The young doctor looks grave, but otherwise gives little away. He wants tests. As an experimentalist Dan is no stranger to the process of diagnosis, and tries to read between the lines. What he reads is not good.
‘Can you give me some possibilities, in order of likelihood?’
‘I’d rather not. I know it’s frustrating. We’ll get these tests arranged as quickly as possible — next week, hopefully. What I want you to do in the meantime is just …’
Something about wellbeing, relaxation and living his normal life.
Brenda rubs a little Swarfega into her palms to work out the grease, then cranks up the gas fire and changes into a fleece and jeans. While she’s eating her supper of tinned soup and half a pack of stale crackers, Callum, her neighbour, knocks on the door to tell her that another neighbour, Mrs McCready, had a turn after Christmas and died last week. Peacefully, he says. The funeral is on Friday.
Brenda drifts back to the kitchen, frowning. Old Mrs McCready led an uncomfortable life; her only pleasure, probably, came in cheerfully chronicling her many discomforts to anyone within earshot — usually Brenda. ‘Och, don’t worry about me,’ she would reply to any words of sympathy. ‘I’m no good to anyone.’ Which was true. A dark, tangled forest of memories, connections and secret foibles now clear-cut. Pulped. Peacefully pulped. Gone. Poor Mrs M.
Mike bought Brenda a laptop for Christmas — this is so that she can take an online self-help course which her therapist recommended after she missed three appointments in a row. ‘You will develop alternative, more helpful core beliefs,’ the programme confidently declares. ‘Fear extinction is achievable.’ She and Mike refer to it light-heartedly as her re-education course, a term her therapist gently rejects.
The first session explains the difference between agoraphobia, which as a solo mountaineer, fell-runner and expert in wilderness self-sufficiency she presumably doesn’t have, and social phobia, which sounds more like it. There are video clips of other messed-up people telling their stories. I’d like to hear your story, James said, but he’s not going to hear this story. Sweating seems to be a common symptom, but nobody in the videos says anything about their mouth going funny, or being unable to smile, or suspended arcs of blood.
Mike gave her cash as well, as usual. Always in fifties, always slipped into her bag without a word — it’s meant to be for the therapy. She fetches the envelope, rolls the stack of notes into a tight, red-and-white cigar and pushes it into an empty whisky miniature. Screws the lid tight. She appreciates his love and concern — even if they carry a faint, selfish odour of penance for crimes unknown — but she doesn’t need his money. This time, Mrs McCready doesn’t either. Someone else might — someone noble and undefeated.
The annual comp letters — yes, compensation is the euphemism of choice — always come in heavy white envelopes. Super opaque. Mij pretends to lick his enormous finger, reaches over to Mike’s envelope and makes a sizzling sound. Mike slides it silently into an inside pocket. He opens it later, in the park. It’s a short letter, and the number is in the first sentence. ‘Your total gross compensation for the year 2011 is £3,145,966.’ Then some blah blah. Finally: ‘We thank you for your ongoing contribution to the firm.’
So, here it is. Freedom to do anything. Of course, he could blow the lot in a few weeks. Move from the canal to an exquisite little flat here in Mayfair. Buy a more appropriate car, a few knick-knacks from these dimly-lit boutiques that stink of more money than sense.
Will they make him invest some of it in the Box? Alignment of interests. He’d rather not. Perhaps a token hundred k. He tucks the letter back in his pocket and looks around. The naff winter fairground rides have been taken down and the enclosures cleared away, leaving a few roped-off acres of mud. Above a smokescreen of bare trees, the naff London skyline, just as perfunctory, remains.
Yes, he could spend it easily here. Waste it. But out there in the world beyond — out there, it’s a fortune, and he could do anything.
Anywhere. Anything. Absolutely anything. But what?
Round one is electric shocks, round two is needles. If Dan didn’t have a serious neurological condition when he walked in here, he will by the time these inquisitors have finished with him. He really shouldn’t be squeamish about needles. He recognises that a conflict arises between the instinct to defend the territory demarcated by his skin, ancient and unthinking, and the judicious invasions of medicine: the surgical strike. But old instincts die hard, and there are a lot of needles, and these ones hurt. He focuses his gaze on the intersection of walls and ceiling, and takes slow breaths.
Round three is a blood sample, and round four — he did ask to have all the tests at once — is the MRI scan. Dan and the radiographer recognise each other at once.
‘You’re the man who tripped over on Friar Street.’
‘Wearing a dressing gown, yes — not unlike this. And you’re my Samaritan. Thanks for helping me that night.’ Dan can see that she’s trying to figure out whether the fall and this scan are related in some way, and is about to conclude that they aren’t. ‘I’d locked myself out,’ he explains. ‘That trip was — well — they think I might have a neurological condition.’
‘Right. Yes.’ She smiles, nods, very professional. But she grasps his meaning: she was there at the very beginning. Of whatever this is. A disconcerting note of intimacy chimes.
‘Three Tesla,’ says Dan, to change the subject, peering at the controls of the giant glossy polo mint. ‘That’s a strong magnet.’
‘This is the strongest magnet you’re ever likely to meet,’ she proclaims, brightly. ‘Any metal objects in this room have to be bolted down.’ The pen in her breast pocket is a plastic felt-tip. ‘But don’t worry, it won’t hurt you. It’s just a bit noisy. Let me explain how it works —’
‘It’s okay,’ says Dan, with a modest smile, ‘I know how it works.’ His mind’s eye peers into the moist, fibrous internal structure of his body, zooms in to its fabulous, soaring architecture of cells, zooms in again to its molecular frogspawn, again to a single atom of hydrogen, and again, past his little familiar, the orbiting electron, to the spinning proton at the atom’s core. Not really spinning, of course — spin is just a parameter in the elegant magic of the maths of Pauli and Dirac — but it’s an effective visual metaphor. ‘I’ve worked with superconducting magnets up to twelve T,’ he adds, ‘but I don’t usually lie inside them.’
The scan’s nightmare symphony is performed by an orchestra of monstrous sirens, frenzied ringtones and frantic assembly-line machinery. Dan stares at the blank casing inches from his face and thinks of mashers and slashers and bone-pulverisers, of barbed wire and searchlights, of Pink Floyd and late Radiohead, and of every alarm clock that ever snatched him from a beautiful dream.
14. Blank page
‘These are not matters about which it is wrong to be ignorant.’
Montaigne
James F. Saunders had a job delivering pizzas before he came to Merryman’s Bay. Logistics, he told his father. Menial jobs a long-established literary tradition, of course. It was always on the scooter that his flashes of self-confidence struck — glimpses of the unrevealed truth that would be his raw material, of the glittering style that would be his vehicle, of the fame and prizes that would be his inevitable destiny. Back at the keyboard, at the blank page, this intricate tissue of hope disintegrated in his hands, dissolved, drained into the gaps between the keys, only to rear up again, shimmering, on his next ride.
It was partly to break the cycle of delusion and despair that James moved to Bay. That, and the lure, the quickening influence, the fecund promise of the elements: the sea, the sea. His lodgings are in an ancient cottage called The End House, named after something he has never yet reached in his many abandoned novels. This time, this novel, will be different.
Mrs Peacock has given James a vase of cheap flowers to brighten his desk, and he is sitting sta
ring at these, tonguing a mouth ulcer and recalling Lawrence’s ‘Odour of Chrysanthemums’, when his phone buzzes and makes him jump. It’s Brenda. Hi. I have a computer now. Connection is slow but maybe we could catch up by video? Might be fun xxx
James is submerged in a reverie so deep and viscous that he has to read this through several times, but as he finally surfaces his heart burns for those three little xs. He has, of course, no internet in his room or on his phone. He imagines sitting in a quiet corner of Whitby library, angling his laptop screen away from the toddlers and grannies, sound switched off, while Brenda teases him, stripping to that lycra underwear of hers that looks like a running outfit, sticking her sporadically-pixelated arse in the camera. Oh god, it would be torture — furtively hunched with his trousers like a tee-pee. He has to see her.
He’s been putting it off. He can’t decide whether Project Q has run its course or whether it has more to give. But after this message arrives he surprises himself by writing a paragraph of unsurpassed elegance. Heaving with intensity, yet technically flawless. Lawrencian.
Over Christmas, Natalie Mock’s curiosity regarding her ex-boyfriend was dimmed by worries about Dan’s health. But he seems almost back to normal. He’s lost a little weight, perhaps, and still has that odd limp. But it’s hardly a limp — just a slight stiffness in his leg. He doesn’t have any family history of those horrible illnesses. She has a hunch he’s just overworked, and is going to be fine.
So curiosity about her ex was dimmed, but not extinguished. She remembers the moment when their two futures, previously assumed — by her, at least — to be indivisible matter, revealed themselves as distinct. He’d borrowed some money — eighty pounds, to be precise — and she’d asked for it back. He explained at length why money isn’t real. She said, that’s fascinating, but I’d still like it back. He talked, but no wallet emerged. Nowhere, she realised at that moment, was it decreed that she must spend her life with a man disinclined to grow up. This man, she thought, will hinder my dreams.
Ah, yes: her dreams. She teamed up with Dan instead — older, more reliable, more supportive. She got her degree. Before her master’s she needed a year in industry, but struggled to find a job — the jobs were in London, and Dan was in Sheffield. She got some short placements, then answered a graphic design ad just to pay the rent. Then Dan turned down his postdoc offer in Sheffield to accept one in Bristol. Just like that. More relevant, he said. She made a late application to Bristol, was advised to get more professional experience. Somehow, Plan A retreated behind blurry obstacles, and Plan B presented itself: a large aid organisation. A steady job with the feel-good factor.
She has one life, one chance, and for reasons she cannot precisely recall she’s following Plan B.
‘Mr Mock. Please take a seat.’ The phone call came at work this afternoon. Would he be able to come right over. Dan sits silently, but can feel his heart thumping. He folds his shaking fingers decisively in his lap. Here it comes.
‘I have the results of your tests here, and I’ve discussed them with several colleagues.’ Not just young Doctor Dan’s word on this. ‘We all agree they are conclusive. I’m afraid you are going to have to make very serious adjustments to your expectations of your future life.’ Before he even finishes the sentence, Dan has begun to make exactly those adjustments. Reductions. Everything must go. ‘The tests indicate that you have amyotrophic lateral sclerosis.’ He silently extracts the acronym from this heavy bundle of syllables. ‘This is more commonly known as motor neurone disease. Have you heard of motor neurone disease?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you understand what this means?’
It means I’ll talk like a satnav. Head tipped forward, moist lower lip projecting. Commanding rapt attention. It means I’ll have to become a theorist if I want to keep working. Inhabit a world of mathematics. I could write books. I might live for decades. I might have a cameo in The Simpsons.
‘It means I’m going to die.’
‘Yes. I’m afraid so. It’s a terminal condition for which there is currently no cure. I’m very sorry. But we don’t know how long it will take. You could live for many years. Or just a year or two.’ A year. Or two. As though it doesn’t matter which. Perhaps it doesn’t.
‘This will take some time to sink in,’ adds Doctor Dan, his voice the voice of God. He’s rehearsed. Dan might even be his first. There’s a half-drunk mug of coffee on a shelf beside his desk, its slogan discreetly turned away. ‘There is no rush. I would advise you not to make any major decisions or life changes immediately. Take some time. Try to be open with family and friends and seek their support. We’ll schedule two follow-up appointments, and I’ll give you the details of some excellent organisations.’
Take some time. Time just became a scarcer resource. But in these first scarcer minutes Dan feels an unexpected lightness of spirit. Now that his future has been taken away from him, he realises what an insubstantial thing it was. A question mark. A blank sheet of paper now tossed in the flames. He was going to die anyway.
‘If there are any experimental drugs,’ he says, coolly, ‘blind trials, that sort of thing, I want to be on them. Even if I get the placebo.’ The doctor looks surprised.
‘Yes. Of course.’ His eyes fall on Dan’s helmet and gloves. ‘You’ll be alright riding home?’
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
In the hospital car park he passes a young family — harried mum in charge, useless-looking, well-intentioned dad, sleeping baby in a pushchair, solemn toddler riding on the back. Children. Not for him, after all. Probably for the best, that he and Nat haven’t got round to it. A clean break. For them both.
He climbs into the saddle, still calm. Checks his watch. He should go straight home — Nat will be home before him — but he doesn’t want to go straight home. He wants to ride. Be alone with this thing. Talk to it. Get to know it. Alone, he’s not afraid of it.
But he imagines Nat at this precise moment, perhaps waiting at the pedestrian crossing and chatting to an old lady she recognises, or just home, skimming through the junk mail she found on the doormat. Optimistic, unaware. This vision conjures a sadness more crushing than any other he’s felt. A parade of images follow: Nat helping him out of a chair; Nat — his proud, beautiful Nat — spooning food into his mouth; Nat unable to make out what he’s trying to say. It’s now that he feels his face twitch, his eyes prickle with tears. He has to go home.
On the twenty-minute rush-hour journey, he sees laughing children everywhere. Dads. Grandads. Old men. The world has changed.
‘Alumni office. Martha speaking.’ Natalie takes a breath.
‘Hi. I wonder if you can help me. I’m trying to trace one of your alumni. I’m an old friend but we’ve lost touch. I thought you might be able to look him up on your system.’
‘I’m afraid that wouldn’t be possible,’ says Martha, with exaggerated sympathy. ‘We can’t give out any personal information.’
‘Right. I thought you might say that.’ Stupid idea in the first place. Finito.
‘Have you tried social media — mutual friends, that sort of thing? You can find almost anyone these days.’
‘Yes, I’ve tried. Oh well. Thanks for your time.’
‘Wait a moment.’ Martha is the sort of girl who wants to help — a problem-solver. ‘This is a little off-piste, but if you give me your own name and contact details, and your friend’s name and their graduation year, I could try to contact your friend, and ask if he wants to be put in touch. You did say he was a he, didn’t you? That’s the best I can offer you.’
Natalie wasn’t expecting this. It’s too much, too fast. Too direct, too suggestive. Too downright unfaithful. Or is it?
‘Um. That’s very kind of you. Let me just think a moment.’
Suddenly, Dan’s key scrapes in the lock. He’s home early.
‘I’ll think about it thanks again bye.’
Dan closes the front door, turns slowly and looks at her with a rather solemn, disappointed smile. He overheard and is going to confront her. No. Something else.
‘Hi. Dan? What is it?’
He puts his helmet down on the side table and lays his gloves on top. Eases off his heavy jacket.
‘I’ve just come from the hospital,’ he says calmly, his back to her as he hangs up the jacket. ‘My results came.’
Something isn’t quite right, so Natalie says nothing. Waits. The boots come off. Slim under all that armour. He pads over to her in his socks, still with the calm, solemn smile. The usual kiss.
‘It’s bad news.’ Natalie’s heart lurches. He was right, she was wrong. Doubly wrong. A needle of shame.
‘Oh, love. What is it? What did they say?’ She reaches a hand up to his face. His eyes are bloodshot. The shame is forgotten.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers, no longer calm, no longer himself. ‘You don’t deserve this.’
‘Me? What do you mean?’ He stares down at her. ‘Dan?’ At last the words come choking out of him.
‘Everything’s going to be completely fucked.’
15. Nervous system
‘We sweat, we tremble, we turn pale, we flush, beneath our imagination’s impact.’
Montaigne
Brenda surveys her bedroom. James says he’s coming to visit — he’s going to hire a car for the weekend. Four hundred miles, just to see her.
The main thing wrong with her bedroom, she decides, is that there are too many sticks in it. Brenda collects forked sticks — Y for Yggdrasil, the world tree. Or V for Vickers. Fir cones, too, and bark. She makes a large artistic arrangement in the corner of the main downstairs room, obscuring the stolen race flags, then rejumbles her clothes until all the drawers close; drags her capacious laundry basket into the spare room. Much better. Presumably she should change the sheets, shave her legs.
Learning to Die Page 11
