The Mushroom Man dcp-2

by Stuart Pawson

  "You're right, it sounds cheap."

  "Don't give me a hard time, Gilbert. I'm doing my best." After a silence I went on: "My dad died of canc eras you know. In the two years that he had it my mother never once said the word. She'd never admit that he had cancer. In her eyes there was a stigma attached to it that I couldn't understand. Cancer didn't happen to nice people. I don't understand now, but I'm closer. Annabelle nearly died because of me. AIDS is a sordid disease, Gilbert, and I'll never inflict any part of it on her."

  He stood up to leave and I walked with him to the newly repaired door.

  As he went out he turned and said: "You're a selfish bastard, Charlie."

  I knew he was wrong it was the toughest decision I'd ever made.

  At the motorway I made a snap decision and turned right. Two and a bit hours later I booked into the Balmoral Guest House at one of the smaller east coast resorts. It would be unfair to say which one. The chief amenity of the town was a golden beach, crisscrossed with groynes to stop the tide washing the sand away, and blessed with a half-mile sewage outlet to keep things sanitary. A First World War defensive position was preserved for the children to play on through the day and for their slightly older brothers and sisters to screw each other goggle-eyed in during the evenings, while their parents played bingo.

  The morning tide washed the discarded condoms out to sea, where they choked the occasional passing cod.

  Breakfasts were full English, but most mornings I settled for toast and cornflakes. Afterwards I wandered up and down the beach, keeping my left ear to the wall, although anyone who saw it probably assumed I was an injured rugby union player. I drank a lot of tea, seated at formica tables, and pecked at some respectable fish and chips. The Salvation Army band gave concerts from a bandstand in the middle of a grassy area. The girl with the collection box had blonde hair tied severely back and hidden beneath her hat. She reminded me of Grace Kelly in High Noon.

  I spent a lot of time sitting on benches. It was the most popular pastime in town. One evening a girl of about fourteen with a Bardotesque pout came to sit alongside me. She was wearing an indecently short skirt and an unzipped biker jacket, revealing a T-shirt that looked as if it were concealing two bottles of Tia Maria.

  When she asked me for a light I told her to go away. She called me a fucking wanker and went. Later I saw her getting into someone's car.

  There wasn't a lot there for the kids to do.

  They play bingo at the Balmoral in the evenings. I fell into the role of mystery guest and avoided everyone. I would have done so whatever the circumstances. People were enjoying themselves in a way that was incomprehensible to me, but I couldn't condemn them for that. Maybe I'm a snob. I sneaked past the laughing faces and went up to bed. The sheets were crisp and the pillows stuffed with feathers. If I'd had the odd pint I fell asleep reasonably well; any more and I lay awake, thinking about Annabelle.

  I stuck it for a week then went home. The goo lies were a matching pair again and appeared to be functioning properly. I saw Sam and he removed the stitches from my ear, so I was back to normal if you ignored the time bomb ticking away inside me.

  The weather was good, as predicted, so I did a lot of walking and visited art galleries and museums that I'd been meaning to see for years. I had afternoon tea in country cafes and chatted to shop girls and people in the street. The weeks crept by.

  I rang the hospital almost every day. Annabelle was still making very good progress, they said. Halfway through the fifth week they told me that she had been discharged, and a few days later a letter arrived in a long white envelope. It carried a Guildford address and was very brief. It said:

  Dear Charles,

  What went wrong? If it has to end, please don't let it be this way.

  Love,

  Annabelle Sparky called now and again, and Nigel came a couple of times. "When are you coming back?" Sparky asked one day, as he sat consuming my chocolate digestives.

  "I might not," I replied.

  He froze in mid-dunk. "Seriously?" he said.

  "Yeah. Doc Evans says he'll swing it for me, if I want. There's still a couple of shotgun pellets floating about inside me from way back, or I can jump on the stress wagon. Post something-or-other trauma. Take your pick."

  I didn't want to tell him about the AIDS risk. I had no objection to him knowing, but I couldn't face the shocked expression or the stumbled words of support. I assumed Gilbert would have told him, but it didn't look as if he had.

  "I don't blame you for getting out, Charlie, but it doesn't sound like your style."

  "It's not, Dave, but I've had enough."

  "Why not go for promotion, cruise through the next couple of years like Mr. Wood does?"

  "Gilbert would be delighted to hear you say that," I chuckled.

  "There's one good thing. If you do go, the community charge should come down."

  "How do you make that out?" I asked.

  "Well, there'll be a lot less work for the prisons and hospitals to do.

  Without your regular contributions they'll be able to close one of each."

  "Yes, we do seem to have been keeping them busy recently, don't we?"

  Dave looked thoughtful and said: "If you're about to become a pensioner I feel embarrassed about asking you for that tenner. Call it my contribution to the collection."

  "Gee, thanks, Dave."

  A ferry capsized in the Far East, drowning a hundred and thirteen souls. A dog in Essex had a heart valve replaced and a Pro-Life supporter shot dead three doctors in Arkansas. On the fifty-sixth morning I presented myself at Sam Evans's surgery to give a blood sample.

  "Where would you like me to take it from?" he asked.

  "You," I replied.

  "The choice is left arm or right arm."

  "Oh. Left, then."

  I looked away. When it's my blood, I'm squeamish.

  "We'll take a couple of samples," Sam was saying as I studied the pattern on the curtains. "They do a test called ELISA to detect the presence of any antibodies, then a more specific one called WBT, which is really a confirmatory test, but I've persuaded them to do it, anyway."

  I flinched as the needle went in.

  "Sorry," Sam said. "Did I hurt you?"

  "Yes. Badly," I replied.

  "Well, that should do it. Tell my delightful receptionist to give you the first appointment in seven days' time. How are the testicles?"

  I rolled my sleeve down. "Feeling unwanted. How are yours?"

  "Mind your own business. You seem to be back to your old cheerful self, Charlie. It's good to see."

  "It's all a front, Sam. Inside I'm scareder than a kitten on a clothes line. See you next week."

  The weather was still good so I decided that the outside of the house would benefit from a lick of paint. I dragged the ladders out of the garage and set them up against the back bedroom window. The neighbours came out to watch.

  "Painting your windows?" said the man.

  "Er, that's right," I answered.

  He sucked in a long breath. "Bit back-en dish for painting, if you ask me," he declared.

  I scraped the loose paint off and gave the frame a good coating of white gloss. The neighbours have a little sun lounge attached to the back of their house, where they like to sit and read or drink tea. It looks very pleasant. Just as I was finishing I noticed that they were both in there, but had swivelled their wicker chairs round so that they could sit watching me.

  "Right, you buggers," I muttered. I clambered down the ladder and rummaged about in the garage until I found what I wanted.

  Back up the ladder I painted the big pane of glass bright blue, the next one red. The little one that opens received a coat of canary yellow. Well, they did ask if I was painting the windows, I said to myself.

  The two of them stared at me as if they had just discovered that a psychopathic monster lived next door. I pointed with the paint brush.

  "Mondrian," I shouted, but they couldn't hear me through the
ir double glazing.

  It's more difficult to be cheerful when there is no audience. I tried to eat decent food, to keep the resistance high, but had little appetite for anything. Gilbert was right, I decided I should have told Annabelle the truth, right from the beginning. I wished I had a photograph of her.

  A politician was assassinated in Spain and England were walloped by Romania at football. An airliner crashed in Russia and Rhoda Flannery died in the prison hospital. Maybe she had the last laugh, after all.

  The seventh morning dawned bright and frosty. I showered and dressed in comfortable clothes: jeans, woollen shirt, leather jacket and trainers. I scraped the ice off the windscreen, put a load of stuff in the boot that I might need later and drove to the surgery.

  It was ten to nine and Sam's car was already there. I was OK until I parked the car, then I started shaking and had difficulty locking the door.

  Three patients were already waiting, huddled within themselves like starving peasants awaiting an audience with the laird. The receptionist switched her smile to main beam and started saying: "Dr.

  Evans says you're to go straight…" but I was already knocking on his door.

  "Good morning, Charlie. Take a seat," he said, placing a letter he was reading back on his desk.

  "No thanks, Sam. Are they the results?"

  "Yes, they are."

  "So what do they say."

  He turned the letter towards me and pushed it forwards. Bless you, Sam, you didn't make a drama out of it. A huge smile split his face as he said: "The tests confirm that you are not HIV positive.

  Congratulations, Charlie, you've beaten it."

  I flopped in the chair and threw my head back, gulping in great draughts of beautiful fresh air like a man dragged out of the quicksand in the nick of time.

  Sam was rabbi ting on, but I was hardly listening: '… so if you haven't used a dirty needle or had unprotected sex since you were in hospital, we can safely say you are fit and healthy."

  I didn't remember having unprotected sex when I was in hospital. Must have been asleep for that bit. I gave him the grin and just nodded my appreciation of what he was saying.

  He delved into one of the drawers at his side of the desk and produced a bottle of champagne. "Have a celebratory drink on me," he said.

  "Now?" I suggested, taking it from him. It was the first word uttered by the new Charlie Priest.

  "Er, no. I don't think my patients would appreciate it. Better make it some other time. By the way, Yvonne said I've to invite you to lunch on Sunday. Can you make it?"

  I held up the bottle. "I'll bring the booze," I said.

  "Good. Smashing."

  I stood up to leave. "Thanks for everything, Sam."

  "You're welcome, Charlie. It's good news for all of us, you know, not just you."

  He walked to the door with me. "So what are you going to do next?" he asked. We were down to the small talk.

  "Next? Good question. Suddenly there's a next. Back to catching villains, I suppose."

  "I meant today."

  "Oh, today. Driving," I replied. "I've got to go to Guildford."

  "Guildford. That's a long way."

  I looked at my watch. "Yes, and I'm running late."

  "Well, take it steady."

  "No chance. Flat out all the way. See you Sunday."

  I pulled the door closed behind me. The number of grey faces in the waiting room had doubled and the receptionist had removed her spectacles. We exchanged warm smiles. I thrust the bottle of champers forward and hollered: "Next!" as I strode towards the exit.

  Try to leave 'em with a smile, that's my motto. It's not always this easy, but if it was, anybody could do it.

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