by Mark Haddon
“What are you talking about?” asked Jamie.
The man took a step backward. “They’re in cubicle 4. Look…it’s probably best if I slipped away. Now that you’re here to look after your mother.” The man was clasping his hands together like a vicar. There were ironed creases down the front of his canvas trousers.
Someone had tried to murder Jamie’s father.
The man continued: “Send her my very best wishes. And tell her I’m thinking of her.”
“OK.”
The man stood to one side and Jamie walked to cubicle 4. He paused outside the curtain and braced himself for what he was about to see.
When he pushed the curtain aside, however, his parents were laughing. Well, his mother was laughing and his father was looking amused. It was something he hadn’t seen in a long time.
His father had no visible wounds and when the two of them turned to look at Jamie he got the surreal impression that he was intruding on a rare romantic moment.
“Dad?” said Jamie.
“Hello, Jamie,” said his father.
“I’m sorry about the phone message,” said his mother. “Your father had an accident.”
“With a chisel,” his father explained.
“A chisel?” asked Jamie. Was the man in the waiting room a lunatic?
His father laughed gingerly. “I’m afraid I made rather a mess at home. Trying to clean up.”
“But everything’s all right now,” said his mother.
Jamie got the impression that he could apologize for intruding and walk away and no one would be offended or puzzled in the slightest. He asked his father how he was feeling.
“A little sore,” said his father.
Jamie couldn’t think of any reply to this, so he turned to his mother and said, “There was some guy in the waiting area. Told me he drove you here.”
He was going to explain about the best wishes but his mother shot to her feet with a startled look on her face and said, “Oh. Is he still there?”
“He was heading off. Now you didn’t need him anymore.”
“I’ll see if I can catch him,” she said, and disappeared toward the waiting area.
Jamie moved into the chair beside his father’s bed and as he sat down he remembered who David Symmonds was. And what Katie had said in her phone message. And the image came to mind of his mother sprinting through the waiting area, out of the hospital and into the passenger seat of a little red sports car, the door slamming, the engine being gunned and the pair of them vanishing in a cloud of exhaust.
So when his father said, “Actually, it wasn’t an accident,” Jamie thought his father was referring to the affair and came close to saying something very stupid indeed.
“I have cancer,” said his father.
“I’m sorry?” said Jamie because he really didn’t believe what he’d just heard.
“Or at least I did,” said his father.
“Cancer?” asked Jamie.
“Dr. Barghoutian said it was eczema,” continued his father. “But I wasn’t sure.”
Who was Dr. Barghoutian?
“So I cut it off,” said his father.
“With a chisel?” Jamie realized that Katie had been right. About everything. There was something seriously wrong with his father.
“No, with a pair of scissors.” His father seemed unfazed by what he was saying. “It seemed to make sense at the time.” His father paused. “In fact, to be honest, I didn’t manage to cut it off completely. Much more difficult than I’d imagined. Thought for a while they were going to stitch the damn thing back on. But it’s better to chuck it away and let the wound granulate from the bottom up, apparently. This nice young lady doctor explained. Indian, I think.” He paused again. “Probably best not to tell your mother.”
“OK,” said Jamie, not entirely sure what he was agreeing to.
“So,” said his father, “how are you?”
“I’m fine,” said Jamie.
They sat in silence for a few moments.
Then his father said, “I’ve been having a spot of bother recently.”
“Katie told me,” said Jamie.
“It’s all sorted out now, though.” His father’s eyes were starting to close. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to have a little nap. It’s been a tiring day.”
Jamie had a moment of panic when he thought his father might be dying unexpectedly in front of him. He had never seen someone dying and wasn’t sure of the signs. But when he examined his father’s face it looked exactly as it did when he was dozing on the sofa at home.
Within seconds his father was snoring.
Jamie took hold of his father’s hand. It seemed like the right thing to do. Then it felt like rather an odd thing to do, so he let it go again.
A woman was groaning in a nearby cubicle, as if she was in labor. Though surely that would happen somewhere else, wouldn’t it?
Which part of his body had his father tried to cut off?
Did it matter? There wasn’t going to be an answer to that question, which made it seem normal.
Jesus. It was his father who had done this. The alphabeticizer of books and winder-up of clocks.
Perhaps it was the beginning of dementia.
Jamie hoped to God his mother hadn’t done a runner. Or he and Katie might be left looking after their father as he began his slow descent toward a horrid little residential home somewhere.
It was an uncharitable thought.
He was trying very hard to give up uncharitable thoughts.
Perhaps that was what he needed. Something to come along and smash his life to pieces. Go back to the village. Look after his father. Learn to be properly human again. A sort of spiritual thing.
His mother reappeared with a swish of curtain. “Sorry about that. I just caught him as he was leaving. Someone from work. David. He gave me a lift.”
“Dad’s asleep,” said Jamie, though that was pretty obvious from the snoring.
Were she and that man having sex? It was a day of revelations.
His mother sat down.
Jamie took a deep breath. “Dad said he had cancer.”
“Oh, yes, that,” said his mother.
“So he didn’t have cancer?”
“Not according to Dr. Barghoutian.”
“Right.”
Jamie wanted to tell her about the scissors. But when he formed the sentence in his head it seemed too bizarre to say out loud. A sick daydream he would regret sharing quite so eagerly.
His mother said, “I’m sorry, I should have told you before you got here.”
Once again, Jamie was not entirely sure what she was referring to.
She said, “Your father has not been terribly well recently.”
“I know.”
“We’re hoping it will sort itself out in time,” said his mother.
So she wasn’t running away with the man. Not in the immediate future.
Jamie said, “God. Everything happens at once, doesn’t it.”
“Meaning?” His mother had a worried look on her face.
Jamie said, “What with the wedding being off and everything.”
His mother’s expression changed from one kind of worried to a different kind of worried and Jamie realized, instantly, that she didn’t know about the wedding being off, and that he’d fucked things up, and Katie was going to kill him, and his mother wasn’t going to be very chuffed either, and he really should have returned Katie’s call straightaway.
“What do you mean, the wedding’s off?” asked his mother.
“Well…” Jamie trod carefully. “She mentioned something on the phone…She left a message…I haven’t spoken to her since she left it…It is possible that some wires got crossed.”
His mother shook her head sadly and let out a long sigh. “Well, I guess that’s one less thing we have to worry about.”
67
Katie and Ray came back via the nursery.
Jacob was unnaturally interested in why
the two of them were picking him up together. He could sense that something wasn’t right. But she successfully distracted him by saying they’d seen a grand piano hanging from the ceiling (Concert for Anarchy, 1990, by Rebecca Horn; Christ, she could probably get a job at the place) and Jacob and Ray were soon talking about how Australia was upside down, but only sort of, and how cavemen came after dinosaurs but before horse-drawn carriages.
When they got back home she checked the answerphone and heard a freakish voice saying that something dreadful had happened to her father. So freakish she assumed the father in question was someone else’s. Then the woman said she was going to ring Jamie, and Katie realized it was Mum and it scared the crap out of her. So she replayed the message. And it was the same second time around. And then she really started to panic.
But there was another message. From Jamie.
“I’ve just had this scary call from Mum. Ring me, OK? No. Don’t ring me. I’m going up to Peterborough. Actually, maybe you’re there already. I’ll talk to you later.”
Jamie didn’t say what was wrong with Dad, either.
Shit.
She told Ray she was taking the car. Ray said he’d drive her to Peterborough. She said he had to stay behind to look after Jacob. Ray said they’d take Jacob with them. Katie told him not to be ridiculous. Ray said he wasn’t going to let her drive while she was this upset.
Jacob heard the last part of this exchange.
Ray squatted down in front of him and said, “Grandpa’s ill. So, what do you say we have an adventure and drive up and see him to make sure he’s all right?”
“Will he want some chocolate?” asked Jacob.
“Possibly,” said Ray.
“He can have the rest of my chocolate buttons.”
“I’ll get the chocolate buttons,” said Ray. “You go and find your pajamas and toothbrush and some clean pants for tomorrow, all right?”
“All right.” Jacob pottered off upstairs.
Dad had tried to commit suicide. She could think of no other explanation.
Ray said, “Get your stuff together. I’ll do me and Jacob.”
What else could have happened to him stuck in that bedroom? Pills? Razor blades? Rope? She needed to know, if only to stop the pictures in her head.
Maybe he’d wandered out of the house and been hit by a car.
It was her fault. He’d asked for help and she’d passed the buck to Mum, knowing she was totally out of her depth.
Shit, shit, shit.
She grabbed a jumper from the drawer and the little rucksack from the wardrobe.
Was he even alive?
If only she’d talked to him for a bit longer. If only she’d cut work and spent the week with her parents. If only she’d pressed Mum a little harder. Christ, she didn’t even know whether he’d been to the doctor. For the last couple of days she hadn’t even thought about him. Not once.
It was a little easier in the car. And Ray was right. She’d have rammed someone by now. They struggled northward through the tail end of the rush hour, jam after jam, red light after red light, Ray and Jacob going through several thousand verses of “The Wheels on the Bus.”
By the time they reached Peterborough Jacob was asleep.
Ray pulled up outside the house and said, “Stay there,” and got out.
She wanted to protest. She wasn’t a child. And it was her father. But she was exhausted, and glad that someone else was making the decisions.
Ray knocked on the door and waited for a long time. There was no answer. He went round the back.
At the end of the street, three kids were taking turns to ride a bike over a little ramp made of a plank and a wooden crate, like she and Juliet used to do when they were nine.
Ray was taking a very long time. She got out of the car and was halfway down the path beside the house when he reappeared.
He held up his hand. “No. Don’t go back there.”
“Why?”
“There’s no one in.”
“How do you know?” she asked.
“I broke in through a window at the back.” He turned her round and marched her toward the car.
“You what?”
“We’ll sort it out later on. I need to ring the hospital.”
“Why can’t I look inside the house?” asked Katie.
Ray took hold of both her shoulders and looked into her face. “Trust me.”
He opened the driver’s door, retrieved his mobile from the glove compartment and dialed.
“George Hall,” said Ray. “That’s right.”
They waited.
“Thank you,” said Ray into the phone.
“Well?” asked Katie.
“He’s at the hospital,” said Ray. “Get in.”
“And what did they say about him?”
“They didn’t.”
“Why not?” asked Katie.
“I didn’t ask.”
“Jesus, Ray.”
“They don’t tell you anything if you’re not family.”
“I’m bloody family,” said Katie.
“I’m sorry,” said Ray. “But please, get into the car.”
She got into the car and Ray pulled away.
“Why wouldn’t you let me see in the house?” asked Katie. “What was in there?”
“There was a lot of blood,” said Ray, very quietly.
68
Shortly after Jean sent Jamie off to find something to eat in the hospital canteen a doctor appeared. He was wearing a dark blue V-neck pullover and no tie, the way doctors did these days.
He said, “Mrs. Hall?”
“Yes?”
“My name is Dr. Parris.”
He shook her hand. He was rather good-looking. There was something of the rugby player about him.
He said, “Could we step outside for a moment?” and he said it so politely that it never occurred to her to be worried. They stepped outside.
“So?” she asked.
He paused. “We’d like to keep your husband in overnight.”
“OK.” It sounded like a very sensible idea.
He said, “We’d like to make a psychiatric assessment.”
She said, “Well, yes, he has been feeling rather down recently.” She was impressed by the hospital’s thoroughness, but puzzled as to how they knew. Perhaps Dr. Barghoutian had put something in George’s medical records. Which was a bit alarming.
Dr. Parris said, “If someone’s harmed themselves we like to know why. Whether they’ve done it before. Whether they’re likely to do it again.”
Jean said, “He broke his elbow a couple of years ago. Usually, he’s very careful about that kind of thing.” She really didn’t understand what Dr. Parris was getting at. She smiled.
Dr. Parris smiled back, but it was not a proper smile. “And he broke his elbow…?”
“Falling off a stepladder.”
“They didn’t tell you about the scissors, did they.”
“What scissors?” she asked.
So he told her about the scissors.
She wanted to tell Dr. Parris that he’d mixed George up with someone else. But he knew about the blood and the bathroom and the eczema. She felt stupid for believing his ridiculous story about the chisel. And frightened for George.
He was losing his mind.
She wanted to ask Dr. Parris what exactly was wrong with George, whether it would get worse, whether it was something permanent. But these were selfish questions and she didn’t want to make a fool of herself for a second time. So she thanked him for talking to her, he went away and she returned to the chair beside George’s bed and waited for Dr. Parris to leave the ward and wept a little when no one was watching.
69
Jamie sat drinking coffee and eating a cheese-and-onion pasty in the Kenco Restaurant (Chef’s Specials, Midweek Carvery, International Cuisine, and much more…!).
He was in major shit. Ideally he wanted to sit here until Katie arrived and she and his mother tore a few c
hunks off each other and came to some kind of truce before he ventured back down to casualty.
He rather liked the Kenco Restaurant. In much the same way that he rather liked motorway service stations and airport lounges. In much the same way that other people rather liked going round cathedrals or walking in the countryside.
The black plastic trays, the fake plants and the little trellises they’d added to give it a garden-center feel…You could think in places like this. No one knew who you were. You weren’t going to be accosted by colleagues or friends. You were on your own but you weren’t alone.
At teenage parties he was always wandering into the garden, sitting on a bench in the dark, smoking Camel cigarettes, the lit windows behind him and the faint strains of “Hi, Ho, Silver Lining” thumping away, staring up at the constellations and pondering all those big questions about the existence of God and the nature of evil and the mystery of death, questions which seemed more important than anything else in the world until a few years passed and some real questions had been dumped into your lap, like how to earn a living, and why people fell in and out of love, and how long you could carry on smoking and then give up without getting lung cancer.
Maybe the answers weren’t important. Maybe it was the asking which mattered. Not taking anything for granted. Maybe that’s what stopped you growing old.
And maybe you could put up with anything so long as you got half an hour a day to come somewhere like this and let your mind wander.
An old man with lizardy skin and a square of gauze stuck over his Adam’s apple sat down with a mug of tea at the table opposite. The fingers on the man’s right hand were so yellow with nicotine they looked varnished.
Jamie glanced at his watch. He’d been away for forty minutes. He felt suddenly rather guilty.
He swigged the last of the gritty coffee, stood up and walked back down the main corridor.
70
Jean watched George sleeping.
She was thinking about the day they’d visited George’s uncle in that dreadful hospital in Nottingham, just before he died. Those sad old men sitting round the television smoking and shuffling down corridors. Was that going to happen to George?
She heard footsteps, and Katie appeared from between the curtains, flushed and panting. She looked wretched.