quiet tonight."
"Yeah, I'm fine," Jackson hastened to reassure him. "I was just thinking."
"Thinking?" questioned Aaron, stopping in his track and looking at Jackson.
"Nothing! It's fine!" Jackson said quickly. "Let's just get home to bed."
"Are you tired or is that an invitation," chucked Aaron, standing aside as they reached Dale Head, letting Jackson go up the ramp in front of him.
Quickly Aaron helped Jackson into bed, getting the functional necessities that he knew Jackson hated over with as quickly as possible
Once Jackson was safe and comfortable, Aaron dimmed the lights. In the bathroom he quickly did his teeth before returning to their room. He undid his jeans, stepped out of them and threw them onto a chair piled high with discarded clothing. His hoodie followed, then his tee shirt.
"Aaron!"
He had thought Jackson had fallen asleep in the time he was in the bathroom but now he saw he was looking at him, staring at him.
"What is it? Do you need anything?"
"No," Jackson smiled, answering quietly. "Just you."
"You've got me," Aaron moved closer, his naked body catching the light.
His naked body that was unblemished by scars.
Jackson smiled at him, letting his eyes flick over his lover's body. "I could do with a hug," he said.
"Just a hug?" asked Aaron, putting the safety side down on his side of the bed and climbing in beside Jackson.
Jackson turned his head as Aaron leaned in to kiss him, their lips meeting hungrily.
"No," whispered Jackson. "Not just a hug." As Aaron moved closer, Jackson began to speak again. "A thank you," he said.
But Aaron never heard him, the words caught up in his deepening kiss.