Was I comfortable?
I raised my right hand from the sheet.
Did I remember what had happened?
I thought for a moment, then raised my right hand.
Was I in pain?
I raised my left hand.
Did I recognise Millicent?
I paused for a long time. Then I raised my left hand. The doctor looked a little concerned.
‘I think he may be joking,’ said Millicent. I raised my right hand.
‘You see,’ said Millicent. ‘He’s joking.’
The doctor didn’t look convinced. She asked me whether, in my opinion, my body was working as it should. I raised my right hand.
The doctor began to explain something to me, but I was tiring of her. I raised my finger and put it to my lips. Millicent and the doctor looked at each other.
I touched my left cheek, then my right, then my left.
Millicent nodded. ‘So, before you came in, Alex and I were discussing why you had shaved half his face.’
The doctor ignored Millicent and began to explain to me that I had suffered a blunt-injury trauma, but that there hadn’t been any bleeding into my skull cavity. They would be keeping me in for observation, which might take some time.
‘Fffffffff,’ I said.
There was a very long pause.
‘Fffffffff,’ I said again.
‘Mr Mercer, we need to keep you in.’
‘Ffffffuck.’
‘Mr Mercer?’
‘Offffff.’
Millicent looked as if she was about to laugh. Then she looked very serious.
I lay back on the bed.
Millicent and the doctor went to the other end of the room. I couldn’t hear what they said, but Millicent was nodding.
The doctor returned.
‘Mr Mercer?’
‘Get … to fuck.’
They exchanged a meaningful look.
‘Mr Mercer, we need to keep you in.’
‘Away to fuck, Doctor.’
Millicent put her hand on my arm. ‘Alex, the doctor is concerned. I’m concerned.’
‘Why do I sound so Scottish?’
Another significant look passed between Millicent and the doctor.
‘Mr Mercer, I’m pleased you are able to speak, but more than a little concerned at the content of your utterances.’
‘Tell the doctor to let me go home, Millicent.’
‘Mr Mercer, I don’t think that’s such a good idea.’
‘Oh, come on, sweetchops.’
‘Alex,’ said Millicent, stroking my face.
‘I’m fine. Tell the doctor I’m fine.’
‘He says he’s fine, Doctor.’
‘Mr Mercer, you are not fine.’
‘Millicent, ask the doctor if my face is OK to go home.’
The doctor confirmed to Millicent that there was nothing much wrong with my face.
‘OK, Millicent, then I’m coming home with you.’ I threw off the bedclothes and stood up.
‘Mr Mercer, you are to stay here,’ said the doctor.
‘Away with you, hen. Millicent, where are my clothes?’
‘Alex,’ said Millicent, ‘I need to know that you really are OK.’
‘And how do I prove that to you?’
‘You sure you don’t want to get yourself slightly more thoroughly checked out?’
‘That would be my advice, Mr Mercer,’ said the doctor.
‘Away to fuck, hen,’ I said.
Millicent and the doctor went to the far end of the room and spoke in low voices. I heard the words rescan him. The doctor left the room.
‘She sending for reinforcements?’ I asked Millicent.
‘No, Alex, they want to scan you again.’
‘Fuck her.’
‘Your behaviour is consistent with brain injury. Which she was trying to tell you.’
‘Consistent with. But not.’
‘Then what is this, Alex?’
‘Displacement.’
‘Displacement?’
‘Displacement. This is displacement.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Easier to hate her than you. Doesn’t hurt anyone if I hate her. Too much hurt if I hate you.’
‘Isn’t that transference, honey?’ said Millicent. ‘Anyway, I think she’s a little upset, Alex. She’s just doing her job.’
‘Not real hurt, that. Not like what we’ve got. Is it?’
‘I guess not. But you could be a little politer.’
‘Politer?’
‘Politer.’
‘That’s not a word.’
‘It is, Alex.’
‘Do I seem in any way impaired to you, Millicent?’
Millicent studied my face for a moment.
‘No, not impaired, exactly. But you’re being a little weird.’
‘Weird how?’
‘All that misdirected anger. She’s only trying to help you.’
‘Want me to direct it at the appropriate target again?’
A frown flashed across her brow. ‘If I’m honest, Alex, I like this a little better.’
‘You hit me with a wine bottle. I have grounds for my anger. I’m just … transferring it … to her.’
Millicent nodded.
I stood and thought. I thought of the moment just before I fell. I thought of Millicent’s hand reaching out for mine. I thought of how small she had looked then, and how small she looked now.
‘You reached out to me.’
‘I’m not following you, Alex.’
‘You reached out to me.’
‘I thought you didn’t do shrink talk.’ She smiled up at me: an uncertain, guarded smile.
‘I don’t. Why did you take my hand?’
‘Because in that moment I wanted to help you.’
‘You wanted to help me through … the consequences of your hitting me in the face with a wine bottle?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I guess you did that. Thank you.’
Millicent looked apprehensive.
I took her right hand in mine. The wrist was bandaged, but there was a rust-red stain where the glass had cut into her.
‘Serve you right,’ I said. ‘Poor you.’
‘Which, Alex?’
‘Both.’
A member of the hospital’s Social Work team came to speak to me. She insisted that Millicent leave the room.
I told the social worker that I wanted to go home. She told me that the police had arrested Millicent, taken a statement, and released her. I told her Millicent had reached out to me and that I wanted to go home.
The hospital scanned my brain again; the machine was white and smooth-edged, and they strapped me to a gurney to keep my head from moving. Millicent could not be in the room with me and my head was filled with thoughts of executions as it hummed and glided around me.
I was achingly polite to the consultant both before and after the scan. She refused to tell me the result and insisted I stay in overnight. I may have said fuck under my breath. I’m certain she didn’t hear it though.
The social worker returned after breakfast with a member of a Domestic Violence team. They brought coffee and muffins, and made Millicent leave the room. Then they asked me a series of questions about my marriage. I put it to them that the worst thing for Max would be a separation; they put it to me that witnessing violence between parents was harmful to children. I told them that Max had not witnessed the bottle striking my face; they refined their definition to include the effects of violence. I asked if they had any power to keep me in the hospital, and they told me they did not. I ended the meeting.
The consultant released me into Millicent’s care with a prescription of morphine. Millicent took it to the hospital pharmacy to have it made up. We drank coffee in silence in the tiled canteen, eating the Domestic Violence muffins. Then we collected my prescription and went home by taxi.
14
I woke in the late afternoon. Max was lying beside me on the bed,
playing a game on my phone.
‘Hi, Max.’
‘Hi, Dad.’
‘Where did you find my phone?’
‘In your pocket. You left your trousers on the floor.’
‘Did Mum tell you what happened?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What did she say?’
‘You fell over in the kitchen.’
‘I fell over in the kitchen?’
‘I didn’t believe her. So I made her tell me what really happened.’
‘And what did she say really happened?’
‘You got hit in the head by a bottle.’
‘Did she tell you who hit me in the head with a bottle?’
‘She didn’t want to. But I already knew.’
Max went back to his game. I watched him for a while, but could not read his expression.
‘Did she do it so you wouldn’t go to the funeral?’
‘Max, I’d like you to save the game and give me back my phone.’
Max looked up at me, then continued playing.
‘Now, Max.’
He handed me back the phone.
‘How did you know Mum hit me?’
‘No one else would have.’ His voice was very small.
He took a folded card from his jeans pocket. He handed it to me, watching my reaction. The card was from the police. It said that they had called to speak to Millicent and to me at 15.30, but that there had been no reply. They would like me to call them back at my earliest opportunity. I wondered if not using envelopes was a deliberate policy.
‘You have two missed calls on your phone too. Are they going to arrest Mum?’
‘No.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I’m pretty sure they could only arrest Mum if I pressed charges. Anyway, maybe they just want to speak to us again about the neighbour.’
‘Could you make them arrest Mum?’
‘I don’t want them to.’
‘But what if you did? Could you?’
‘I never would.’
Max considered this for a moment.
‘Do you want to go out and get some ice cream? I have some money.’
‘You don’t have to buy me ice cream, Max.’
‘OK. But can we go and get some ice cream?’
‘All right.’
I dressed with care, and put on a clean white shirt because I didn’t want to pull anything over my head. The skin beneath the bandages burned and itched, but from what I could tell in the mirror, and from feeling through the dressings, I was much less badly hurt than I had expected. My balance wasn’t good on the stairs, but I decided that was the morphine.
Millicent was on the sofa in the living room, reading a book.
‘You’re up,’ she said.
‘I’m up.’ I tried to smile, but it hurt.
‘Dad and I are going out, Mum,’ said Max, with great formality.
‘Sure, honey.’
We ate our ice creams. Max had chosen the same for both of us – strawberry, blueberry and double chocolate, with fudge sauce. It was more ice cream than I wanted, and far sweeter than I wanted ice cream to be, but I was hungry and I ate it all. The coffee was surprisingly good, and cut through the cloying sweetness. I wondered if I could face going outside for a cigarette.
‘That was a big thing you did, Max, bringing me here, and buying me ice cream and coffee. Makes me proud to be your dad.’
‘It’s good that Mum didn’t come.’
‘What do you mean, Max?’
‘She didn’t even ask to come. And if she had I would have said no, and I think she knew that, because she …’ He was searching for the words. ‘She wouldn’t have had a leg to stand on. Would she, Dad?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What she did to you.’
I touched my cheekbone involuntarily.
‘It’s not the worst thing that’s ever happened, Max.’
‘I don’t just mean that. That’s only the bit people can see.’
He left this hanging for a moment.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked at last.
‘The neighbour.’
‘It doesn’t have to be the end of the world. Or the end of our marriage. And I shouldn’t have told you. Not the way I did.’
‘It’s OK. Can I have a shake?’
‘Sure.’
‘Do you want some more coffee?’
‘Great.’
He looked down at the coins on the tray. Not enough for both coffee and milkshake. I gave him a fiver, and he scooped up the coins.
‘I’m going to have a cigarette, Max. Watch that no one takes our place.’
He rolled his eyes and joined the queue. I got to my feet. Everything hurt. I took my coffee cup and went outside.
There was a missed call on my phone. Rose. I had not made it to her brother’s funeral.
Who’s Rose?
Had there been an edge to Millicent’s question? For a moment a dangerous thought lurked at the edges of my mind. But no, Millicent had struck me because I had forced her into a corner.
He thinks you’re a bitch.
I had used Max against her. There was nothing more to it than that. I should never have used Max against her.
When I’d finished smoking I went back in and carefully arranged my body on the slick mattressed seating of the booth. Max was waiting; he hadn’t started his milkshake. He picked up my coffee in two hands and gave it to me.
‘Hello, Man-cub,’ I said.
‘Hello, Wolf-man.’ Max slurped his milkshake. ‘Mum took my picture of Grandpa. Can I have it back?’
‘I don’t know, Max. I don’t think so.’
‘Why? It’s mine.’
‘Because I don’t think Grandpa meant you to have it.’
‘I promise I won’t take it to school again.’
‘It’s a very private picture, Max. You didn’t tell me you’d taken it to school.’
‘But you can tell he meant for people to see it.’
‘I don’t think that man’s family would want you to have it. Especially not if you’re showing it to people at school. He deserves some respect, Max, and some privacy.’
‘But that man was our enemy.’
‘He isn’t any more.’
Max rolled his eyes. ‘That’s only because he’s dead, Dad. Korea’s still our enemy.’
I reached for a cigarette from the packet in front of me, then realised I couldn’t smoke it. ‘North Korea,’ I said, ‘and it’s complicated.’ I put the cigarette behind my ear. ‘Max,’ I said, ‘who did you show the picture to?’
‘Only Ravion Stamp. But he said Grandpa was a murderer, and I got angry, and he went spectrum and told on me to Mr Sharpe for punching him.’
‘You punched him?’
Max sniffed. ‘Didn’t Mum tell you I punched him?’
‘I assumed he punched you.’
‘Maybe she didn’t know. But you have to go to a meeting with Mr Sharpe. Sorry.’
Millicent hadn’t told me about the meeting, either. We were all of us so strung out; we were barely getting by. Maybe I would have punched Ravion Stamp if I had been Max.
‘Why did you hit him, Max?’
‘I don’t know.’ The child’s response to the adult question. But he meant it. I could see in his eyes that he didn’t know why he had punched Ravion Stamp.
‘You found a dead body, Max.’
‘So?’
‘Max, that kind of shock can make people very angry. And very sad. It can make them do things they wouldn’t normally do.’
Max slurped at his milkshake. ‘But Grandpa wasn’t angry when he came back from the war,’ he said. ‘And people were trying to kill him.’ He blew back down the straw. A huge viscous bubble rose gently through the uniform pink liquid.
‘I think he was, you know. I think your grandfather suffered a great deal more than he told people.’
‘So why didn’t he tell anyone?’
‘I don’t know,�
� I said. ‘Men don’t, always.’
‘Anyway, that’s not why I get angry. Not the only reason. Dr Å says it isn’t.’
‘Oh?’ I said.
Max shook his head. ‘I heard them. Mum and the neighbour in the garden. What they called each other.’
‘What did you hear, Max?’
Max went very quiet. What did he know? I wanted to push him, but wasn’t sure I could keep my feelings to myself. Instead I took the cigarette from behind my ear and examined it. Perhaps I shouldn’t be upset that Max was angry. Perhaps Millicent would say it was entirely appropriate. What did you hear, Max? I put the cigarette in my mouth and reached for my lighter. Max put his hand on mine, stopping me.
‘You can’t smoke here, Dad.’
I looked up at him. His eyes glistened, and his lower lip curled.
‘This must all have been very hard for you Max,’ I said.
Max began to cry. I reached over to embrace him, but he shook me off. He covered his eyes with his hands, and sat as still as he could, his body spasming in silent, racking sobs. I looked around, not knowing what to do. I got to my feet, and moved to his side of the booth, sliding in along the slicked leather; I put my hand on his shoulder and tried to hold him to me. I wanted so badly to push him on what he had seen, what he had heard. But I had already said too much to him about Millicent’s affair. When all this was over, he needed to be able to respect his mother, whether or not we were still together.
After perhaps ten minutes, Max took his hands from his eyes. I hugged him very tight.
‘People can see, Dad.’
‘Does that matter?’
‘Yes. You can sit over there again.’
I stayed where I was. We sat there for some time. I toyed with my cigarette, and Max toyed with the last of his milkshake.
‘Dad,’ he said at last, ‘Dad, you know how you never hit me, but you said Scottish Grandpa used to hit you with a hairbrush, and you were really afraid of him?’
‘He didn’t use a hairbrush. Where did you get that from, Max?’
Max shrugged. ‘Grandpa liked being a gunner.’
‘I’m not really sure he liked it.’
‘He did, Dad. He told me. But he also shot people with a rifle, and stabbed them with knives.’
I thought of my father standing proudly there with his comrade, thought of the bruising on the face of the dead man. There was no attempt to prettify the scene. I wondered if they had beaten the Korean man before they had killed him. I wondered how many other photos he had posed for like that.
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