by Peter Benson
‘You okay?’
Lisa nodded, then folded in her chair. ‘No,’ she whispered.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘If this is being pregnant…’ she took another deep breath, ‘I don’t want it.’
‘Hey,’ said Frank, and he moved to the edge of his chair and took her hand. It was too hot. ‘You’re boiling.’
‘I know.’
‘Have you got a temperature?’
She nodded again.
‘Is it cramps?’
‘Been reading your book again, Frank?’
‘Don’t mock.’
‘I wasn’t. I was…’
‘Just don’t.’ She looked at him, then at the floor, then back at him. She put her hand on her belly again, and doubled up. ‘Don’t…’
‘Have you seen a doctor?’
‘No…’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Her. Dr Stewart.’
‘I’m going to call her.’
‘No you’re not.’ She winced again, and tears flicked into the corners of her eyes.
Frank stood up and went to the phone.
‘Frank!’
‘What’s her number?’
‘Please…’
‘Lisa?’
Her womb was beginning to burn, and her tubes were filling with smoke. When she swallowed, razor-blades gathered in her throat and skimmed her skin. They danced and nicked, and all she wanted was a glass of water. She said, ‘I want a glass of water.’
Frank was thumbing the telephone directory; he found Dr Stewart’s number and began to phone. ‘What?’ he said.
‘Water.’
‘In a minute.’
‘No!’ Lisa cried, and she tried to stand. She pushed herself out of the easy chair but her legs would not hold her. They felt her weight and gave up. She fell towards Frank, grabbed at his waist and slipped. He dropped the phone, caught her shoulders and lifted her back towards the chair. ‘Water,’ she said again, and he reached for the Volvic. He unscrewed the cap and she grabbed the bottle. She drank hungrily, spilling as much as she swallowed. Frank went back to the phone, and this time she did not try to stop him. The fire was stifled, her tubes rested and when she closed her eyes she did not feel her body run with agony. Frank’s soft voice was somewhere close, but she could not tell what he was saying. Her baby smiled to itself, its fluid simmered and all its embryonic desires quietened for the night.
Ten miles away, on the other side of town, Cheryl lay on her bed and stared at a blank wall. Her face was dying, she was crying, and every minute passed like an hour. She had never said goodbye to him, she had not had the chance to tell him that she was ready to marry him, she had not told him that yes, she would love him to cover her breasts with fromage frais, she would love to go to Australia with him, she wanted to do a bungey jump, she didn’t mind seeing that film last week, she would remember not to floss in public. She wanted to be a vet’s wife, she wanted to live with a small number of stray animals, she wanted to get used to cat hair, she wanted to go for long walks with old spaniels, she wanted to leave the world of teeth behind. Except his teeth, his teeth were beautiful, his teeth were perfect, his teeth were his. She pulled another tissue from the box and held it to her eyes. All the sadness in the world was crowding around her face, muttering words she couldn’t catch. There was pain in the air, and it was playing like a child on a swing. She would never have his babies, she would never feel his fingers toying with her hair again, or taste his breath on hers. Death is final, death is the present grief gives itself. Cheryl turned over and faced the opposite wall, she closed her eyes and tried to fade away.
Ten miles away, in a different part of town, Sergeant Davis stood in his frozen garden. He had dug a hole beneath a cracked apple tree, and now, as he cradled Chips in a damp blanket, he tried to cry. He forced blame, did some origami with guilt and raged against himself. The dog’s blood seeped through the blanket and covered his hands; he felt cold and he felt hot, and as he bent to lay Chips in the ground, his knees cracked.
He wondered how he had come so far and reached so little. His days were filled with rot, the fag-ends of humanity, the cries of blameless victims and the desperation of people who could not help themselves. People like the person who had killed Chips, people like the person who had cut the young Mrs Austin’s throat, people like Austin, who had had the right idea. He had drowned himself and not looked back. As he stared at Chips, Davis wondered what was most difficult; the dying or the not looking back. Was it possible that as you died you could look forward? Is this what faith was about, or was faith an individual’s construct, no faith the same as the next? His parents had claimed that they were Christians; as Christian as anyone else who thought they were. They had not been imaginative people; when he had misbehaved, their beliefs had encouraged them to beat him, and convinced them that they should send him to a school that beat him. He grew up thinking that punishment was Christianity’s laugh, that pain was Christ’s gift to the world, that God enjoyed the sound of wailing and the sight of blood. Whatever; without bothering to invent an excuse, Sergeant Davis said a prayer over his dog’s grave, then filled it and went indoors.
Dr Stewart saw Lisa in Frank’s flat at half-past ten, and immediately phoned for an ambulance. At this time, the patient was lying on the floor clutching a hot-water bottle to her stomach, wrapped in blankets. She was shivering, and every breath she took scorched her throat. Frank was pale and fussing, close to panic before the doctor arrived, who recognised the symptoms. ‘What is it?’ he said.
Dr Stewart, a short, brusque woman with short, grey hair, gave him a quizzical look and said, ‘Are you the father?’
‘Of course I’m not the bloody father!’ he said. ‘I’m just her friend. She lives downstairs.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…’
‘What’s the matter with her?’ Frank hardly recognised his own voice; it tumbled and fell out of his mouth in alarm, dropped to the floor and slithered around.
‘I can’t be certain.’
‘Yes, you can. It’s in your eyes.’
Dr Stewart turned and looked at Lisa, who opened her eyes and said, ‘Yeah, I’m still here.’
‘Later,’ said the doctor. ‘Maybe you should go downstairs and wait for the ambulance.’
Frank nodded, went to Lisa, bent down and opened his mouth to speak, but Lisa put her fingers to his lips and said, ‘No. Just do as she says.’
‘I want to help you.’
‘You’ve done enough.’
‘Lisa…’ Frank knew what he wanted to tell her, but fear held him back. All he could do was cradle her cheek in the palm of his hand, feel the pulse of blood through her body and wish a cure into the world. But the more he wished the more he felt that the world was killing, and that there was nothing he could do about it. And this was the only truth; there was nothing Frank could do, and nothing Lisa could hope for as the ambulance wailed to a stop in the street outside Mrs Platt’s house.
13
Frank watched the dawn rise, its face showing over the houses opposite, through the trees on the distant downs, and in the cries of the gulls that gathered to scavenge the frozen bins. He watched it from his bed; when the alarm went, he slapped it off, got up, and stood in front of the window. Something about the day, something about the way it smelt filled him with a positive charge. It was in the heady gift it could give, and in the passion of the frozen birds that lined up on the telegraph wires and sung. Daylight and snow, business and play; Frank felt that he had to take charge. Things had to be put right. He had to take control. There were things he had to do, people to see and people to call. He washed in cold water, dressed quickly, drank a glass of orange juice and went downstairs.
Mrs Platt grabbed him before he could get outside, and said, ‘Frank?’ Frank, fired by resolve and purpose, was almost through the street door, but the old woman insisted. She did not let go until he stopped; then she said, ‘Do you believe in reincarnat
ion?’
‘Mrs Platt…’
‘Do you?’
Frank thought fast. ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Do you mean that?’ she said.
Frank considered his positive charge, and decided that honesty was the foundation of this charge. He took Mrs Platt’s hand and shook his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘No. I don’t mean it and I don’t believe in reincarnation.’
‘You should,’ she said. ‘A good man like you; you’re the type who comes back better every time. With any luck, you might even come back as a bird.’
‘I don’t want to come back as a bird.’
‘You wouldn’t say that if you were a bird.’
Frank looked at Mrs Platt and decided to leave her where she was. She was deliberately undermining his resolve, as if his determination was something that could be so easily brushed aside. He laughed and said, ‘No, I suppose I wouldn’t,’ and he pushed the street door open, and stepped outside. Mrs Platt watched him go, then returned to her rooms, her candles, the corpse of her dead bird and the smell of rot.
Lisa lay in her hospital bed, plugged into three machines. Tubes had been stuffed up her, and every kind of measurement had been taken. The diagnosis was a secret, the prognosis was unknown; the patient was uncomfortable but stable, and Frank was allowed to see her for five minutes, but then he would be asked to leave. The nurses ran a tight ship, and all who sailed in it wore disposable plastic aprons that rustled in the night.
Frank sat beside Lisa and held her hand. She had the glassy look that very sick people develop, the one that sheens their skin and gives their lips a purple tint. Her eyes were flecked with black spots, and her ears looked bigger than they really were. He said, ‘Don’t worry about that game of squash.’
‘What game of squash?’
He shook his head.
‘Did you bring me in?’
‘No.’
‘Who did?’
‘An ambulance.’
‘Have they said anything?’
‘The doctors?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Not to me,’ said Frank. ‘What about you?’
Lisa shook her head. ‘They smile like doctors do, and I’ve seen them talking to the nurses about me, but that’s all. I suppose the only thing you can do is trust them.’
Frank agreed. He looked up at the three machines, and eyed their screens as they listened, watched and felt. One kept up a steady beep, the next held a steady gaze, the third held Lisa with a plastic pipe, and it would not let her go. ‘Do you feel…’ he had to rummage through his head, but it didn’t help, ‘any better?’ The worlds sounded foolish, stripped bare by the antiseptic of the place.
‘Than what?’
Frank shrugged. He wanted to lean forward and brush her curls off her cheek, but he was scared of the machines. As they worked, they flowed with the power of healing; he did not dare disturb their work or the careful display they made with tubes, screens, beeps, wires and electricity. He got as far as stroking the underside of her left forearm, but then he stood up, brushed imagined dirt from the front of his coat and said, ‘Well…’
‘Well, what?’
‘I’ve got to see a man about a dog.’
‘Okay.’
‘I’ll come again. Tonight?’
‘I’d like that.’
‘Would you?’
Lisa lifted her hand and wagged a finger at him. ‘Don’t be silly, Frank. You know I would.’
He almost kissed her then, but he turned instead and walked off the ward without looking back.
Bob woke late. It was ten o’clock. He sat upright, stared out of the window and then lay down again. He stretched and turned the radio on. A woman was talking about the Second World War, and how difficult life had been. The not knowing, the fear, the hunger, the noise of air-raid sirens. Bob lobbed a perfect shoe at the radio. It clattered to the floor and fell silent. He got up and went to the bathroom.
He loved his bed and he loved his bath, but now was not the time for either. Now was the time for action. He shaved carefully and he brushed his teeth with a brand new toothbrush. He padded to his wardrobe and chose a pair of cream slacks, a white shirt and a tweed jacket. He picked up Page and Bush’s sauna catalogue and went to make some mushrooms on toast.
Bob’s recipe for mushrooms on toast. Take a cast-iron skillet, warm it over a fierce heat, melt a knob of butter the size of a baby’s fist, skim the scum. Add finely sliced (not chopped) mushrooms, and allow them to cook for two minutes. Add a teaspoon of German mustard, some freshly grated nutmeg, a pinch of salt and a twist of ground black pepper, toss the lot once, then serve on to previously prepared slices of hot buttered toast. Easy and delicious.
Bob ate slowly with the sauna catalogue propped in front of him, and he made a few mental notes. Did Page and Bush make a bottled-gas-fired model? Once a sauna was installed, was it possible to disassemble and re-erect it somewhere else?
Frank had some calls to make. First there was Bob.
‘Bob?’
‘Frank?’
‘Are you coming in today?’
‘What?’
‘Are you?’
‘Where? To the office?’
‘No,’ said Frank, ‘to the cinema.’
‘Why? What’s on?’
‘Bob?’
‘Frank?’
‘I was being ironic.’
‘Oh,’ said Bob, ‘irony. Yeah.’ He paused to think. ‘And yeah, I am coming to the office today. Should I make an appointment or can I just turn up at any time? I wouldn’t want to get in your way.’
‘You won’t.’
‘Oh good.’
‘We’ve got to talk.’
‘Talk’s cheap,’ said Bob. ‘Why don’t we sing instead?’
Frank looked at the phone and thought about hanging up. He weighed the pros and cons; this took him five seconds. The pros did not exist, the cons were the size of buildings. He hung up. He waited another five seconds, then phoned 192.
‘Directory enquiries. Which town please?’
‘Carlisle.’
‘Name of the people?’
‘Dixon’s Motors. Forth Street…’
The line cleared for a moment, then an automated voice gave Frank the number. Half a minute later he was asking to speak to Adrian Coleman.
‘The new lad?’
‘That’s him,’ said Frank.
‘Hang on.’
Pause.
‘Yeah?’
‘Adrian?’
‘Yeah. Who’s this?’
‘My name’s Frank, you don’t know me, but I’m a friend of Lisa’s, and I thought you ought to know that she’s—’
Adrian hung up.
Frank looked at the buzzing receiver and, for a moment, he thought that it was looking at him. Could inanimate objects generate a life of their own? Could they feel, could they understand? Could they watch you? Why was the telephone listening to him? He put it down, stood up and went to make himself a cup of tea.
As he waited for the kettle to boil, he stared down at the street, and watched a student dressed as a snowman smoke a cigarette. He had propped a sign against a wall: ‘BUY REYNOLD’S CAKES’. As he smoked, he dropped some ash on his costume, and when he tried to brush it off, he made a streaky mark. He threw the cigarette down, stamped on it, picked up a handful of snow and rubbed it on to the mark. Now the mark was a dirty smudge, impossible to miss. He thought about how angry Mr Reynold would be; it was a nightmare. Working as a snowman was a perfect holiday job. You were outside and you were warm. You could see what was going on, you got all the cakes you could eat. He tried some more snow, then he tried a handkerchief; it was no good. Finally, he started pulling at the mark, plucking pieces of material from the costume. He threw these pieces away; they were picked up by the wind and blown down the street. As they drifted into the sky they were joined by flakes of snow; after a few minutes, the man had got rid of the smudge, but a hole had appeared in its place. He tippe
d his head back and cursed as the kettle boiled in the office. Frank made the tea and carried his cup to the desk. He sat down, sipped and thought about Janet Black.
Janet Black had been nothing like Lisa; she had come from a rich family, but liked to slum it with people like Frank and Ray Butts, the butt bastard of every seaside town in England. Frank remembered playing strip poker with her; she had invented her own rules. These were based on ten even numbers she had written on her fingernails.You removed an article of clothing at the loss of a hand, and an additional forfeit was payable on the choice of a finger. It was a complicated game but typical of Janet, who fucked like an Easter bunny and now works at a composite signals station on the Devon/Somerset border that’s not marked on any map.
Janet Black wore two of everything, so by the time Frank was down to his pants, she was still fully clothed. This, too, was typical of Janet, who was a deceitful woman with a nasty laugh and small eyes. But Frank was hooked. Her teeth, her fingers, her feet and her way of walking along the front. She didn’t feel the cold and she didn’t say thank you when he bought her a drink. That drove him wild. He had to have her, he had to show her what a man could do for a woman. His head flamed and when he looked at her his heart filled with a fatal longing. One day she told him that she loved a man in leather boots, so he spent his savings on a pair of boots that pinched from the day he bought them. But they were hand-tooled, had pointed toes and high heels, and they clicked when he walked; as he’d stood in a bar that night and ordered expensive drinks, Janet Black had stared at his boots and licked her lips. She is mine, Frank said to himself, and she will never regret the day.
Sergeant Davis didn’t go to work. He hadn’t slept, he couldn’t eat, he hadn’t opened his curtains, he hadn’t answered the phone, he hadn’t collected the paper or the letters from the mat, he hadn’t gone to the bathroom, he hadn’t left his bed, he hadn’t closed his eyes, he hadn’t thrown Chips’s pillowed bed away, he hadn’t stopped thinking about bus-drivers and how evil they were, he hadn’t stopped blaming himself for the selfish way he’d looked in the travel agency’s window, he hadn’t stopped wishing he’d never bought a retractable fifteen-foot lead. What had been wrong with the old lead? Nothing had been wrong with the old lead. It had been as old as Chips, leather, with a silvered clip. Chips would sit up at the sound of its tinkly rattle, he would look at Davis with his big eyes, pleading for the walk that was coming.