Chapter 4

Paul spent the rest of that night studying the books and making notes until, at almost seven in the morning, just when he was starting to drop off himself, he suddenly heard Rich cry out. Hurriedly, he put the book he had been reading face down and rushed to his side.

In a brief moment of consciousness Richard had rolled over, in an attempt to get more comfortable, and immediately regretted it as an intense burning sensation flared up his arm and raced around his body; it felt as though someone had sent thousands of volts through him as he screamed in agony, writhing in his bed.

"Shhh Rich, try to lie still!" urged Paul, placing a hand on Richard's shoulder but hurriedly removing it again as he jerked away from his touch; his every effort to escape the fire coursing through his veins unwittingly only increasing the torment.

"Tim!" he yelled, though he needn't have bothered as Tim came hurrying from his room of his own accord having been woken by Richard's anguished scream.

They stood over their friend horror-struck, at a loss for how to help him as he tossed and turned, his tortured cries making their blood run cold.

"We must have some painkillers!" exclaimed Paul in a panic, frantically looking about him, his brain slightly groggy with fatigue, "Where's that medical kit?!"

"Here!" Tim rummaged through it as fast as he could until he found a vial clearly labelled 'Morphine' and a syringe.

"The scarf!" he called, realising they would need some kind of tourniquet. "Around his neck! Take it off and tie it tight round his arm just above the elbow, then roll up his sleeve and hold the arm steady!" he instructed as he tore the cap off the syringe and jabbed it through the top of the vial, drawing the liquid down as quickly as he could.

Paul followed his directions and winced in sympathy as Tim jabbed the needle into an exposed vein and pushed the plunger.

They watched with growing relief as Richard's struggles slowly abated and he once more settled into a more or less peaceful state of unconsciousness.

Noticing how Richard's face gleamed with tears and sweat, Paul once more picked up the flannel and gently mopped them away.

After a minute or two Tim removed the scarf, wrapping it loosely around Rich's neck and sighed, wiping a hand over his own forehead. Treating the symptoms as they arose was all well and good but it didn't bring them any nearer to finding that all important cure.

"Please tell me you were at least somewhat successful last night, what did you learn from those books?"

Paul looked up at him wretchedly, wishing he could give him the answers they both longed for.

"I'm sorry Tim. There are things we can do to help ease his suffering but I haven't been able to identify any poison consistent with the symptoms we've seen so far."

"Maybe we could create an antidote," suggested Tim, desperately clutching at straws.

Paul shook his head sadly, "Look Tim, I hate to admit it but I think we're going to have to face facts; Richard is going to die and there's nothing we can do to stop it."

"No! I am not accepting that! There must be something we can do!"

Tim's stubborn perseverance in the face of such hopelessness was admirable but Paul knew that it would hit him all the harder when the inevitable happened. This wasn't to say that Paul wouldn't be ecstatic if they somehow did come up with a cure, he was just being more realistic; the odds were completely stacked against them. He looked down at Rich's now impassive face with a sigh and got to his feet.

"Would you sit with him a while? I really could do with some sleep."

"Sure."

Paul paused in the doorway; he didn't mean to be so discouraging he just didn't want to see Tim hurt too. But maybe he was right to hold out hope.

"You're welcome to go through the books and my notes if you like, perhaps I missed something."

When he returned several hours later he found things almost exactly as he'd left them. Tim was still sat by Richard's bedside reading one of the books and he silently acknowledged him as he entered.

Paul retook his place in his chair at Richard's other side just in time to see him settle into a perfect stillness for a few minutes before his body was wracked with violent convulsions. He made no cries and although his breathing was irregular he didn't seem to be in pain so Tim and Paul could but watch in concern as he jerked fitfully in the bed.

Eventually though the seizure subsided, and he once more fell into deep sleep. As his breathing shallowed again Paul placed a hand over Rich's mouth, feeling an impulsive need to check that he was still breathing, it was at that point that Rich gave a feeble groan and licked the palm of Paul's hand.

"Ew, Rich, what did you do that for?!" he exclaimed rubbing his hand on his trousers. He looked up at Tim, "He licked my hand!"

"He did that to me yesterday," Tim remembered looking down at Rich, his brows knitted in thought. Pensively he rubbed his thumb across the palm of his other hand suddenly aware of a clammy feeling he hadn't noticed before. Sweat; that was it! Their hands were sweaty with worry and the increased warmth of the room.

"Salt! That's what he's after; his body's trying to replace lost salt. Well at least that's easy to remedy, wait there." He got up from his chair, stretching slightly to ease the stiffness in his muscles, and hurried away to the kitchen.

Twenty minutes or so later he reappeared bearing a tray on which were balanced three steaming bowls of soup with two bread rolls on the side.

"I thought we could do with something to eat too, don't worry I only lightly seasoned ours," he said as he carefully handed one to Paul who accepted it gratefully, unaware 'til now just how hungry he was. Tim put Richard's lunch on the bedside table to cool and set about his.

With almost impeccable timing Rich stirred and opened his eyes just as Tim was wiping round his bowl with a crust. He set the bowl on the floor beside him and once more helped Rich to sit up. As he did so he noticed that Richard wasn't doing anything to help them himself this time and he remembered something else that Bob had said yesterday. He stopped what he was doing and pulled aside the bedclothes to uncover Richard's legs and feet.

"What are you doing?" asked Paul, but Tim didn't answer, all his attention was focussed on Richard.

"Richard?"

Rich moaned and turned his head groggily in the direction of the voice, "Mmmm?"

"Rich, can you feel it when I do this?" Tim pinched one of Rich's toes hard, but there was no reaction as Richard continued to gaze vacantly up at him.

"Do what?" he asked muzzily. Paul looked up at Tim in alarm.

"Tell me when it starts to hurt," Tim requested of Richard as he rolled up the leg of his trousers and pinched the skin of his lower leg working up from the shin to the calf to the knee but it wasn't 'til he got to his upper thigh that Rich gave any reaction at all. He repeated the procedure on the other leg and got exactly the same results.

Tim and Paul shared anxious glances; even if he didn't die there was a distinct possibility that he would remain paralyzed, maybe even for life.

Tim lightly covered him up again and picked up the bowl, holding a spoonful to Richard's closed lips.

"Come on Rich, open your mouth, you need to eat, gotta keep your strength up."

Richard obediently opened his mouth but Tim could tell that something else was wrong as he nearly missed the spoon held out for him. Tim put the bowl down again and held up a finger in front of Richard's eyes.

"Richard, how many fingers am I holding up?"

Richard tried his utmost to focus but the most he could manage was to see two of his friend, both of whom seemed to want an answer.

"If you could ask me one at a time I might stand a chance," he slurred with a smile and an attempt at a laugh, trying to assuage the worry he could just about see on their faces with a joke. But if anything it did the opposite, only making their frowns deeper, the lines further engraved on their foreheads.

"Close your eyes Richard, it'll make things easier," Tim instructed gently. Rich did as he was told and passively accepted it as Tim spoon-fed him the soup, his expression barely changing at the particularly salty taste, which surprised Tim as he knew just how much he'd put in it.

He only just about managed to finish the bowl before he started to flag again, his head falling back against the headboard with a thump. However, for a while he just lay there blinking up at them owlishly, somewhere in the hinterland between true awareness and unconsciousness.

"Richard?" Tim asked, his voice full of a quiet, impotent helplessness, "What can we do to help you? Are you in pain?"

Richard shook his head and his eyes slowly closed again; Tim wasn't quite sure whether that was an answer or an involuntary movement. He took his bandaged hand in both his own.

"Please tell us Rich, what do you need? How can we make you well again?" Tears escaped from the corners of his eyes and ran freely down his cheeks to fall into the empty bowl on his lap.

Paul got up from his side of the bed and just held him as Tim gave vent to his feelings of grief and utter hopelessness and cried into his shoulder for a very long time.