Say You Love Me

by Marion Husband

  ‘Perhaps they would like to come and play in the garden whilst their mother is working – perhaps during the school holidays.’

  ‘Let’s get you well first, eh?’

  Later, as he drove home, he thought of Annette’s children playing in his garden. He thought too of Annette, of how she seemed so hopeless. She reinforced the feeling he had that he was powerless to help anyone. Stopping at traffic lights he closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. ‘Self pity,’ he said aloud. Behind him a car horn sounded and he realised the lights had changed from red to green.

  Chapter 14

  I saw Mark in the hospital corridor. He was buying a drink from one of the vending machines, his head bowed, palm flat against the machine’s front, his body braced as he waited for the plastic beaker to fill. He was wearing the same clothes he’d worn the night before and his hair stuck up a bit like he’d been pushing his fingers through it. He needed a shave; his five o’clock shadow made him look effete, like he was trying too hard for a certain look. I guessed he’d been up all night – he had that expression you see so often in hospitals if you work on the early shift. I thought how I would like to stand close to him and breathe in his scent, his true scent, unadulterated by soap or deodorant or after-shave. I wondered if he would smell of us, if I would recognise him by his scent alone. I stared at him as he took his drink and sipped it, wary of the scalding liquid. I stared until he looked up and noticed me. I smiled and stepped forward. Instinctively, I think, he stepped back. I smiled some more and held up my hands in that placating gesture I was beginning to perfect.

  ‘Hello, Mark.’

  He looked over his shoulder as if assessing the best escape route. He turned back to me. ‘You work here. I’d forgotten.’

  I could see how desperate he was to go. I could see that his eyes looked bleary like he’d been crying. His shirt was crumpled and there were sweat stains under his arms. I stepped closer and breathed through my nose. There was only the hospital stink and the smell of his black coffee. He lifted the cup to his lips and sipped again.

  I said, ‘The coffee from those machines is horrible, isn’t it?’

  ‘Would you excuse me?’ He turned away only to turn back as though he’d just thought of something clever to say. Only it wasn’t clever, it was horrible. Intently he said, ‘You stay away from me, do you hear? I can’t stand the sight of you and I don’t want anything to do with you or your family. Is that quite clear? Have I made myself understood?’

  My guts loosened, that humiliating feeling I used to get when Danny raised his voice. I found myself glancing away, a fixed, defensive smile on my face, shameful and pathetic. He stepped toward me. Lowering his voice he said, ‘Why are you smirking? Do you think this is amusing in some way?’

  I managed to look at him. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not smirking; it’s not funny. I’m sorry.’ I could hear the cringe in my voice, all those creeping apologies reminding me of when I was a kid and I couldn’t say sorry often enough. My lip curled involuntarily; I was disgusted with myself, my cowardly ways. I tried standing straighter as he looked me up and down.

  He said, ‘Did you know I was here?’

  ‘How could I know?’

  ‘You could have checked the admissions.’

  ‘Why should I do that?’

  ‘I don’t know. All I know is that you’re here, spying on me.’

  ‘I wasn’t spying.’

  ‘No? You stare. Is there something wrong with you?’

  ‘No! I’m sorry if I was staring – I didn’t mean to, I didn’t think I was…’

  He gave this odd, harsh laugh. ‘Jesus Christ. Did Ben put you up to this?’

  ‘Up to what? I work here. I don’t have to have an excuse –’

  Sister Reeves came along. She grinned at me, then did a double take when she saw Mark, this puzzled expression on her face, hesitating for a moment as if waiting for an introduction. I said, ‘This is Mark Walker, sister. The novelist.’

  She looked blank, only to smile. ‘Hello. Sorry – I never have a moment to read books. Steve, are you here to fetch Mr Sanderson?’

  ‘I’ll be right, there, Sister.’

  When she’d gone Mark said, ‘At least you didn’t introduce me as your brother.’

  ‘Well you’re not, not really. Besides, I didn’t think you’d want me to.’

  ‘You’re very perceptive.’ His voice was thick with sarcasm; he held up the plastic cup in a little salute. ‘I appreciate your thoughtfulness.’

  I should have told him to piss off. I said, ‘I have to go.’

  As I stepped past him he caught my arm. ‘How’s Danny?’

  ‘The same.’ I shrugged him off.

  ‘Don’t mention me to him, do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, although he knows all about you. He reads your books –’

  ‘The books aren’t about me! He doesn’t know anything about me!’

  I wouldn’t have thought him capable of such anger. A thread of spittle hung from his mouth and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. He grasped my arm again, bringing his face up close to mine, his rage so animating he looked like one of the patients on the locked wards. I drew away, repelled by the sleepless stink of his breath, but he tightened his grip, jerking me towards him. ‘Listen to me, you little shit, you can tell him from me I wish him dead. I wish he were burning in hell already with all the worst punishments reserved just for him. Tell him that!’

  ‘You should tell him yourself, because I won’t. I’ve already told him.’

  He gazed at me, his beautiful eyes searching my face as though he couldn’t believe what I’d just said or decide whose side I was on. He let his hand fall to his side and stepped back, and it seemed all that energy drained from him as quickly as it came. I noticed how pale he looked, how sick at heart. There was a row of plastic chairs by the vending machine and I took his arm and made him sit down. I sat beside him. I said, ‘Drink your coffee. Try and be calm. Sometimes it helps if you picture yourself in a place you’ve been really happy.’

  He made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

  ‘I used to picture myself on Scarborough beach,’ I said. ‘My uncles took us there once. I imagine myself on Scarborough beach or in the maternity ward across the way, the day my daughter was born.’

  ‘You have a child?’ He seemed to force himself to look at me, his curiosity and surprise seemingly making him forget himself for a moment – like he was a little kid who had been told something astonishing in the middle of a tantrum. He must want kids, I thought, or be obsessed with them in some way. But of course he was, because so was I.

  I said, ‘Her name is Jade – she’s nearly three. She’s lovely, bright as anything.’

  ‘You’re very young to be a father.’

  ‘Aye, that’s what Mam said: You’re too bloody young to be saddled.’ I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. ‘I’m twenty-two.’

  He nodded. Quickly he said, ‘I’m keeping you from your work.’

  ‘It’s all right. Besides, they won’t be ready for Mr Sanderson yet, I’ll give him a few more minutes in the comfort of his bed.’

  After a while he said, ‘You really said that to him? That you wished him dead?’

  ‘Aye well. It was a while ago, now.’

  ‘But you meant it?’

  I glanced away, embarrassed by the way he seemed so desperate for me to tell him how much I hated Danny. Lately I’d been trying not to hate him so much; I was still hoping that I could come to some kind of peace with him, although so far I hadn’t been very successful. I knew it would be harder still now that I’d met Mark.

  I turned to him. ‘He’s really sick – dead ill. I think now I just want it to be over.’

  ‘Yes.’ He exhaled. ‘Yes, so do I.’ Looking down at his coffee he said, ‘I didn’t intend to be so rude to you.’

  ‘It’s all right, I understand.’

  ‘No…Steven, I should have told Ben I didn’t want to know about�
��well, about anything he discovered. Last night I didn’t expect you.’

  I remembered that look of shock on his face when he saw me, how it had intensified my own nervousness. I’d felt guilty for frightening him, for resembling Danny so much. But he looked like him, too. He shocked me in his turn.

  I said, ‘I’ve always known about you – ever since I can remember.’

  He looked at me sharply. ‘He talked about me?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I couldn’t meet his eye. There was a poster on the wall opposite demanding that visitors washed their hands. A kid had drawn a smiley face on its corner, the kind of face they draw when they’re asked to crayon a picture of their Mam, all yellow hair and blue, spider-lashed eyes, some bored kid, waiting in this corridor for their real Mam to finish her visit.

  I felt Mark’s eyes on me. Turning to him I managed to smile. ‘I have to get to work.’ As I made to stand up he touched my arm.

  ‘Steven, listen, I am sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. I understand.’ I wanted to say, “ I know what you’ve been through – me and you – we’re the same person.” Instead I stood up and smiled, repeating, ‘Honestly, don’t be sorry. You don’t have to be sorry with me.’

  ‘Why not?’

  I shrugged. ‘I understand.’

  ‘You keep saying that.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  He looked down at his coffee. ‘You understand, eh?’ He glanced at me. ‘Would you talk to me – without Ben? Ben wouldn’t have to know.’ He took a business card from his wallet and handed it to me. ‘My mobile number’s on there. Here.’ He took the card from me again. Taking a pen from his jacket pocket he scribbled an address on its reverse. As I took it from him he asked, ‘Do you know where that is?’

  ‘Opposite the cemetery, on Oxhill Avenue.’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll be there tonight. About eight.’

  I shoved the card into my pocket and he stood up. Without another word he turned and walked away.

  Mark sat down beside Simon’s bed, cradling his hand between his own. ‘Dad, I’m going home now. I’ll be back this afternoon. Would you like me to bring you anything special?’

  ‘Only the things we talked about.’ Simon drew his hand away. ‘Go. Get some sleep. You look exhausted.’

  ‘Can I get you anything before I go?’

  ‘No. Mark, don’t fuss. Bad enough you got Ben out of bed –’

  ‘He needed to know.’

  Simon closed his eyes wearily.

  From the other side of the bed Ben said, ‘Dad, I shall go too.’

  Simon turned to him. ‘Will you be fit enough to operate? You’ve had no sleep –’

  ‘I’m taking the day off.’

  ‘Oh no – I don’t want you to let patients down because of me! It’s too bad Mark worried you like this!’

  Ben laughed. He kissed Simon’s forehead. ‘I’m not indispensable, Dad. Besides, you come first.’

  ‘Rubbish. This is too bad.’

  Ben turned to Mark. ‘You want a lift home?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Ben kissed Simon again and squeezed his hand briefly. ‘OK. We’re going. I’ll be back tonight.’

  ‘Bring Nathan.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I want to see him, Ben. Please.’

  ‘I said yes, didn’t I?’ He smiled. ‘You should try and sleep now.’

  Ben drove, his mouth set in a thin, angry line, his hands tight around the wheel. Another driver cut him up and he blasted his horn long and hard. ‘Stupid wanker! Jesus! Can you believe how many wankers there are in the world?’ He switched off the radio that had come on automatically when he’d stared the engine. Glaring at Mark he said, ‘Why don’t you say something? For once in your life why don’t you make a fucking effort at conversation?’

  ‘I’m not in the mood for small talk, Ben.’

  ‘Small talk! Fucking hell! You say what’s on your mind! You say what we’re both thinking!’

  Mark looked out of the car window at the familiar streets. This was home, once. He felt disconnected from it, as though it represented someone else’s childhood. How quickly he had got away, as quickly as he could, aged seventeen, off to training camp, never to return. Except here he was. He should have stayed in London. Ben slammed on the car’s brakes, jolting him forward. In front of them at the traffic lights was a lorry on its way to Thorp Road abattoir. The legs of calves were visible through the lorry’s slatted sides and he imagined how fearful the creatures would be. He bowed his head, wishing he were far away. Far away and senseless, not having to think or feel or imagine anything.

  Loudly Ben said, ‘I want you to say what’s on your mind!’

  He looked at him. ‘I’m thinking that if it hadn’t been for Argentina wanting the Falklands I would have been sent to Northern Ireland.’ He looked at Ben. ‘Do you remember the picture of the tarred and feathered Irish girl the Gazette published? I must have been about eight. It was the first time I’d heard of The Troubles. The IRA tarred and feathered women and tied them to lampposts. I remember feeling sick with shock.’

  The lights turned from red to amber to green and Ben shoved the car into gear and moved off, too close to the slaughter house lorry’s tail. Bitterly he said, ‘I don’t remember that. I’m not obsessed with war and pain and suffering like you are.’

  ‘I was also thinking about a man I did my basic training with. He was killed last year – a skiing accident. I heard about his death quite by chance – ran into a mutual friend on the Heath. I was thinking how precarious life is and that perhaps I should have taken up skiing – killed myself by sliding into a tree, or falling over a ravine – however skiers die.’ He glanced at him. ‘Ben, do you blame me for Dad’s heart attack?’

  ‘You know I blame myself!’ Another red light and Ben pulled on the handbrake. Angrily he said, ‘It’s me he’s upset with –’

  Mark laughed shortly, thinking of Simon’s anger with him. ‘He’s not upset with you, Ben. Maybe concerned for you, that’s all –’

  ‘Concern – upset, it still adds up to stress, to a heart attack.’

  Gently Mark said, ‘The lights have changed, Ben. Look, why don’t you pull over? I’ll drive…’

  ‘No! I’m fine.’ He exhaled. ‘If you hadn’t been there, at the house, he might have died.’

  ‘Iain was with him, too.’

  ‘But if he’d been on his own –’

  ‘He wasn’t.’

  ‘He should live with us, with Kitty and me. He’s so stubbornly independent.’

  ‘That’s good, isn’t it? Wouldn’t you want to be like him at his age?’

  Ben looked at him sharply. ‘But we won’t be like him, will we? We’ve got Danny’s genes in us, Annette’s. Do you know how old our real grandparents were when they died? They were young. And Danny – Danny’s only in his sixties.’

  ‘I didn’t tell Dad what you told me last night.’

  ‘No?’ He sounded surprised.

  ‘Did you think I would tell him?’

  ‘Maybe.’ He took his eyes off the road to look at him. ‘Maybe I thought you’d tell him to win some favour. I know you think I’m his favourite.’

  ‘You are his favourite, Ben. I don’t mind. It’s natural, I think, to like one person more than another, to have an affinity with them.’

  ‘But parents should try to be more even-handed. If I have another child –’ He sighed. ‘He did his best. He did more than most men would have. Taking us on – Christ! Who in their right mind?’

  Mark remembered how Simon had sat them both down in the garden of the last Children’s Home, a scruffy, over-grown garden that none of the Home’s staff had time to care about. He remembered that dandelions grew everywhere and that he’d picked one and crushed its fat stem between his fingers, tasting its wet-the-bed bitterness as Simon told them how they would be coming to live with him. ‘Would you like that, boys?’ He’d smiled, seemed desperate. ‘I have a lovely, big old house with a great big garden�
��’ He’d looked around, at the long grass, the broken crazy paving and rusting swing no one ever played on. Suddenly he put an arm around each of them and hugged them to him. ‘We’ll be so happy. I know we will!’ Ben had squirmed away from him, but he had allowed himself to he held, afraid of offending this great big unhappy man. He had know Simon a few months by then and was nowhere nearer understanding who he was, or why he seemed so intent on being part of his life, although he had his suspicions.

  Ben pulled up outside Simon’s house. He turned to him. ‘You go and see him this afternoon, and I’ll go tonight, with Kit and Nathan.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ben sighed heavily. ‘OK. Try and get some sleep – you look awful.’

  Mark watched Ben drive away. He thought of himself at six years old, of Simon, still vigorous and strong in early middle age. He wondered how a man could love a child who was so wary of him, who suspected the very worst of him, the most vile and disgusting suspicions. A man couldn’t love such a child, of course, despite his protestations.

  Looking up at the house he’d been brought to aged six, Mark remembered how Simon had shown him around, his voice loud and hearty, smiling. He had noticed that it was a house full of hiding places and had felt comforted by this, but Simon had crouched down in front of him and his voice became quieter and edged with concern. ‘Mark? You know if you’re worried about anything – anything at all – you can talk to me about it and I can help? You know that, don’t you?’

  But all he had known was that he could never talk to this man who knew him inside and out, that there was nothing to say that he didn’t already know. He had wondered only how this Simon-Daddy might act on his knowledge, the ideas it might give him. He’d had his own idea that he was worthless, like a shop-soiled toy; nobody would think that it would matter very much if he was damaged a bit more.

  Mark let himself into the house. Climbing the stairs to bed, he thought of Steven, remembering how he had looked at him, such understanding in that look, such knowing. He lay down on his bed. He thought of Steven’s knowingness and unzipped his fly, hesitating only a moment before closing his hand around his semi-erect cock.