‘We did. And back then it seemed interesting in a detached sort of way. But it’s different now . . .’
‘Of course. Things are different when they happen to us rather than to other people. And how are you – in yourself, I mean?’
‘Okay . . .’
‘You can see why I’m asking about this. It’s partly because suicide has a genetic component. Your mother and your brother both killed themselves.’
‘I can’t picture a dejection so awful that it would stop me wanting to see the spring, if that’s what you mean. If my life fell apart I’d still want another go at things. I’d always want to see what life could bring.’
‘Yes. And it’s true that you haven’t sunk into inertia. Far from it. I wonder if there’s even a bit of the opposite going on . . .’
‘Meaning what?’
‘Meaning the way you’ve thrown yourself into all the chasing around, the compulsive pursuit of answers. It’s about Tom now, but it struck me first in connection with Ibrahim. I just wonder if there’s a bit of mania about it, a bit of obsession?’
‘You mean, am I turning into Captain Ahab?’
‘Yes, something like that. And if you are becoming Captain Ahab, perhaps you need to ask yourself if you understand – I mean really understand – why you are so driven . . .’
‘Am I doing it to help Ayesha, or for some motive of my own?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘To do with Tom, you mean?’
‘Maybe. But perhaps more even than that. I wonder if you’ve been conflating the two deaths. I wonder if the answers you’ve been pursuing are not just about these individual deaths . . . but about death itself.’
‘I’m not sure I follow.’
‘Is your obsession directed not just at solving Tom’s death and Ibrahim’s death, but at solving death itself? Are you trying to pursue death, to pin it down? Talking to you and reading your notes, I have the impression that you’re waging a one-man assault on mortality, trying to deconstruct it by unleashing the powers of reason upon it, trying to defuse it, draw its sting . . .’
‘That sounds a little hubristic. How exactly do you see me conducting this assault?’
‘Wasn’t it Shakespeare who said that what we understand we tend to forgive? Maybe not Shakespeare. I sense that your mind is straining to understand death, to chronicle it and grind it down with your reason . . . So that when you finally understand it you will be able to forgive it; you will reconcile yourself to its purpose . . .’
‘I can’t say I’ve ever thought of it that forensically.’
‘I’m not saying that you have. Powerful emotions can drive us to do things without us knowing why. All I would say, Martin, is that you aren’t going to triumph over your own mortality by playing the detective in someone else’s.’
CHAPTER 27
Immersing myself in the detective work was comforting. It gave me a purpose, channelled the pain into a process. And it brought me closer to my brother. The jacket that fitted, the car seat that didn’t need adjusting seemed tokens of our togetherness.
I went back to the rented house and chose more reminders of him – the book he was reading and would never finish; the camera with the photos he’d taken in Wales; three of his witty, idiosyncratic wrought-iron statues. I searched carefully, haunted by the fear of missing a vital clue that might explain the unexplainable. Tom’s mobile phone had slid under a cupboard beside the sleeping bag and the disposable barbecue. It was switched on, the battery low but serviceable. I clicked on Messages. His last texts had been late on the Tuesday evening.
Hi. Trying to die at the moment. Hope it works this time x
Is that it then, Tara? X xx
I have been trying to ring you all afternoon xxxx
xx love you
Love and miss you all xx
I switched off the phone. I sat in my brother’s chair. I heard his voice, I saw his face, and the weight of the soul’s midnight descended. Questions were jostling. In the absence of answers I needed activity.
I rang the coroner. He said the autopsy had been completed. An inquest had been opened then immediately adjourned. Tom’s body could now be released. I picked up Tom’s death certificate – temporary because the cause of death had not been fixed – and made an appointment with the undertakers. I told the woman who met me that I would be making the arrangements, not Tom’s wife. I told her I was in a hurry, with no time to chat. I caught her weighing me up and realised that she understood. Maureen had dealt with the bereaved. She knew who needed the baby talk and who didn’t. Her manner was considerate but businesslike.
We ran through the formalities. We chose the coffin, ordered the flowers, booked the hearse. We agreed that Tom would wear my shirt and suit. Maureen said the earliest date for a funeral was not for another ten days, less than ideal given that Tom had been dead two weeks. When I asked about seeing him, Maureen frowned.
‘Not all suicides are viewable. We are quite frank about these things. If when we bring him here we don’t think it’s advisable to see Tom, we will tell you so.’
I appreciated Maureen’s honesty. I warmed to it, and unexpectedly to her. She was wearing a white blouse and dark tie, what undertakers must regard as a sober combination, though her legs in black tights as she swivelled on the chair in front of me were anything but. I allowed myself a smile at the incongruity of my thoughts. Maureen said Tom’s body would arrive from the morgue in a couple of days; if I came back she would advise me whether or not I should see him.
The vicar had an earring. We drank tea in the rectory while the birds sang in the trees. He was good at his job. He let me pour out what had accumulated inside. The sun appeared from behind the clouds and I said I didn’t understand why Tom hadn’t wanted to stay and see this beauty in the world. Why didn’t he stay to see the bluebells blossom and the oak tree grow? Who will tell Tom that the bluebells are coming through? Who will tell him that the leaves are out on the oak tree? Who will tell him? Oh God! Who will tell him!
The vicar said I mustn’t feel guilty.
‘We say we are not our brother’s keeper,’ I said slowly. ‘But we are. And I didn’t keep him . . .’
The vicar nodded.
‘. . . If I could be sure this was an adult who took an adult decision to kill himself that would be easier. But Tom was a boy who couldn’t cope. He was looking to me for help and I didn’t give it to him. When I recall our conversations and reread our emails I can see that he wanted me to help him. But he was struggling to put it into words. The hardest thing is that I didn’t understand what he was saying. And I didn’t give him what he was asking for . . .’
The vicar pushed a box of tissues towards me. I pushed it away.
‘Sorry . . . I’m trying to be rational. I know I showed concern and compassion towards him when he was in trouble. I know I helped him with practical things. I acted as go-between when he and Tara were trying to patch things up and I visited him in hospital. But did I show him enough love? That’s the question that gnaws at me. I told him I loved him; I put kisses at the end of my emails; I hugged him, even though it embarrassed him. I sat with him and discussed his problems, discussed the future and discussed what I could do to help. But did I show him enough love?’
The vicar spoke about loss and the persistence of guilt and regret. I took a tissue from the box.
‘I so, so want to speak to him. I want to show him what I’m writing about him in all these pages. And I want to tell him – again and again, although I really do think he knew it – that I love him and that I’m sorry for all the things I might have done to hurt him. But I can’t. And that torments me terribly . . .’
He poured more tea; waited until I could continue. We chatted about our jobs. I said a vicar must encounter a lot of human suffering; he said he did, and I asked how he responded to it. He said you have to be good at listening. When I asked what else he could do for people in distress he mentioned tea and cake (he was from the Church of En
gland) and said surprising numbers of people in our society are lonely; it was important to give them a shoulder to cry on. I waited to hear what else he might suggest; when he didn’t, I asked if he’d forgotten something. ‘Everything you’ve said sounds sensible, but all of that could be offered by a therapist. Why did you not mention that God will comfort those who mourn, that Christianity promises to reunite us in heaven?’ He shrugged and smiled.
In the car my thoughts wandered. Humankind invented heaven for consolation, but also for unanswered questions. There are so many things I wanted to ask Tom, to share with him, to laugh about and hear his opinion on. It hurts me so much that I can’t do that. So a heavenly reunion and a long chat would actually be quite nice, thank you.
Tom’s friend Rick Taylor showed me how to access Tom’s Facebook pages and I was struck by their wit and profundity. There were jokes lit by Tom’s self-deprecating humour; there were acerbic notes on life, bantering exchanges with friends. And there were links to every newspaper article I had written, every interview I had done, every review of my work. Tom knew I would not see it and he never spoke to me about it. I wish he had. Because now it seemed a token of the love he had for me, evidence that he was interested in my life and rejoiced in my successes. I learned that Tom did not resent me, was not jealous of me, and I love him for that.
His Facebook pages brought me solace. But they made me wish I had listened more closely to him. It seems to me that we all want to be judged; we want to be told if we are good or bad, to know what we are worth. We can’t make that call for ourselves and I think Tom was looking to me to be the judge of his life. I didn’t realise it and perhaps I failed to offer him the validation he needed. When he told me with pride about renovating our parents’ old house, about the commendation his work had won at a sculpture show or about striking a good bargain to buy a new car, he wanted my approbation. And he wanted to know if these minor triumphs were the sort of thing on which he could be judged: could he allow himself to be content on the basis of those things? Or did he need bigger, more difficult triumphs – possibly beyond his scope – to be considered a good person?
I found his last Facebook postings hard to read.
Friday 15:49 I have been walking in the Welsh mountains. I saw a cacophony of crows pecking at the carcass of a dead sheep. They had pecked the eyes out and were going through the sheep’s ears into its brain. As I got closer I realised that the poor sheep was still alive.
Saturday 19.33 More long walks. Beautiful views. Dido has snuggled down and gone to sleep after her tea. It’s comforting to watch a tired, fulfilled dog sleeping. She is running and giving little barks chasing a squirrel up a tree (in her dreams).
Sunday 14.51 I drove back here from Bodwi Bach in less than two hours. The AA route planner says it should take three. Does anyone know if the speed cameras are working?
Sunday 21.09 I just received this email from BT. Naturally I have sent them my bank details: Dear Sir/Madam, BT is making integrity check on it customers, how customer use the account and if account still owned by customer. If account is not using for a longer period of time (2 month’s) it being disabled and then remove in next two month inactivity.
Monday 07.23 A sunny day here. When I left the mountains yesterday there was snow on them. The dog and I both agree where we would prefer to be.
Monday 18.07 I heard three words today that I haven’t heard in ages. They were palaver, malarkey and ne’er-do-well (none of them was aimed at me!). I love these old expressions that our parents used to use when we were little.
Tuesday 04.56 It’s nearly 5 o’clock in the morning and my next-door neighbours are still having a rowdy noisy party that started at 9 o’clock last night. Perfectly reasonable to have a bit of fun . . . but don’t you think they could have invited me? From Dave: Hi Tom, Why don’t you knock on the wall? Tom: Pardon?
On the Tuesday afternoon Tom posts a cartoon of a gloomy-looking man with a thought bubble coming out of his head saying, ‘At least the dog loves me’ and a thought bubble coming out of his dog’s head saying, ‘Wanker’.
Tuesday 20.41 But if we walk in the Light as He Himself is in the Light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus His Son cleanses us from all sin. If we say that we have no sin, we are deceiving ourselves and the truth is not in us. If we confess our sins, He is faithful and righteous to forgive them and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness . . .
His final post is late that evening, shortly before the series of texts that I found on his mobile phone:
Everyone I know thinks I am a good person, everyone I smile at returns my smile. People who know me think that I am funny, entertaining and good company. But I am so lonely.
I read Tom’s Facebook postings then typed them out myself, trying to enter the train of his thoughts. I wanted to feel what he was feeling when he typed ‘I am so lonely’ and ‘forgive me my sins’. It had always seemed that we had time ahead of us, in which we would say the unsaid things. But we were wrong. And we didn’t say them. Recreating his life fostered the impression that he was still in the world, that I could rejoin him when my schedule allowed. When the illusion faded the world seemed darker for the glimpses of his presence.
I went to see Tom. Maureen said she was surprised by how well and how handsome he looked. To me he seemed snug and peaceful, like on those evenings long ago when our mother tucked us up in bed. I stood by his coffin. I told him I loved him and he said, ‘I know.’ I told him how much I missed him and regretted not having done more to keep him, but he said, ‘It’s not your fault, Martin.’ When I asked if he forgave me, he said of course he did. I could see he didn’t want to talk about such things, but I told him I needed to and he said okay. I said I was sorry I hadn’t told him more often and more clearly that he was loved and valued; he told me not to be daft. I talked about the times I gave him a hug when I saw him in hospital and how he was embarrassed but I knew he was grateful; he laughed. I said I wished I had done it more often; but he said, ‘Stop it, Martin. You know that’s not how we do things. I know you love me. Everything’s all right.’
CHAPTER 28
In the end, Ayesha knocked at my door. She came with a confectioner’s box of gulab jamun and sugared chomchom. The sweets were a peace offering, she said, a token of her sympathy and friendship. She proffered her hand and I felt tears unexpectedly in my eyes. Her appearance on my doorstep seemed an acknowledgement of a shared sorrow that should outweigh our previous differences.
‘Well . . . What’s this you’ve brought? How did you find those in London? I’m surprised you’re not wearing a sari.’
Ayesha laughed and invited herself in.
‘I didn’t find them, Martin; I made them. There are lots of things you don’t know about me.’
‘You can say that again. Who taught you Pakistani cooking, for instance? I thought you were such an Englishwoman.’
‘Who do you think? My mother, of course. We Pakistani girls all learn cooking from our mothers; it’s part of our DNA, all those spices and smells and flavours. It makes us who we are.’
‘Yes. Part of your identity . . . I don’t really associate you with your mother, though. The one time I saw you together you seemed so remote . . . as if you had nothing in common.’
Ayesha frowned. ‘Why are you talking about my mother? It’s got nothing to do with it.’
I apologised, but she was annoyed.
‘I don’t know why you said that, Martin. It’s a stupid thing to say. And just when you and I were getting on together.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. And I am happy to see you. I’ve been through a lot since Karachi. Just as you have . . .’
Ayesha put her hand on mine.
‘Yes. It binds us together. The loss. It means we understand each other; we understand what’s important.’
I nodded, my throat too tight to speak. Ayesha saw the emotion.
‘It’s all right, Martin; there’s no need to explain. I know what you’re feeling
. And now you know what I’ve had to deal with.’
We sat. I said I would put the kettle on. When I returned the table was covered in documents.
‘Martin, I want you to see these. This is what I found after you flew home. It changes everything.’
When I sat beside her I sensed she was trembling.
‘It was Guddu who told me. We should have gone to him straight away, instead of wasting our time with those awful policemen and bureaucrats. He asked me to explain to him what it was that I was pursuing and I said it was the men who committed the murder. But Guddu told me to think again. He said that what I was really pursuing was my father; that I was haunted by his absence, by the sorrow and the pain of it, and by the need to reconnect with him. Guddu said we uncover the spirit of the dead in the places that have been dear to them. It’s superstition, Martin, but it’s got a truth to it. We don’t give these things enough credence. So he took me to the house my dad had been building, the mansion with the gold taps that everyone’s been getting so worked up about. It’s in the country outside Kahin Nahi. You can look back over Orangi to the skyscrapers away in Karachi. Guddu had a key because my dad trusted him. He said the house may hold answers to my questions and he left me there. The place is only half-finished; the walls need plastering and the floors haven’t been tiled. But it was quiet and I just sat there on my own. I thought about my dad coming to Pakistan to build it. It was his new dream home, the one he’d been driven to build because his dreams in England had been crushed. And I could feel him there with me. It sounds corny but it’s true. I knew he was there with me, Martin. And I knew he was telling me to carry on searching.’
Ayesha looked so serious and so convinced by what she was saying. I felt for her in a way I hadn’t done since our first meetings over a year ago.
Ayesha's Gift Page 16