The Comfort of Strangers

by Ian Mcewan

  The painful limp, the somnambulant shuffle, they were making slow progress towards the makeshift table as Colin took a couple of paces in their direction and called, ‘What is it, Mary?’ Immediately the cork popped and Robert called sharply for the glasses. Colin retreated and held them out while watching anxiously over his shoulder. Caroline was settling Mary in one of the two remaining wooden chairs, arranging it so that she sat facing the men.

  Mary parted her lips and gazed at Colin. He was walking towards her, full glass in hand, as though in slow motion. The bright light behind him fired loose strands of hair and his face, more familiar than her own, was concentrated in concern. Robert set down the bottle on his sideboard, and followed Colin across the room. Caroline stood erect by Mary’s chair, like an attendant nurse. ‘Mary,’ Colin said, ‘what is the matter?’

  They crowded round. Caroline pressed her palm against Mary’s forehead. ‘It’s a mild touch of sunstroke,’ she said quietly. ‘Nothing to worry about. She said you went for a long swim and lay in the sun.’

  Mary’s lips moved. Colin took her hand. ‘She’s not hot,’ he said. Robert moved behind the chair and put his arm round Caroline’s shoulders. Colin squeezed Mary’s hand and searched her face. Her eyes, wide with longing, or desperation, were fixed on his own; a tear welled suddenly and dropped on to the ridge of her cheekbone. Colin wiped it with his forefinger. ‘Are you ill?’ he whispered. ‘Is it sunstroke?’ She closed her eyes for a moment, and her head moved just once from side to side. The faintest sound, barely more than a breath, left her lips. Colin leaned close and put his ear to her mouth. ‘Tell me,’ he urged, ‘try and tell me.’ She drew breath sharply, and held it for several seconds, then articulated from the back of her throat a strangled, hard C. ‘Are you saying my name?’ Mary opened her mouth wider, she was breathing quickly, almost panting. She held Colin’s hand in a ferocious grip. Again, the sharp intake of air, the breath held, and again the distant hard C. She repeated it softened, ch … ch. Colin pressed his ear closer to her lips. Robert too was leaning over. With another immense effort she managed ‘G … G’, and then whispered, ‘Go.’

  ‘Cold,’ said Robert. ‘She’s cold.’

  Caroline pushed firmly at Colin’s shoulder, ‘We shouldn’t crowd round. It doesn’t make it easier for her.’

  Robert had fetched his white jacket and was draping it round Mary’s shoulders. She still held Colin’s hand tightly, her face was tilted up towards his, and her eyes searched his face for understanding. ‘She wants to go,’ Colin said desperately. ‘She needs a doctor.’ He wrenched his hand free of Mary’s grip, and patted her wrist. She watched him wander aimlessly up the gallery. ‘Where’s your telephone. Surely you’ve got a telephone.’ There was panic in his voice. Robert and Caroline, still keeping close, were following him, blocking her view of him. She tried once more to make a sound; her throat was soft and useless, her tongue an immovable weight on the floor of her mouth.

  ‘We’re going away,’ Caroline said, soothingly. ‘The phone has been disconnected.’

  Colin had circled round to the middle window and now he stood with his back to Robert’s sideboard. ‘Go and fetch a doctor then. She’s very ill.’

  ‘There’s no need to shout,’ Robert said quietly. He and Caroline were still walking towards Colin. Mary could see how they held hands, how tightly their fingers were interlocked, and how their fingers caressed in quick, pulsing movements.

  ‘Mary will be fine,’ Caroline said. ‘She had something special in her tea, but she’ll be fine.’

  ‘Tea?’ Colin echoed dully. As he backed off at their approach, he nudged the table and upset the champagne bottle.

  ‘What a waste,’ Robert said, as Colin turned quickly and righted it. Robert and Caroline stepped round the puddle on the floor, and Robert stretched out his arm towards Colin, as though he were about to take his chin between finger and thumb. Colin lifted his head back and retreated another step. Directly behind him was the large open window. Mary could see how the western sky was softening, and how traces of high cloud were arranging themselves into long, fine fingers that seemed to point to where the sun must set.

  The couple had separated now and were pressing in either side of Colin. He was looking straight at Mary, and all she could do now was part her lips. Caroline had placed her hand on Colin’s chest and was stroking him as she spoke. ‘Mary understands. I’ve explained everything to her. Secretly, I think you understand too.’ She began to pull his T-shirt free of his jeans. Robert leaned his outstretched arm against the wall at the level of Colin’s head, boxing him in. Caroline was caressing his belly, gently pinching the skin between her fingers. And though Mary was watching into the light, and the three figures by the window were silhouetted by the sky behind, she saw with total clarity the obscene precision of every movement, of every nuance of a private fantasy. The intensity of her vision had drained her faculties of speech and movement. Robert’s free hand was exploring Colin’s face, probing his lips apart with his fingers, tracing the lines of his nose and jaw. For a full minute he stood still and unresisting, paralysed by sheer incomprehension. Only his face changed through wonderment and fear, narrowing to puzzlement and the effort of memory. His eyes remained fixed on hers.

  The usual end-of-day clamour rose from the packed streets below – voices, kitchen chatter, television sets – intensifying rather than filling the silence in the gallery. Colin’s body began to tense. Mary could see the trembling in his legs, the tightening across the stomach. Caroline made a shushing noise, and her hand came to rest just under his heart. At that moment Colin sprang forward, his arms before him like a diver, banging Caroline’s face out of his path with his forearm, catching Robert on the shoulder, a blow that pushed him back a step. Colin came towards Mary through the gap between them, his arms still outstretched, as though he might scoop her from her chair, and fly to safety with her. Robert had recovered in time to dart forward and catch hold of Colin’s ankle, and tip him to the floor, a few feet from Mary’s chair. He was already scrambling to stand when Robert picked him up by an arm and a leg, and half-carried, half-dragged him back to where Caroline stood nursing her face. There he stood Colin on his feet and slammed him hard against the wall, and held him there, his enormous hand firm round Colin’s throat.

  Now the trio had reassembled before Mary in approximately their former positions. The rasp of heavy breathing gradually subsided, and once more the neighbourly sounds were audible, framing the silence in the room.

  At last Robert said quietly, ‘That was completely unnecessary, wasn’t it?’ He tightened his grip. ‘Wasn’t it?’ Colin nodded, and Robert removed his hand.

  ‘Look,’ Caroline said, ‘you’ve cut my lip.’ She collected blood from her lower lip on to her forefinger and daubed it on Colin’s lips. He did not resist her. Robert’s hand still rested at the base of his neck close to his throat. Caroline transferred more of her blood on the end of her finger till Colin’s lips were completely and accurately rouged. Then Robert, pressing his forearm against the top of Colin’s chest, kissed him deeply on the mouth, and as he did so, Caroline ran her hand over Robert’s back.

  When he straightened, Colin spat loudly several times. Caroline wiped the pinkish streaks of saliva from his chin with the back of her hand. ‘Silly boy,’ she whispered.

  ‘What have you given Mary?’ Colin said levelly. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Want?’ Robert said. He had taken something from his sideboard, but he kept his hand round it, and Mary could not see what it was. ‘Want isn’t a very good word.’

  Caroline laughed delightedly. ‘Nor is need.’ She stepped back from Colin and looked over her shoulder at Mary. ‘Still awake?’ she called. ‘Do you remember everything I’ve told you?’

  Mary was watching the object Robert clasped in his hand. Suddenly it was twice its length, and she saw it clearly, and though every muscle in her body tightened, only the fingers of her right hand clenched softly. She shouted, and shou
ted again, and all that left her was a whispering exhalation.

  ‘I’ll do whatever you want,’ Colin said, the level tone all lost now at that sound, his voice rising in panic. ‘But please get a doctor for Mary.’

  ‘Very well,’ Robert said and reached for Colin’s arm, and turned his palm upward. ‘See how easy it is,’ he said, perhaps to himself, as he drew the razor lightly, almost playfully, across Colin’s wrist, opening wide the artery. His arm jerked forward, and the rope he cast, orange in this light, fell short of Mary’s lap by several inches.

  Mary’s eyes closed. When she opened them, Colin was sitting on the floor, against the wall, his legs splayed before him. Curiously, his canvas beach-shoes were soaked, stained scarlet. His head swayed upon his shoulders, but his eyes were steady and pure, and blazed at her across the room in disbelief. ‘Mary?’ he said anxiously, like someone calling in a dark room. ‘Mary? Mary?’

  ‘I’m coming,’ Mary said. ‘I’m over here.’

  When she woke again, after an interminable sleep, his head reclined against the wall, and his body had shrunk. His eyes, still open, still on her, were tired, without expression. She saw him from a great distance, though her vision excluded all else, sitting before a small pond that reddened with the barred rhomboid of light cast by the shutters, now half-closed.

  All through the night that followed she dreamed of moans and whimpers, and sudden shouts, of figures locked and turning at her feet, churning through the little pond, calling out for joy. She was woken by the sun rising over the balcony behind her, warming her neck through the plate-glass doors. A long, long time had passed, for the many tracks across the floor were rusty, and the luggage by the door had gone.

  Before ascending the gravel driveway to the hospital, Mary paused to rest in the shadow of the gatehouse. The weary young official at her side was patient. He set down his briefcase, took off his sunglasses and polished them with a handkerchief from his breast pocket. The women were setting up their stalls, ready for the first morning visitors. A battered van with corrugated tin sides was delivering flowers to the vendors and, nearer, a woman was taking crosses, statuettes and prayer books from an airline holdall and setting them out on a folding table. In the distance, in front of the hospital doors, a gardener was watering the drive, keeping down the dust. The official cleared his throat quietly. Mary nodded, and they set off once more.

  It had become apparent that the packed, chaotic city concealed a thriving, intricate bureaucracy, a hidden order of governmental departments with separate but overlapping functions, distinct procedures and hierarchies; unpretentious doors, in streets she had passed down many times before, led not to private homes but to empty waiting-rooms with railway-station clocks, and the sound of incessant typing, and to cramped offices with brown linoleum floors. She was questioned, cross-questioned, photographed; she dictated statements, initialled documents, and stared at pictures. She carried a sealed envelope from one department to another and was questioned again. The tired, youngish men in blazers – policemen perhaps, or civil servants – treated her with courtesy, as did their superiors. Once her marital status had been clarified, and the fact that her children were several hundred miles away, and especially once she had insisted in response to repeated questions, that it had never been her intention to marry Colin, she was treated with courtesy and suspicion. She became more clearly a source of information and less an object for their concern.

  But pity would have broken her. As it was, her state of shock was prolonged, her feelings were simply unavailable to her. She did exactly as she was told without complaint and answered every question. Her lack of affect augmented the suspicion. In the assistant commissioner’s office she was complimented on the precision and logical consistency of her statement, on its avoidance of distorting emotion. The official said coolly, ‘Not like a woman’s statement at all’, and there were quiet chuckles behind her. While they clearly did not believe she had committed any crime, she was treated as though tainted by what the assistant commissioner himself had called, and had translated for her benefit, ‘these obscene excesses’. Behind their questions was an assumption – or was this her imagination? – that she was the kind of person they could reasonably expect to be present at such a crime, like an arsonist at someone else’s blaze.

  At the same time, they were courteous enough to describe the crime back to her as wearyingly common, belonging in a well-established category. This particular department had dealt with several such crimes, differing in details of course, in the past ten years. A senior uniformed policeman who brought Mary a cup of coffee in the waiting-room sat down close beside her and explained some of the key characteristics. For example, the victim publicly displayed by the assailant, and clearly identified with him. And then, the ambivalence of the preparations; on the one hand thorough – he counted on fat fingers the photography, acquisition of the drug, selling up the contents of the apartment, packing the suitcases well in advance; on the other hand, wilfully clumsy – again he ticked them off – like leaving the razor behind, booking flights, travelling on legitimate passports.

  The policeman’s list was longer, but Mary had ceased to listen. He concluded by tapping her knee and saying that for these people it was as if being caught and punished was as important as the crime itself. Mary shrugged. The words ‘victim’, ‘assailant’, ‘the crime itself’ meant nothing, corresponded to nothing at all.

  In the hotel room she folded and packed the clothes into their separate bags. Because he had a little more space, she tucked her shoes and a cotton jacket among Colin’s things, just as she had for the journey out. She gave the loose change to the maid, and put the postcards between the last pages of her passport. She crumbled the remaining marihuana, and washed it down the hand basin. In the evening she spoke to the children on the phone. They were friendly but remote, and asked her several times to repeat herself. She could hear a television at their end, and at hers she heard her own voice through the receiver, wheedling for affection. Her ex-husband came on the line and said he was making a curry. She was coming to collect the children on Thursday afternoon? Couldn’t she be more precise? After the phone call she sat on the edge of her bed a long time reading the small print in her plane ticket. From outside she heard the steady chipping of steel tools.

  At the hospital doors the uniformed guard nodded curtly over her head to the official. They descended two flights of stairs and walked along a cool, deserted corridor. Attached to the walls at regular intervals were red drums of hosepipe and, beneath them, buckets of sand. They stopped at a door with a circular window. The official asked her to wait, and went in. Half a minute later he opened the door for her. In his hand he held a sheaf of papers. The room was small, windowless and heavily perfumed. It was lit by a fluorescent strip. Double swing-doors, also with circular windows, gave on to a larger room in which twin banks of hooded strip-lighting were visible. The narrow high bench which supported Colin protruded across the room. By it was a wooden stool. Colin lay on his back covered by a sheet. The official removed it deftly and glanced towards her; the formal identification, in the presence of the body and the official, was made. Mary signed, the official signed, and discreetly withdrew.

  After a while Mary sat on the stool and put her hand in Colin’s. She was in the mood for explanation, she was going to speak to Colin. She was going to recount Caroline’s story, as closely as she could remember it, and then she was going to explain it all to him, tell him her theory, tentative at this stage, of course, which explained how the imagination, the sexual imagination, men’s ancient dreams of hurting, and women’s of being hurt, embodied and declared a powerful single organizing principle, which distorted all relations, all truth. But she explained nothing, for a stranger had arranged Colin’s hair the wrong way. She combed it with her fingers and said nothing at all. She held his hand and worried his fingers. She mouthed his name several times without uttering it, as if repetition could have returned meaning to the word, and brought al
ive its referent. The anxious official appeared in the circular window at infrequent intervals. After an hour he entered with a nurse. He stood behind the stool while the nurse, murmuring as though to a child, prised Mary’s fingers from Colin’s and walked her to the door.

  Mary followed the official along the corridor. As they ascended the stairs, she noticed how the heel of his shoe had worn unevenly. Ordinariness prevailed for an instant, and she had the briefest intimation of the grief that lay in wait. She cleared her throat noisily, and the sound of her own voice drove the thought away.

  The young man stepped ahead of her into the brilliant sunshine, and waited. He set down his briefcase, adjusted his starched white shirt cuffs, and courteously, with the faintest of bows, offered to walk her back to the hotel.

  ALSO BY IAN McEWAN

  First Love, Last Rites

  In Between the Sheets

  The Cement Garden

  The Child in Time

  The Innocent

  Black Dogs

  The Daydreamer

  Enduring Love

  Amsterdam

  Atonement

  Saturday

  On Chesil Beach