‘Well, good decision. Great decision, because finding out like this, just coming upon it, that’s a great decision. Where is it, Peter?’
‘What?’
‘Where’s the money? Can we have it back, please?’
Outside in the street there was a sudden escalation of female voices, a communal whoop cut off at its crest by laughter. Through the nets he could see Pam Hobbes giggling with Susan Walsh. At their feet squatted Colette, frog-legged, peering at something in the road. He watched her for a moment, for as long as he could, enjoying her absorption. He couldn’t see her face, but the intensity of her engagement with the snail or stone, or insect, whatever had caught her eye, was there in the dip of her head, in the stillness of her crouch. But here was Jan. She wanted the money back.
‘We’ll get it back. But not for a while. I invested it.’
Jan pushed a half-laugh, a plug of air, out of her mouth. ‘In what? What did you invest it in?’ She closed her eyes against the answer.
‘A new business. Howard at work recommended this bloke, this businessman, he’s very enterprising. He’s going to build these houses in Spain, sell them to English people. Great return. We could get £200, £300 back on top of what we’ve given him.’
‘When?’
‘Well, in a couple of years’ time. Maybe three. He’s got to build them then sell them. We could double our money, Jan.’
‘What if it fails?’
‘It won’t fail. Everyone’s going over there now. It can’t fail.’
‘But what if it does? What do we get back then?’
‘Well, nothing. But’ – as she drew breath again – ‘it won’t fail, Jan. It can’t.’
‘It can, you stupid man. I can’t believe you work in a bank and you don’t know this. It can fail. It probably will fail. And even if it doesn’t, two years, three years? How does that help us? We need the money now! We’re going over there with nothing else, Peter. And we – oh, God – we saved so hard!’
She faltered and started to cry, but when he reached out to her, it seemed to galvanise her into further rage. She stood up and pushed him away.
‘Don’t touch me! Don’t even touch me, Peter! We saved so hard! The bloody fifty-fifty sales, the hand-me-downs for the kids, eking everything out. No holiday at all last year, just to save a bit more money. What were you thinking?’ She yelled the last word, wrenched it from her vocal cords: he could almost feel it. He stood up quickly, tried to quieten her.
‘Jan, I’m sorry you’re angry, but I think this was a good decision. I think we’ll be pleased I did this. In two or three years—’
‘And what will we do in the meantime? There’s no leeway now, you know. You’ll have to find a job, and bloody quick. As soon as we get there. And the kids. I could … You … I …’ Then she left the room.
Alone in the ticking silence, Peter looked around him. Three custard creams sat on the arm of the settee, a fourth lay on the floor just in front of it, victim of his hasty scramble to silence his wife. The savings book had wedged itself down the side of the chair. As he leant down to rescue it, he looked at the street outside. The party was ready. He performed a quick assessment of his situation. Jan was angry and upset, but he recognised this phase of the argument, and was glad they’d got there: she had shouted, cursed him, become frustrated and weepy. She’d exhaust herself on that, freeze him out for a bit before returning to chide him in those softer ways that gestured towards a kind of acceptance. It would be OK; it was just a matter of getting from here to there, and for that she’d need to see a little submission … just a touch, nothing heavy-handed. He moved to the kitchen, where she was leaning against the sink, looking out into the garden.
‘Don’t be like this, darling,’ he told her. ‘Please. Just trust me. Everything will be all right.’ She bit her lip and looked straight at him.
The silence held, and who knew what might have dropped into it, had not a noise from the front door arrested their discussion: Colette. ‘Hi!’ they both greeted her, and as she unbuckled her shoes in the hall Jan stepped a little closer to Peter. Confidingly, she told him, ‘You’re a shit.’
Next job: the barbecue. This was comforting, physical work devoid of emotional nuance, a chance to get his hands dirty. Peter hauled the sack of charcoal from the shed, slammed it down next to the little brick tower on the patio. He’d built the barbecue two springs ago with Jan’s brother and it had been a laugh, a sort of grown-up scout camp, wielding the trowel as if they’d known what they were doing, scraping the mortar from between the bricks, slapping it on to the next layer. His brother-in-law had taken it all a bit more seriously, he remembered; you could tell the different parts they’d worked on even now, Trevor’s side priggishly neat, his own constructed with a cheerful, you’ve-missed-a-bit sloppiness.
The barbecue had ushered in two great summers – ‘who needs Spain?’ he’d joked to Jan – and they’d felt expansive, continental, as they spent weekend lunchtimes on the patio eating black-crusted sausages, chops or chicken drumsticks. Sometimes the Chandlers or the Millers stopped round for a beer or a glass of Mateus, extending the day until it became teatime, and he’d pile some more charcoal on the embers and they’d start all over again. It was a good way to live, he thought, the adults sociable, the kids in and out, all welcome.
Peter fetched his matches and the squeezy bottle from the shed and nipped back to the patio, taking care to shield them with his body; Jan hated him lighting the barbecue like this, and he didn’t want to antagonise her any more today. Standing with his back to the house he squirted the lighter fluid over the black lumps, waiting for the shine to dull, for it to sink in a little, or evaporate. Then he lit the match and threw it in quickly, grinning as the charcoal ignited with a whump.
‘You starting the barbecue, then?’ Peter jumped and bent down hastily, tucking the bottle out of sight, but it was only Cai, his pre-pubescent voice a simulacrum of his mother’s.
‘Yeah, all started. What have you been doing with yourself?’
‘Stuff. Seeing people.’
He was far too young for this attitude, thought Peter: twelve going on seventeen, with his evasion and his monosyllabic replies. He wanted to get his voice broken before he started in with any of that.
‘You can help me now, Cai. There’s burgers in the fridge, top shelf. Bring them out, will you? I need to get this going. And bring us a plate too, to put them on.’
Cai turned away from him and headed for the back door, scuffing his shoes on the concrete as he went, a rhythmic scrape, scrape from the plastic toes of his plimsolls. Peter caught himself starting forward in a rebuke, then quashed it before he’d said anything.
They worked together to open the boxes, slipping the burgers out of their wrappings and piling them up on the plate. They could wait there until the party was due to start. He thought of Jan and her hygiene issues.
‘Get the net thing from the kitchen,’ he told Cai. ‘That thing your mum puts over cakes.’
Cai went in and started banging around, opening and closing cupboards. ‘On the counter!’ Peter shouted as Cai came out holding it. A lacy dome, it opened and shut like a parasol. Cai was pulling on a toggle to make it go up and down.
‘Can I leave after this?’ he asked. ‘I said I’d help Mrs Miller with something.’ It was embroidered with flowers. He’d look a right ponce.
‘Put it over the burgers,’ Peter told him. ‘You seen Satish?’
‘Yeah. He was doing the tables with us, wasn’t he? With his dad.’
Cai picked up one of the boxes they’d just emptied and pressed down on the corners to flatten it, sending the flimsy cellophane inners floating down onto the patio.
‘Pick those up, will you, Cai? Don’t just bloody leave them there.’
Slowly, his son bent to retrieve them, one by one. His movements wobbled the table, so that even as he piled them up, they started to slip towards the edge again. Peter’s fingers itched.
‘I’m surprise
d he’s showing his face, after that performance this morning. I suppose he thinks he can get away with it. Probably no idea anyone saw him.’
‘Mmm?’ Cai was focused on the burger box again, rolling it into a slim cylinder. ‘What did you see, then? What did he do?’
‘You know. I told you. He was kissing Mandy in his bedroom.’
‘Yeah. I know. But what was he doing exactly? Was he kissing her? Or was she kissing him?’
Peter thought for a moment. ‘He kissed her. He went towards her and kissed her. I don’t know if she wanted him to.’
Cai looked at him through his makeshift telescope. ‘You saw it? You’re sure?’
‘Sure. So did your sister. Cheeky bugger. And he gets away with it, scot-free.’ There was a silence between them. Peter tried again. ‘Someone needs to teach that kid a lesson,’ he said.
A breeze moved through the garden. Peter heard the soft crackle of the burger wrappings as they drifted onto the patio.
Cai’s exposed eye screwed up tight. ‘Can I go now, Dad?’
Peter sighed. ‘If you must. Make sure you’re back in time to change.’
‘Yeah.’ And he said this last as he headed for the gate, scuff, scuff, scuffing his way through the fallen packets and out of the garden.
Peter saw Cai once more before the party, briefly. He’d changed (white shirt, red jumper, blue slacks), then nipped downstairs to check on the barbecue from the French windows. The garden was full of kids. Satish was there (Peter’s hands clenching up, his arms getting ready to swing at him). But as he peered through the glass, he realised there was no need. Cai was doing it for him. On the patio, Cai and Satish faced each other, watched by Paul and Stephen Chandler. Satish was half-crouching up against the fence, one hand reaching behind to steady himself, the other held up in front of him, palm forward. Peter thought of Hammer Horror films, the priest proffering the crucifix to ward off evil – ‘Back! Back!’ – and he smiled involuntarily.
Cai was shouting something at Satish, reaching out to grab him. On the barbecue the initial blaze had subsided to a steady glow, a banked-down heat that would be perfect for the burgers. Peter saw this in a moment, and in that same moment Satish looked through the glass and saw him. Cai, a hand’s-reach away from the boy, stopped what he was doing, and for a few seconds the fight was suspended, Peter looking at them looking at him. But it was too late to stop anything happening – Cai was nearly upon him, and why would you, anyway? Kids meted out a rough justice, to be sure, but it was a natural justice, and probably long overdue.
In the stillness of the garden, Satish began to move. He slipped away from the fence, skirting Cai. One more step and he was behind him, both boys staring into the dining room. Cai won’t do it with me watching, Peter thought. Time to go.
He turned away from the window; there was Jan to find, and a bit of peace to be made before the party started. He’d better get on.
Chapter 18
Satish has been asleep for two hours when he gets the call. The sleep was hard-won, fragile. He’s lying on his back somewhere dark and when his bleeper goes off he can feel himself being jerked towards consciousness. It takes a half-second to register: bed, table, empty walls, door with its institutional handle. He’s on call. Even as he’s coming to, he’s already reaching out to grab the bleep. It’s a crash.
Pyjama bottoms off, trousers on (wobbling backwards onto the bed, one foot caught in the leg), sweater on, grab ID and keys, down the stairs in a slithering scramble, out of the door, and across the narrow street to the hospital where the entrance is a funnel of light that sucks you in and you dodge and weave around the people dallying in reception, jog down the corridor, rub the grit from the corners of your eyes, find the lift and fall on the call button, leaning against it to get your breath back as you watch it rise. And in the lift there’s a hiatus. You rest against the wall and steady your breathing, your body slightly bent. Then there’s a little bounce as you reach the right floor and then you’re off again, through the double doors and running, sidestep the gurney, nudging the porter as you do so. Round the corner, a banging in your throat, sweat in your armpits. Past the empty reception desk, past the clock which tells you it’s just after three in the morning, past a shout which may or may not have been for you, but this isn’t the time, and there’s the registrar, Kawther, waiting for you outside the Cath Lab, her arms full of files and paper and X-ray images.
‘Kawther.’
‘Seven-months-old boy; five-weeks post-Fallots’ repair. Mum noticed racing heartbeat and distress. Brought him in herself. ECG confirms it – he’s very sick. He’s in there.’ She gestures to the lab behind her.
Kawther’s good, and she’s usually right, but Satish holds his hand out for the test results anyway. She pushes a printout towards him.
There’s an aesthetic balance to a normal ECG, the gentle foothills of the P-and T-waves between the peaks of ventricular beats, curves and angles in a dignified advance. But this – this is nothing like that. It’s textbook SVT, a staccato run of spikes across the page. This heart’s running so fast you can’t even see the P-waves. Kawther is spot-on.
‘Get parental consent, now,’ he tells her. ‘Have you paged an anaesthetist?’
‘Just arrived.’
He makes for the Cath Lab door. As Kawther turns away he hears her say, ‘Good luck,’ and then, when he does not answer, he hears a ‘Sorry’ under her breath. He wants to ask her what she means, but she’s halfway down the corridor and there’s a sick child waiting. He pushes open the lab door.
The baby lies on the bed in his nappy, waxy-pale and panting. His body’s already gone into deep shock. The anaesthetist is setting up. Charles, Satish remembers: Charles Bennett. Clare Munroe is assisting. Charles acknowledges him with a nod.
‘I’m going to shock him,’ says Satish. ‘I’ll get some adrenaline out in case he arrests.’
‘Great. We’re almost there,’ Charles tells him as he tips back the child’s head, pulls his mouth open, and bears down on him with the tube.
Satish goes to the drugs cupboard. All at once the serendipity of it strikes him, and he pushes away the thought that this is inappropriate, that this is a terrible time to be stocking up, because he knows he can do it swiftly, and that the child won’t suffer because of it, and that no one will be any the wiser. He glances up: Charles is leaning over the baby now, focused on the task. Clare has one eye on the monitor. Satish slips his hand into the cabinet, palms a bottle from the back of the middle shelf and slides it into his pocket. Then he takes a second bottle, from the top shelf this time, and places it on the instruments table.
‘How are you doing?’
‘Fine.’
Satish washes his hands. The clock ticks. 3.10 a.m. He reaches for the defibrillator.
‘He’s out?’ he asks.
‘Out.’ Clare steps away from the bed, turns her full attention to the monitor. Charles is bagging the child now, pushing oxygen into his lungs. They’re ready.
‘Charge.’
As the defibrillator charges, Satish watches the child’s chest, its speedy rise and fall. In that brief moment he thinks of Mike Halloran, the fly-boy, and of all those cardiac surgeons with their God-complexes. Maybe they need it, those golden boys, because it’s not like that for him. This is a moment of calm. He’s going to do his job. He leans forward.
They all jump when the knock comes on the door.
‘No!’ shouts Satish, low and clear. He extends the paddles towards the baby. Outside there’s a scuffling sound, voices. The door bursts open; he sees Kawther looking stricken, but he’s focused on the woman in front of her. It’s Sarah, and as she lunges into the room, he realises: this is Louis.
‘Wait!’ she tells him. ‘Hang on! What are you doing to him?’ She comes so close he has to swivel to prevent her from touching the paddles.
‘He’s very sick, Sarah. I need to shock his heart, try to get it back into a normal rhythm.’ Satish reaches over, replaces the paddles
, dumps the charge. He can see the baby – her baby, he corrects himself. Sarah sees him, too, intubated, bagged, unmoving under the weight of the anaesthetic. Her expression falters.
‘I know he’s sick. I want to know what you’re doing to him.’
Charles and Clare have heard her emphasis. They twitch towards Satish, like watchful meerkats.
‘I’m the duty consultant tonight, Sarah, and I need to act quickly. Please step outside with Kawther. She’ll explain.’
‘You’re pressuring me.’
‘He needs help right now.’
‘You’re – ’Then she puts herself between Satish and the bed, her hands held up defensively. She’s wearing the scarecrow outfit of a mother pulled from sleep by a medical emergency: the baggy sweatshirt, pyjama trousers, shoes without socks. ‘This is happening too fast. You’re pressuring me. I know he needs treatment; I just don’t think you should do it.’
Kawther breaks the pause that follows. ‘Mrs Stevens, it’s the middle of the night. Dr Patel’s the duty doctor, and Louis needs help right now.’
Sarah’s still holding a hand out to keep Satish away from Louis, her other hand pulling at the hem of her sweatshirt. When she speaks next, he’s taken aback by the force of her words.
‘I know he needs help. I’m not stupid. I just don’t want you to give it. I want another doctor. You won’t – he won’t …’ She turns to Kawther. ‘I have good reason to believe that Satish – Dr Patel – won’t do the best for my son. He’s emotionally involved. He’s not the right person for this. Call someone else.’
Kawther’s a professional, but this is solid gold, Satish can tell. He can imagine how this will play out in the staff canteen: emotionally involved, she’ll tell them. Satish! Charles shifts at the head of the bed. Clare looks up from the monitor. Satish wants to throw them all out, to get rid of the witnesses. Instead, in the quiet following Sarah’s statement, he knows that something is required of him.
‘Sarah and I knew each other as children,’ he tells them. ‘That’s what she’s referring to, I think. We didn’t get on well back then, and until last week I hadn’t seen her for over twenty years. Sarah, you’re understandably anxious about Louis, and I think that’s making you feel … unreasonable things. I am not emotionally involved with you or with him.’ Every word a clue, every word a window to see into.
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