Page 24 of Dax: Gratefully Bonded

I was unprepared for the sight that greeted me. My master was crouched in front of the bathroom cupboard, a dazed expression on his face, while he held a…

Oh shit. It was a bottle of vodka. Afullbottle of vodka.

My first thought was to wonder what the hell it was doing in the bathroom. Last night, before I’d gone to sleep, I’d read some of the notes on alcoholism that Aiden had sent me, and apparently, it wasn’t uncommon for alcoholics to store drinks in odd places – either because they needed secretive places to hide them, or because, in a drunken state, they weren’t quite aware of where they were putting them. And apparently, my master had completely forgotten that he’d put a bottle of vodka in the bathroom. I made a mental note to check every other cupboard in the house – ideally when my master wasn’t around – and make sure there were no more hidden surprises.

But that wasn’t going to solve this current crisis. “Sir,” I asked cautiously, when he didn’t acknowledge my arrival. His gaze didn’t move from the bottle. “Sir,” I said more firmly, trying to get his attention. He had never been violent with me, never in all the drunken ramblings, the yelling, the nightmares andbouts of unconsciousness. So the fear I felt as I watched him sit there, holding the bottle, was nothing at all to do with my own safety, and everything to do with his. If he didn’t manage to kick this addiction, he was going to end up killing himself – either accidentally, or deliberately.

“Sir,” I repeated, when he still didn’t move. “You need to put a dressing on your papercut.” Realistically, the cut was small enough that it didn’t matter one way or the other. But I needed to get his attention onto something else.Anythingelse.

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then he extended his arm, holding out the bottle. “Can you get rid of that for me?” he asked, his voice sounding tight.

“Yes, sir.” I moved forward swiftly, grasping the neck of the bottle… and then I had to wait, his fingers still wrapped firmly around the body of the bottle. “Sir,” I prompted him again, my voice more stern, this time. I was a little shocked to hear that tone come out of my mouth, my voice deepening, my hand tugging ever so slightly on the bottle.

He released it. I hurried from the room, taking the bottle to the kitchen and emptying it down the sink. I ran the water to rinse away the residue, making sure there was no lingering smell. Then, for good measure, I took the empty bottle outside and put it in the reusable waste bin. Rendol 4 had strict environmental laws, and all packaging was required to be either reusable or biodegradable. This particular bottle would be sent back to the manufacturer where it would be washed, refilled and sold again – maybe a dozen times or more, until it was eventually recycled and used to make a new glass bottle.

Back inside the house, my master emerged from the bathroom with a small bandage on his finger and a scowl on his face. Making a quick decision to entirely ignore what had just happened, I returned to the task of sorting the puzzle pieces.“It’s a nice picture,” I said, glancing at the box. “I’ve never seen an ocean before. Not in person. Only ever on videos.”

My master hesitated, and I wondered whether I’d chosen the correct tactic. Would it be better to distract him from the close call with the bottle, or to invite him to talk about how he felt about it? I’d taken a guess that this early on in the process of dealing with his addiction, distraction was the more productive option. Perhaps later, when he’d had more time to process things, he might want to talk more.

As I watched, his shoulders slowly relaxed. “I’ll have to take you someday,” he said, sitting down at the table again and helping me turn all the puzzle pieces up the right way. “It’s only about half an hour by train. Maybe in the summer.”

I nodded, not sure whether I should be taking the offer seriously or not. He might have been just saying words, the same way I was, to fill in the silence. Or he might have actually meant it, perhaps at a point in the future when he wasn’t feeling so on edge.

We’d got all the pieces sorted and about a quarter of the border put together when the doorbell rang. I started to get up, but just as I was moving, my master sprang out of his chair. “I’ll get it,” he said. I felt a wave of shame as he rushed to the door. So it seemed he had noticed my moments of minor disobedience throughout the day, the times I’d overstepped my authority, and now he was making his displeasure known. Representing his household to strangers – even if they were only delivery staff – was an important responsibility, and he couldn’t have given me a clearer indication that my behaviour was inappropriate.

The only problem was, I didn’t know which incident in particular he was unhappy about. Had it been the way I’d taken over finalising the purchases in the shops? The fact that I’d suggested what he should order, in front of the server in the café? The Wasop teenager who’d run into him? The druggedman on the train? How was I supposed to know, and to change my behaviour as a result?

I heard the front door close and the rustle of woven bags as my master set the items on the floor in the entry hall. But I couldn’t bring myself to move, to suggest that I unpack the delivery for him. I sat slumped in my seat, staring at my hands, wondering how I was ever going to understand this confusing culture and find a balance between guiding my master and obeying him.

I heard my master stop part way across the room. “Dax? Are you okay? What are you…? Oh, fuck,” he cut himself off, a harsh sigh blowing out between his lips. “I should have let you answer the door.”

“I’m sorry,” I apologised, not sure why he was sounding so defeated about it. It was his house. I was his dimari. He could choose to run things whichever way he chose.

“Come on, it’s okay,” he said, taking a few steps closer to me. “We’ll take these into your bedroom and I’ll help you to…” He stopped, the words cut off abruptly. There was a heavy silence, as I waited for him to decide what I should do next. Then, to my surprise, he sat back down in his chair, moving slowly and carefully. He took a deep breath. “Take the clothes into your bedroom and sort them out. If anything needs washing, put it in the washing machine, and put the rest away. Then, when you come back, bring one of the painkillers from the bathroom. My leg’s hurting.”

I leapt up, relieved that the rest of my duties hadn’t been taken away as well. “Yes, sir,” I said, turning to collect the bags. But then my master’s voice pulled me up. “And also set a reminder for me to call Aiden tomorrow,” he said, his voice tight. “I have a few questions for him.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, delighted to hear that particular piece of news. I had a number of questions for Aiden as well.

◊◊◊

That night, my master had a nightmare.

It wasn’t the first time. There had been plenty of nights in the past when I’d woken to the sound of his moans, the muted rasping of his sheets as he tossed and turned. But until now, I’d never dared to do anything about it. When we’d first come home, my master had told me that this was my bedroom, that I was to sleep in here. And so I had.

But now I knew that my job was to look after him. So maybe…

Maybe I could do something similar to what I’d been doing all day; take action, and then ask for permission afterwards. Cook dinner, and then tell him there was food to eat. Put on music, and then ask if he liked the genre.

Wake him up, and then ask if he needed assistance.

Heart hammering in my throat, I switched on my bedside lamp, got out of bed and padded across the hallway to his door. It was open, as it usually was, and once I’d realised he suffered from regular nightmares, I’d started leaving mine open as well. In case he needed me in the middle of the night.

I was aware that it had been a rather superfluous precaution, given that he never called for me, and I never had the courage to go to him, but the habit had persisted. And tonight, I was glad it had.

I paused in his doorway, assessing the situation. He was curled up in a tight lump under his blankets, faint whimpering sounds drifting across the room. I wanted to wake him, but I’d been firmly taught that waking one’s master was bad behaviour.

But then again, so was lying to him about wanting to leave the shopping centre and forcibly stopping him from hitting another shopper.