by Mark Haddon
One person looks around and sees a universe created by a god who watches over its long unfurling, marking the fall of sparrows and listening to the prayers of his finest creation. Another person believes that life, in all its baroque complexity, is a chemical aberration that will briefly decorate the surface of a ball of rock spinning somewhere among a billion galaxies. And the two of them could talk for hours and find no great difference between one another, for neither set of beliefs make us kinder or wiser.
William the Bastard forcing Harold to swear over the bones of St Jerome, the Church of Rome rent asunder by the King’s Great Matter, the Twin Towers folding into smoke. Religion fuelling the turns and reverses of human history, or so it seems, but twist them all to catch a different light and those same passionate beliefs seem no more than banners thrown up to hide the usual engines of greed and fear. And in our single lives? Those smaller turns and reverses? Is it religion which trammels and frees, which gives or withholds hope? Or are these, too, those old base motives dressed up for a Sunday morning? Are they reasons or excuses?
Benjy waited for his eyes to grow accustomed to the dark then approached slowly and quietly, because rats could run up your trouser leg, which was why thatchers tied string round their ankles. Except that it was not a rat, nor a mouse, but something halfway between the two, with a rounder body and a long pointed nose. Some kind of shrew perhaps. It was clearly sick and not going to run anywhere fast, so he crouched down and was about to reach out and touch it when he saw that several flies were sitting on its fur. It moved again, just a twitch really. There was blood coming out of its mouth and out of its bottom. It was going to die if he didn’t do something, but if he went away some other animal might find it and kill it. A fox maybe, or a crow. He had to be quick. Mum …? Dad …?
Richard appeared in the hallway. What’s the matter, young man?
I … The words got jumbled in his mouth.
OK. Slow down and tell me. I’m sure we can sort the problem out.
He didn’t like being upset in front of someone who wasn’t proper family but Richard made him feel safe, like a good teacher. There’s an animal. An animal in the shed.
What kind of animal? Richard assumed it would be an errant cow or somesuch.
I don’t know, said Benjy, calmer now that an adult was sharing the responsibility. It’s like a mouse.
And you’re scared of it? He nearly laughed but there was something desperate about Benjamin’s reaction that warned him off.
It’s really ill.
Come on, then. He patted his nephew’s shoulder and they headed outside, and his sorrow at never having been a father was briefly equal to Benjy’s sorrow for the shrew. They had reached the woodshed. You show me.
Benjy was afraid of getting close this time. The fact that Richard was a doctor made him think of rabies. Richard squatted by the little body. It was still moving. Richard took a piece of kindling from the woodpile and poked the creature. Benjy wanted to say, Don’t hurt it, please, but you weren’t allowed to tell a doctor what to do.
Rat poison, said Richard, standing. Internal bleeding. I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do for the little chap now.
Benjy felt dizzy. He couldn’t see where it had come from but there was suddenly a spade in Richard’s hands. Benjy tried to shout No! but it was like being in space or underwater. Richard held the spade above the animal, aiming carefully. Benjy shut his eyes and Richard brought it down as hard as he could. There was a smacking crunch as the spade dug into the gravelly earth of the shed floor. Benjy opened his eyes, he couldn’t stop himself. The animal was in two bloody halves and its insides were leaking out. Blood and tiny broken purple bags.
Richard scooped everything up on the spade and said, Let’s give this little man a proper burial.
But there were tears streaming down Benjamin’s face and he was running away, weeping.
Benjamin …?
A car was pulling up outside the house. Dominic had started to worry about Daisy and for the few seconds it took to get to the window he wondered if it was the police with bad news, but it was a green Renault and Daisy was getting out of the passenger door. He stepped outside to see the car turning and driving away.
Daisy? Her trousers were crusty with dry mud.
She looked at him. Had Melissa said anything?
Are you all right?
He didn’t know, did he. She was safe for the moment. I got lost. A white lie and therefore not a real lie. This man and woman gave me a lift. They were really kind.
You look freezing.
I lost my coat. I’m sorry. Because they’d have to pay for another.
Let’s get you inside.
The truth was that they had given her more than a lift, though precisely what she didn’t know, something between helping her to her feet and saving her life. There was a blankness, like having a general anaesthetic, coming round with no sense of time having passed. She thought for a second or two that she was holding an elderly man’s hand to stop him falling, then she realised that it was the other way round.
They paused in the hallway. Where was Melissa? I need to be on my own for a bit.
Can I bring you anything?
I’ll be fine.
Daisy?
She paused and turned and almost broke.
I’m glad you’re safe, said Dominic. Don’t worry about the coat.
Thanks. She turned and carried on up to the landing.
But he knew somehow that she was neither back nor safe. He wondered whether to tell Angela but didn’t quite trust her. He’d keep it a secret, just Daisy and him. He’d go up later and check how she was.
Angela poured boiling water over the dried mushrooms. A smell like unwashed bodies she always thought, but it was the simplest vegetarian recipe she knew. Made her want to roast a pig’s head for Melissa, all glossy crackling and an apple in the mouth. Make Benjy sad, though. Earlier she had told Dominic that she wanted to go home, and thought for a moment that he might actually agree but he had slipped into the grating paternal role he’d been adopting more and more over the last few days. You’ll regret it … insult to Richard … hang on in there … Him being right made it worse, of course. Sherry, tomato purée. Risotto Londis.
Louisa came into the kitchen, placed a glass of red wine in front of her and retreated to the window seat. Some change in her aura that Angela couldn’t pinpoint. Sorry about last night.
Last night? Angela had suppressed the memory so well that it took a few seconds to unearth. I think it’s me who should apologise.
Or how about neither of us apologises?
A sense that Louisa had, what? jumped ship? changed sides? A little warmer than before. Angela poured the rice into the pan and stirred it.
Dominic said you were having a difficult time.
Are you having one, too? asked Angela, because she didn’t want to talk about herself, or Karen.
Is it obvious?
You had some kind of argument at the priory.
I am a woman with a past. She wanted a cigarette. Eleven months without, and her hands still felt empty sometimes. Richard would prefer that I was a blushing bride.
Ah. Angela felt a burst of queasiness. Richard and sex. Then it all seemed very funny. Poor Richard. She added the liquid to the rice.
In what way?
He’s getting it from all sides. Me giving him a hard time for not looking after Mum … She drank some of her wine.
Louisa wasn’t laughing. He’s facing an inquiry at work.
Dominic mentioned something.
This girl ended up in a wheelchair after an operation went wrong. Richard X-rayed her. The CEO sent her a less-than-fulsome letter of apology, the family have taken it to a solicitor and now the surgeon’s passing the buck and trying to dump him in the shit.
What might happen to him if he’s found guilty?
He’s hoping it never comes to court, said Louisa. But in the last couple of days … People make mistakes, every day, ev
en honest people.
Angela found herself wanting to defend Richard despite knowing none of the details, blood trumping everything. She thought carefully about where to position her sympathy. I hope it works out OK. For both of you. Her hands were slippery so she handed the sun-dried tomatoes to Louisa who twisted the jar open with a satisfying pop. They were silent for several minutes. She had a genetic deformity. Karen. She wouldn’t … The foetus wasn’t viable. I have this photo album in my head. The life she never had. I can see the pictures so clearly.
That chilly subterranean hum. And tomorrow …?
I’m frightened. She turned the heat down.
What of?
That I might turn a corner and see her standing there. Melissa’s voice a couple of rooms away, briefly audible above the Handel. Or the opposite. That she’ll disappear completely. You know. Eighteen. Leaving home and so on. And I don’t know which is worse. A longer silence.
Well, that’s cheered us both up.
It has actually, said Angela. The gentlest bubbling now. She put the lid on the pot, leaving a gap so that it didn’t boil over. I don’t talk about it much. Which is not good, perhaps. But cheered up wasn’t the right phrase. She felt … engaged. Talking to Louisa, finally something to grip in this great sliding nothing of this forced leisure.
Louisa got up and walked over and laid her hand on Angela’s shoulder and left it there for three or four seconds. A low-rent laying on of hands. I’ll go and warn the troops. Twenty minutes, right?
Alex had no real interest in the arts. He liked some music, a few paintings and the occasional poem, but it all came down to taste, and taste seemed like a pretty pointless thing to teach at school. Languages were important, but you could move to Italy or Poland and be halfway fluent in a couple of months. As for maths and science, he always imagined that if he needed these skills later in life he would hire someone who had them. But history … It had been sheer pleasure at first, plastic knights and horses giving way to Airfix models of Avro Lancasters giving way to TV documentaries about Galileo and Hadrian’s Wall. Something murder mystery about it, answers you could dig out if you knew where to look, lost in attics, buried in fields, Roman roads across a map, obscene carvings under pews. He had a Penguin Atlas of Early European History that he loved. The ebb and flow of Celts and Saxons and Vikings. Something solid with something fluid moving over it, which seemed like a good model for pretty much everything, stuff you could rely on interacting with stuff you couldn’t. Facts and opinions. Feelings and thoughts. Because he still didn’t really understand that this was only one way of looking at the world, and that there were people who looked around and saw no fixed landscape whatsoever, only an ebb and flow over which they had no control.
Dominic put the bowl of risotto on the chair and sat on the edge of Daisy’s bed. She was still wearing her jeans. Pink mud on the blanket. Her eyes were damp and sore. I told everyone you were ill.
Thanks.
But you’re not ill, are you?
Dad …
What’s wrong?
Daisy closed her eyes.
If there’s anything I can do …
There’s nothing you can do.
I’m worried about you.
She mustn’t lie. That was how she’d got into trouble in the first place. I did something bad.
I can’t imagine you doing something bad. It was true. Are we talking bad in the eyes of the church?
Please …
Has this got something to do with Melissa?
Something about the way she curled up tighter, trying to move further away from him. It has, hasn’t it?
Real fear now. Don’t say anything to her. You have to promise me. She could ask this favour, couldn’t she, because it wasn’t being selfish. It was protecting others.
If Melissa has hurt you in any way …
It’s not her fault. Please, Dad, you have to promise me.
He wanted to lift her up and hug her like he did when she was tiny. He put his hand under her face and she rested the weight of her head on his palm. I would never do anything to hurt you. You understand that, don’t you? Because he couldn’t make the promise, because if Melissa had hurt Daisy he wouldn’t let her leave this house unpunished. Have some food, OK?
I’ll try. The thought of eating made her feel sick.
I’ll bring you a cup of tea later on.
Richard raised his glass at one end of the table and caught the attention of Angela sitting at the other end. A superlative risotto.
You’re welcome. She turned to Dominic. I should go up and see Daisy.
She’s all right. She just wants to be on her own.
I thought you said she was ill.
This was a ridiculous game. She asked me to say she was ill. She’s feeling really upset about something.
About what?
I honestly don’t know.
I’ll go up and see her after supper, said Angela.
Angela …
So, we’re going to leave her up there on her own?
No.
She’s my daughter.
Melissa glanced over at Mum and Richard. They looked as if they were in different rooms. Richard had found out, hadn’t he? She just knew. Still that child’s shameless radar for the weak point. Blood in the water. She wondered how it would pan out.
Do you believe in reincarnation? asked Benjy.
Course not, said Alex. I mean, can you remember who you were last time round?
It was the wrong answer. He needed Alex to say, Yes, yes, of course I believe in reincarnation. Because Benjy wanted to come back as a panda or a gorilla, but he would agree to come back as anything if he could only be assured that he was coming back. He didn’t want to think about what had happened to the shrew, what had happened for Granny, so he stopped listening to what Alex was saying and wrote his name using risotto to stop himself crying.
Melissa brought in the two plates on which the treacle pudding bowls sat upturned. She placed them in the middle of the table and removed the bowls like a conjurer revealing rabbits.
Skinny jeans, for example, Louisa said to Alex. I just don’t get it. There, you see? That’s the middle-aged frump talking.
But I think you look really sexy, said Alex.
She looked at him, assessing whether this was just politeness.
Was Louisa doing it to spite him? Richard wondered. He forced himself to turn to Angela so that he did not have to watch the spectacle. I have an apology to make.
For what? said Angela.
Last night. You asked me a medical question. Should he explain how he knew? You never told me that you’d had a miscarriage.
Why should I have? Did that sound harsh?
Objection sustained. He took a spoonful of the treacle pudding. It was oddly dry. He rather wished he could mash it up with the vanilla ice cream like Benjy was doing. But it’s still a problem for you.
I talked to Louisa earlier. I’m not sure I can talk about it twice in one day.
I understand.
He and Louisa weren’t talking, were they? Angela could sense his sadness at being cut out of the loop.
He changed the subject. I’m assuming you don’t have any photographs of Dad.
I don’t have photographs of anything. Mum threw them all away. Or maybe they got carted off with everything else. I’m afraid I didn’t make a huge effort to hang on to stuff.
I have three.
Three what?
Photographs of Dad, said Richard. I’m no longer entirely sure how they came into my possession. I thought you might be interested. I should have brought them with me.
A little explosion of, what? excitement? pleasure? fear? She is trying to imagine what the pictures might be like but panicking because she is unable to do this. Stems and slime, that empty doorway.
Remind me and I’ll post them to you next week. To be honest, I’m not terribly fond of them, but I’ve always been chary of throwing them away. This fear that he would be angry wit
h me. Absurd, isn’t it?
Throwing them away? Without telling her? She gets to her feet. I’ve got to go and check on Daisy. See how she’s doing.
* * *
Dirty orange street lights in the not-yet-dawn as she walks across the wet black tarmac of the Wheelan Centre car park. Wet air and the clang of lockers, the flash of a blue verruca sock, pound in the slot, slam shut, keyband twisted out. She walks through the footbath into the hard white light of the pool, pushing her hair up into the rubber swimhat and snapping it down over her ears. The shriek and whistle of that ringing echo. She spits into her goggles and licks the rubber seal before flipping the elastic over the back of her head and sitting the lenses just right over her eyes. She stands and stretches beside the stack of red polystyrene floats, arms over her head, fingers laced, palms towards the ceiling. The black second hand ticks on the big white clock.
Getting in is like sliding feet first through a ring of cold. She dips down into the blue silence, looking up the pool to where the deep end vanishes in the chlorine blur, the air a ceiling of mercury studded with the red balls of the lane ropes. Someone kicks off beside her, trailing bubbles like silver coins. She stands and re-emerges into the noisy air. Sanderson is on the side wearing the world’s worst shell suit, mauve and blueberry, bright yellow whistle. People, people. He claps and the building claps back. Eight lengths warm-up. Let’s wake those legs and arms.
She pushes off, that first glide like slow flight, four butterfly leg kicks, then she breaks the surface, right arm arcing over, breathing behind that little bow wave the head makes. One, two, left. One, two, right. She tumbles at the end, flipping the world like a pancake. And Lauren is swimming beside her, that long stroke, the dolphin ease of it. They tumble together and swim in perfect unison. She is a bird of prey now, swimming up into the blue distance of the valley. The green of Lauren’s Speedo. That tiny tractor. Tumble, push, glide. Four lengths, five. Still the muffled secrecy of underwater but they’re no longer swimming, or are they? The air is warm and she can hear traffic. Or surf, maybe? The smell of cocoa butter suncream. They’re on an island. Kings and their judgement far away. Lauren leans back and snaps her swimhat off, shaking her long red hair free. Freckles on her shoulder and blue veins so clear under the skin that you could trace them with your finger.