Rubbernecker

by Bauer, Belinda

‘I don’t know what happened to him or why,’ said Patrick. ‘I’ve tried, but I just can’t understand it. But your father—’

  He stopped to think.

  Slowly Lexi sat back on her heels to look at him, her arms clamped around her midriff and her face streaked with black tears and silver snot.

  ‘What? What about him?’

  Patrick closed his eyes. He rarely spoke without knowing what he was going to say, but here he’d set off without a map, unsure of the footing ahead, or of where he might be heading. He had no evidence. He had no expertise. He had nothing but a missing peanut and the strangest feeling in his gut that was so strong he couldn’t ignore it, despite its lack of logic.

  ‘What about my father?’ Lexi insisted.

  Patrick opened his eyes and they were all staring at him, so he looked away from them and at the grubby woodchip wallpaper before he could speak again.

  ‘I think your father was murdered.’

  35

  ‘I’M PREGNANT,’ SAID Tracy Evans.

  Her reflection looked perturbed by the news.

  ‘We’re going to have a baby,’ she tried again, and flashed her teeth, but it wasn’t the same as smiling.

  Her face was getting round. She turned sideways and stood on tiptoes so she could see her stomach in the bathroom mirror. She stroked the gentle swelling there, frowning at her reflected hands. Even though it had been nearly four months since she’d peed on a stick, it was hard to believe there was a baby inside her. A tiny stowaway, riding her belly, stealing her food and pumping her blood … Even harder to imagine that whatever was growing inside her now was going to come out of her some time next June, come hell or high water …

  Frightening.

  Tracy chewed her lip.

  She hoped Mr Deal would be happy. Raymond. His name was Raymond, but she couldn’t get used to it. Raymond, not Ray – he was quite firm about that – but the name rarely came easily to her lips, and never to her mind when she thought of him.

  Which was often. Too often – she recognized that, but she couldn’t help it. She wasn’t sure why it was; she only knew she had never felt this way about any of the over-eager youths she’d slept with before, but – strangely – now felt no desire to sleep with again.

  She saw Mr Deal three nights a week. He picked her up from work and took her to his home. Sometimes she stayed over. The house was like something from a magazine – white and spotless, with real art on the walls, where you could see actual brush marks if you cocked your head in the right light.

  There was a steep spiral staircase and a bidet in the bathroom. On her first visit it had given her the opportunity to ask about whether they had children.

  ‘Why would you say that?’ Mr Deal had frowned.

  ‘Because there’s a kiddy’s toilet,’ said Tracy, and Mr Deal had laughed at her on and off for the rest of the evening. When Tracy had pressed him to explain how it worked, he’d told her to Google it.

  Then they’d had sex. As usual.

  Tracy looked into the mirror now and wondered when it was that she’d stopped thinking that an evening without a quick shag was an evening wasted. Now there were moments – just moments, mind you – when she took just as much pleasure in watching him eat food she had cooked, or smelling the side of his throat when they embraced. He didn’t use aftershave but he used coal tar soap, which reminded her that sometimes childhood had not been such a bad place to be.

  On the four nights she didn’t see Mr Deal, she had no idea what he did. When she asked he just said, ‘Nothing much.’ Those were nights when Tracy had started to wonder, and to worry. Men were very easily led, and she didn’t want some slut luring Mr Deal away from her …

  She’d begun checking his phone and his laundry when he was out of the room.

  She’d stopped taking the pill at the end of August.

  And this was the consequence.

  Tracy stroked her belly again. She would have to work faster than she’d initially planned.

  But she thought that if Mr Deal felt the same way about her as she might be starting to feel about him, then everything would be just fine.

  36

  ‘I DON’T WANT to go in.’

  Lexi stalled at the bottom of the driveway of the house on Penylan Road.

  ‘OK,’ said Patrick, and started up the gravel by himself.

  ‘Wait!’

  He turned.

  ‘Are you going in anyway?’

  ‘Yes.’ Of course he was. Why would he not? It was what they’d come here for, wasn’t it?

  ‘Well, what am I going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know. What?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Then why was she asking him? Patrick shook his head in confusion. ‘OK,’ he said again, and carried on to the front door. By the time he lifted the heavy brass knocker shaped like a lion, Lexi was beside him again, biting her lip nervously.

  ‘How do I look?’ she said suddenly.

  Patrick looked her up and down, then shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  She glared, but it was wasted on him.

  The door was opened by a dumpy woman in jeans and a big cardigan.

  ‘Alex,’ the woman said warily.

  ‘Hello,’ said Patrick firmly. He had prepared his opening lines and didn’t want to be diverted. ‘I need information about Mr Galen. Can I come in?’

  The woman looked at Lexi. ‘Are you going to cause trouble?’

  ‘No,’ said Patrick.

  ‘I was talking to Alexandra.’

  ‘Who’s Alexandra?’

  ‘She is.’

  Lexi crossed her arms and fidgeted, and Patrick leaned away from her to avoid accidental contact.

  Lexi finally said, ‘No,’ and the woman opened the door and let them both in.

  The house was about ten times bigger than any house Patrick had ever been in.

  The dumpy woman looked at him and said, ‘I’m Jackie.’

  ‘I know,’ said Patrick. ‘Your ceilings are very high.’

  ‘Yes, they are,’ she agreed with a strange look.

  She led them into the front room, and an old mongrel hauled itself off the rug in front of the blazing fire and gave a token bark.

  ‘Ssh, Willow. Friends.’

  Willow wagged apologetically and came over to lick Patrick’s hand.

  Patrick smoothed the dog’s head. ‘Soft,’ he said.

  Jackie smiled and pointed to the couch. ‘Have a seat.’

  Patrick sat down, but Lexi didn’t. Instead she wandered around the room, looking at things as if taking an inventory.

  The room was like something from a magazine. Art Forum or something else. It had decorated ceilings and pale-pink walls, and a big white fireplace.

  On the mantelpiece was a photograph of Jackie and a man with a snowy mountain and blue sky behind them. The man was smiling with teeth Patrick knew very well. It was Number 19, on holiday.

  Patrick tried to imagine him in this room now, but couldn’t make him alive. Every time he tried, a cadaver clicked bonily into the room on zombie legs, or lolled, stiff and orange, on the couch, leaking fluids on to the chocolate leather.

  ‘How are you, Alex?’

  Lexi shrugged.

  ‘You look well.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ said Lexi.

  ‘Are you going to introduce us?’

  Lexi shrugged again, but said, ‘This is Patrick.’

  ‘How do you do?’ said Jackie.

  ‘Do what?’ he said.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Ignore him,’ said Lexi. ‘He’s … you know.’ And she made her fingers whirl around the side of her head.

  ‘Oh,’ said Jackie. ‘Well, I’m glad you came, Alex.’

  ‘Are you?’

  Jackie flinched and Patrick noticed that Lexi had picked up a small china ornament – a shiny stag on a knoll of purple heather. He also noticed t
hat the French windows at the back of the house had a pane of cardboard where the glass had been broken. It looked uglier from the inside than it had from the garden. He wished now that he hadn’t handed Lexi the stone. He didn’t know why she had done it; Jackie seemed nice – not what he’d expected. Somehow he’d thought she’d be wearing leopardskin.

  ‘How have you been?’ Jackie asked.

  ‘I’ve been poor,’ said Lexi.

  Jackie’s lips went tight and Lexi pointed the stag at Patrick. ‘He thinks my dad was murdered.’

  ‘What?’ said Jackie.

  ‘He said he needs to insult the living.’

  ‘Consult,’ said Patrick. ‘To find out why somebody died, you have to consult the living.’

  Jackie stared at them both, apparently lost.

  ‘You’re the living,’ he explained to her. ‘I’m consulting you.’

  ‘What’s this all about murder?’ she said. ‘Your father died because of a car crash, Alex. His car skidded on ice. You know that. You came to the hospital.’

  ‘But they said he was getting better. Then he just died.’

  ‘He got pneumonia and that led to heart failure. You’d know that, too, if you’d been there, like I was, twice a day, every day for months. He was so vulnerable.’

  ‘That’s not what Patrick says.’

  ‘I don’t give a shit what Patrick says! He wasn’t there. Who the hell is Patrick, anyway? Why is he here?’ Jackie turned to him now; her voice got louder and her throat was going red.

  Patrick guessed she was definitely upset about something.

  ‘Tell her, Patrick.’

  ‘Yes, tell me, Patrick!’

  Patrick said, ‘Can you stop shouting? I can’t think while you’re both shouting.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ snapped Lexi. ‘Patrick found a peanut in Dad’s throat.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There was a peanut in his throat. We’re allergic to peanuts.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘I know you do.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  Lexi shrugged balefully.

  Jackie looked at Patrick. ‘How did he—’

  ‘He’s a medical student—’

  ‘Anatomy,’ Patrick corrected her.

  ‘Whatever. He found a peanut during the … thing.’

  ‘Dissection.’

  ‘Yeah, during that. Patrick says that’s what killed him, not pneumonia.’

  ‘Could have killed him,’ said Patrick, but she ignored him and stood over Jackie.

  ‘I didn’t even know he’d left his body to science or whatever the fuck it is they do. Is that even true?’

  Jackie nodded silently.

  ‘How could you let them just … cut Daddy up?’ Lexi’s voice broke.

  ‘Why are you shaking?’ Patrick said. She didn’t answer.

  Jackie stood up, but didn’t go anywhere. She crossed her arms, then uncrossed them, then crossed them again. She bit her lip and Patrick saw her eyes go shiny.

  ‘It was his choice, Alex. He made it years before we met. I could only respect it.’

  ‘Did you give him the peanut too?’

  ‘Of course not! Don’t be disgusting! Nobody did; he was being fed through a tube.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Lexi. ‘Maybe you got sick of visiting him twice a day, every day.’

  ‘Yes, I got sick of it! I won’t lie. It was horrific. Someone you love gurgling and crying and wearing a nappy. The smell in that place! I held his hand and stroked his hair and chose his favourite music and he never even knew who I was! I spent two hours a night with him and another two crying in the car park. I cared about Sam every second he was alive, which is more than you can say!’

  ‘You fucking cow!’ Lexi hurled the deer against the pink wall. It burst into white shards that rained down on the dog, which leaped to its feet and started to bark.

  ‘Get out!’ said Jackie.

  ‘You’re the one who should be getting out! This is my dad’s house! You’re the fucking gold-digger keeping everything for yourself!’

  Patrick felt they were getting off the point. ‘What about the peanut?’ he said, but nobody seemed to hear him.

  ‘Is that what this is really about?’ said Jackie. ‘The money? Because you’re wrong. We bought this house with our money.’

  ‘And what about my money? I would have had it by now if it wasn’t for you!’

  ‘And you would have drunk it, too!’ yelled Jackie. ‘Sam knew that! We both did!’

  ‘That’s none of your business!’ Lexi screamed at her.

  ‘You’re hurting my ears,’ said Patrick, which was true. He covered them with his elbows.

  Jackie ignored him. ‘How is it none of my business? You did nothing but make him miserable. Running about God knows where, drinking God knows what, sleeping with God knows who.’

  ‘It’s my life,’ yelled Lexi.

  ‘You were fourteen! That made it his life, too.’

  ‘Bollocks. He never cared.’

  ‘He always cared.’

  ‘He cared before you came along. That’s when everything went to shit.’

  ‘I’m sorry your mother died, Alex, but don’t you dare blame me for something that happened before we even met! Our door was always open for you. It’s not my fault if you were too blind drunk to find it.’

  Patrick stood up. ‘You’re too noisy,’ he said. ‘I’m going.’

  Nobody noticed. He left the room and Willow followed him gratefully to the door.

  He heard them yelling at each other all the way down the driveway.

  When Patrick got home, Jackson and Kim were sitting together on the couch, watching Grand Designs.

  ‘Where’s Lexi?’ asked Kim.

  ‘With her stepmother.’ He couldn’t be bothered to go into details.

  ‘Hey,’ said Jackson, ‘have you been wearing my shoes?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Patrick. ‘But they’re too small.’

  ‘Not for me, they’re not!’

  Kim said, ‘Did you find out who murdered Lexi’s dad?’

  ‘Not yet,’ he said, and went upstairs.

  He sat at the window with Netter’s Concise Neuroanatomy open in front of him and watched the Valleys Line trains pass through the darkness in short, illuminated worms. He wondered whether Lexi and Jackie were still shouting at each other over the dog’s cowed head. Shouting about love and money, when death was all that really mattered.

  Finally, at around midnight, Patrick curled up on his bed. Tomorrow he would have to come up with another way to find out what happened to Number 19.

  Consulting the living was a big fat waste of time.

  37

  IT HAD BEEN almost a week, but everyone was still talking about Patrick punching the porter.

  ‘Remember that time he punched me?’ said Scott, with the point of his scalpel in Bill’s cerebellum.

  ‘He didn’t punch you,’ said Rob.

  Dr Spicer said, ‘Watch what you’re doing there, Dilip; you’re going to sever the artery.’

  Scott shrugged. ‘All I’m saying is he’s the violent type.’

  ‘He’s not,’ said Meg. ‘The porter grabbed him first, apparently, so that’s why he couldn’t press charges. It was self-defence.’

  ‘It wasn’t self-defence that time he punched me.’

  Rob sighed. ‘He didn’t punch you, he deflected you. Stop making such a bloody meal out of it.’

  Scott sulkily wiggled the scalpel back and forth in the grey matter. ‘He should be in prison, not here with normal people.’

  ‘Very compassionate,’ said Rob. ‘Remind me never to get the flu around you.’

  ‘Or a boob job,’ said Spicer.

  ‘Has anyone seen him?’ asked Meg.

  ‘Patrick?’ said Dilip. ‘No.’

  ‘I hope he’s OK,’ said Meg.

  ‘Whatever,’ said Dilip, then sighed. ‘I’m glad we’re almost finished with the dissection; I
have never seen such a boring brain.’

  Meg wondered idly what Patrick’s brain would look like. She imagined thousands of convoluted little boxes with locks and labels on them, and smiled to herself.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ said Rob.

  ‘Nothing. Just thinking.’

  ‘How’s the reading going?’

  ‘OK, I suppose. I think she likes it.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘I can’t really. Sometimes her hand twitches, but …’ She ended the sentence on a shrug.

  ‘What’s this?’ asked Spicer, so Meg explained about Mrs Deal.

  ‘If she’s aware of anything at all,’ Spicer said, ‘it must be the highlight of her week.’

  ‘Do you think they are aware of what’s going on around them?’

  ‘I’m sure some are,’ he said. ‘But I’m not sure that’s always a good thing.’

  Meg nodded. She knew what he meant. They’d all done rounds in the neurological ward, shocked into silence by the horror of both the endless inertia of those who might never emerge, and the rage, pain and frustration of some who already had.

  ‘What are you reading to her?’ asked Dilip, bringing her back to the present.

  Meg reddened slightly. ‘Well, I did start Ulysses, but neither of us liked that, so now we’re on some rubbish that I found on her bedside table.’ She didn’t tell them that it was The Da Vinci Code, or that she could hardly bear to put the book down between sessions, even if it did make her feel intellectually dirty.

  She also didn’t tell them that when the book was finished she hoped never to go back to the coma ward.

  ‘I’m sure it’s not easy,’ said Dr Spicer, as if reading her mind. ‘Good for you.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Dilip, ‘I’ve gone through the artery.’

  Talk of the devil, thought Meg. At the foot of the long ramp down to Park Place was Patrick.

  ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I got expelled,’ he said.

  ‘I heard. For hitting the porter?’

  ‘No, before that.’ He then cut her off before she could ask a follow-up question. ‘You have to do something for me.’

  Meg arched a sarcastic eyebrow. ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘You have to take photos of Number 19’s mouth and oesophagus.’

  Too late she realized her sarcasm had been wasted. ‘I can’t do that, Patrick. We’re not allowed to take phones or cameras into the DR. You know that.’