The Tesco carrier bag bulging full of Simon’s dirty laundry felt heavier suddenly and more noticeable; it marked him as someone who would dither in corridors, who would appear all too obviously lost; a person diminished by domestic responsibilities, cowed by them. This is the person he would have been, he knew, if it hadn’t been for Simon and Joy: poor, voiceless, pathetic – his true nature revealed, rather than hidden by a middle-class education and encouragements. Feeling his fingers tighten around the bag’s handles, he said, ‘I’m looking for Mr Carter.’
‘Danny?’ The nurse smiled as though Danny was a joy to her.
Mark nodded and his mouth felt dry with the metallic taste of fear.
‘This way.’
He followed her along the corridor, turning right and through double doors that swung noiselessly behind them, and right again, past the nurses’ station where a porter dressed like Steven lounged and chatted to a nurse whose eyes scanned a computer screen even as she smiled at the porter’s joke. They both looked up as he followed his nurse; he could feel their eyes on him, but knew that this was just his imagination. They could have no interest in him; they couldn’t know the momentousness of this visit. His legs felt weak. The metallic taste became more pronounced.
The nurse pushed open a door. ‘Here we are!’
The room was exactly like Simon’s room: a high bed, a visitor’s chair beside the locker, a sink in the corner with the same warning notice about hand washing above it. The window looked out on the same view of distant hills. Get-well-soon cards were pinned on the same cork notice board. Standing in the doorway as the nurse went in ahead of him, he noticed all this even as he kept his eyes away from the figure in the bed. He thought he might be sick. He thought his knees might give out on him. The nurse said breezily, ‘Danny, you’ve got a visitor! Isn’t that nice?’
Danny’s mouth and nose were covered by an oxygen mask. Lying on the bed, only his eyes moved, flickering to the side to look at Mark. But even this small effort seemed too much for him. His eyes closed. Beneath the obscuring mask his face had taken on the look of a man who has already given himself up to death. He was too late.
The man in the bed didn’t look like Danny: this man was too small, his hair was grey and too thin. Mark found himself going to the corkboard and reading the messages inside the cards to confirm his identity, thinking that the nurse had made a mistake. One of the cards was signed from Steven and Jade. He turned back to the diminished figure on the bed; it might just as well be a stranger lying there: less than a stranger, something not human, a teaching aid, perhaps. Turning away, he stepped out into the corridor. No one was about. He walked back to the lifts quickly, the carrier bag bumping against his leg.
I was reading one of his novels when he came. If I’d known it was him knocking at the door I would have hidden it away, but there it was, open and face down on the floor by the chair. I don’t think he noticed it. I hope he didn’t.
He knocked at the door and I took my glasses off and sat stock still, listening, because sometimes it’s just kids who knock and run or shove something disgusting through the letterbox. I waited to hear the thud of feet running away, but instead the knocking went on, insistent. I began to worry that something had happened to Jade, so I tossed the book down and half ran to the door. Through the spy-hole I saw that it was him and I could hardly get the chain unhooked quickly enough because my fingers were suddenly clumsy. I heard myself call out, ‘Just a sec,’ and I sounded too excited, too pleased, so that I wished I was cooler and didn’t wear my heart on my sleeve so obviously.
He came in. Without a word he went to the window and looked out. You can see for miles from my lounge window, right over to the Cleveland hills, but it was pouring with rain and he just stood there, staring into the greyness. Rain splattered against the glass and the wind roared like it does around the tower blocks, as though it wants to tear them down for getting in its way. Unsure of myself, I laughed my daft, embarrassed laugh. ‘All right?’
He turned to look at me. ‘I’m intruding.’
‘No you’re not! Do you want a cup of tea, or anything? Look, sit down.’ I cleared the settee of a pile of books and newspapers. ‘Here.’
I made him a cup of tea. I forgot and put milk in it, and had to pour it down the sink and start again. Through the hatch from the kitchen into the lounge I saw him sit down on the settee. He looked around like he wasn’t sure how he’d come to be there. There was a sadness about him that filled the whole room.
As I handed him his black tea he looked up at me and smiled. ‘Thank you. I’m cold, I need something to warm me.’
‘You got caught in the rain.’ His hair was wet and I had an urge to reach out and touch it. ‘Do you want a towel, dry yourself off a bit?’
‘No. I’m fine.’ After a moment he said, ‘I saw Danny today.’
I wasn’t sure what to say so I said nothing, and waited for him to go on. He laughed awkwardly. ‘I don’t think he recognised me…he didn’t speak. I felt foolish, not what I expected to feel.’
‘And how do you feel now?’
He sipped his tea. ‘You remembered I don’t take milk.’
‘I put milk in the first cup – I had to throw it down the sink.’
He gazed at me, a long, searching look. I squirmed, thinking how self-conscious he made me feel, as though I was everything and nowt at the same time. Putting his cup down at his feet he got up and crossed the room to my bookcase. He took down my copy of Ulysses and flicked through it, only to put it back again. He did the same with some of the other books, like he was looking for something I’d hidden between their pages. After a bit he turned to me.
‘Which is your favourite?’
‘I dunno. Changes all the time.’
Looking at the books again he said, ‘No poetry.’
‘Nah.’
‘No Shakespeare.’
‘Big gaps in my education.’ I went to stand beside him, not too close. ‘Tell me what poets I should read.’
He laughed like I’d said something stupid. ‘What would he say when he saw you reading?’
‘Danny? He didn’t say anything, I kept out of his way.’
He nodded and slid back the copy of Animal Farm he’d been leafing through. ‘Reading used to be an escape,’ he said. ‘Even when I was a very young child I could read a story and cut myself off from everything that was happening around me. In the children’s home…Well, even in the most chaotic of places there are always quiet hide-aways.’
‘You hid away?’
‘Did you?’
I found myself staring at my small collection of books gathered from car-boot sales and charity shops, and even one or two I’d actually gone into a bona-fide bookshop and paid full whack for. I didn’t know whether to be proud of the books or not, or what he thought of them. People are judged by their books, or their lack of them. You’re either too clever or not clever enough. But I knew he wasn’t thinking about books, wasn’t even seeing them. He seemed not to be able to focus properly.
Suddenly he said, ‘In the home where they first sent us I found this huge cupboard they used to store bedding. I’d hide in there. There was a smell of washing powder from all the piles of clean sheets.’ He smiled. ‘Something about that harsh, clean smell made me decide I was safe in there, that it was the last place he would look.’
‘You thought he was coming after you?’
‘Of course!’
‘But they must have told you –’
‘I can’t remember that they did.’ Frowning at a row of books he said, ‘Have you read Hemingway? Steinbeck? Roth? You seem to have neglected most American writers.’ He glanced at me. ‘Where did you hide?’
‘It wasn’t hiding, not really. I’d go to my Nana’s. He was scared of her.’ Cautiously I said, ‘Did you really think he was coming to get you, even when they took you away?’
‘He told me that he’d always find me, no matter what. I believed him more than I believed strangers.�
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‘You must have been scared stiff.’
He laughed, his eyes scanning the book spines. ‘Scared stiff. Yes. My mother – Joy –’ He stopped himself and I was afraid to prompt him.
He went to the window again. The rain had stopped, the sun starting to break through the clouds. ‘May I ask you something?’ He glanced at me. I nodded and he said, ‘Do I remind you of him?’
‘No!’ I couldn’t say what I wanted to say, that I was afraid of the truth of him, scared he might be Danny after all. Eventually I said, ‘You look like him, but then, so do I. I suppose I could ask you the same thing, do I remind you –’
‘Yes. Yes, you do. It’s why I’m here. I’m drawn to you. It’s like you’re a puzzle I have to keep returning to again and again until it’s solved.’ He stepped toward me. Quickly he said, ‘I wouldn’t hurt you, you know that, don’t you? I only want to be close to you –’
‘How close?’
He ignored me. ‘You and me – what he did to me he did to you. I’m right, aren’t I?’
I couldn’t speak, I knew that my voice would break and I’d be ashamed. He moved closer to me and I felt his hand brush against mine so that I squirmed.
Insistently he said, ‘It was only you and me, wasn’t it? Don’t you wonder why? Don’t you ask yourself all the time? He didn’t hurt Ben, I know that – and your brothers – he didn’t hurt them, did he?’ His voice rose as he repeated, ‘It was just you and not them, wasn’t it?’
I stepped away from him. My skin was crawling. Like an idiot I said, ‘Your tea’s going cold.’
‘Steven…’ Desperately he said, ‘We can help each other, I’m sure – the first time I saw you –’
‘You couldn’t stand to look at me!’
‘I was shocked by you, by how much you’re like him, like me. Since then I can’t stop thinking about you.’ Reaching out he touched my hand. ‘Steven, I am right, aren’t I? You haven’t denied it…’ His hand closed around mine, such a cool, strong grasp he had. Gently he said, ‘Why don’t we lie down together? It’s safe here, so high up, away from everything.’
I nodded, speechless, feeling only the strength of his fingers around mine and the sudden, quickening excitement in my guts.
* * *
The boy’s bedroom was empty expect for a double bed and a chest of drawers, and so tidy it gave nothing away. Mark had expected more books, had dreaded the sight of them and the hopes they represented. He had expected photographs, too, pictures of the little girl, Jade, and he had dreaded these even more. To be reminded that this boy had fathered a child would have made what he was about to do impossible.
Steven took off his shoes and lay down on the bed. The duvet cover was white, the pillows too, and when Mark lay down beside him he caught the smell of fabric softener, the same brand that he used. He breathed in deeply and remembered the oxygen mask over Danny’s face, the flickering eyes above it, so that he tried to concentrate on the ordinary, comforting smell of the pillow.
Softly Steven said, ‘You all right?’
The bed dipped as the boy moved closer. They were both lying on their sides, face to face, and Steven rested his hand on Mark’s hip, smiling at him. Awkwardly Steven said, ‘We’re just going to talk? That’s all. It would be wrong, wouldn’t it? Anything else would be wrong.’
Outside the wind howled. Mark imagined he could feel the building swaying, giving in just enough to stop itself being destroyed. The howling was terrible; he wondered how the boy could stand it. Quickly he said, ‘You must make more of your life.’
‘Must I?’ Steven rolled away from him to lie on his back. Staring at the ceiling he said, ‘You’re not my dad. Don’t talk as if you are.’ He turned to look at him. ‘If you were my dad my life would be brilliant.’
‘In what way?’
‘You should hear yourself talk – so proper.’ He laughed. ‘If you were my dad my life would be brilliant because …I don’t know – it’s obvious, isn’t it?’
Steven was silent for a while. Eventually he said, ‘I know I should make more of my life. But then, Jade came along…I always wanted kids. Maybe I got Nicola pregnant accidentally on purpose. I wanted to prove to everyone that I could be a good father. I didn’t need to prove it to myself – I knew what was inside me.’ Propping himself up on his elbow, he looked down into Mark’s face. ‘Danny didn’t get into my heart. You understand, don’t you? He didn’t touch my heart or my imagination, or my soul. Just my body. Bodies don’t matter – you can leave them on the bed and go away somewhere he can’t reach you.’
Mark closed his eyes, unable to look at the boy. Tears spilled down his cheeks and he felt Steven brush them away.
‘Mark?’ Drawing him into his arms, Steven whispered, ‘You can tell me what he did to you and I will say yes, he did that to me, too, and so what? He was just a dirty bastard and sick in the head, and we were unlucky –’
Mark pushed him away. He laughed brokenly. ‘Unlucky?’
‘Yes. Unlucky to look like we do, to be his sons…we were little kids…’ He fell onto his back and threw his arm across his face. At last he said, ‘Five. I was five when he first…I thought I was being punished for something. I thought it was my fault.’ Lowering his arm he turned to him. ‘I’m not…normal. You know that. It’s why we’re both here, on this bed. I’ve got a hard-on like a sick fucking bastard because you’re so fucking gorgeous and I’m thinking but he’s your brother! And then I’m thinking, no – he’s not, not like Graham is, or Colin is. He’s just some gorgeous fucking stranger. But you’re not. You are my brother. And this is fucking mad and sick – and I think…’ He exhaled sharply. He got up and sat on the edge of the bed, holding his head in his hands.
‘What do you think?’
Steven turned to look at him. ‘That you’re sicker than I am. Maybe because what he did to you was worse, I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know what he did to me.’
He snorted. Looking away again he said, ‘No, I know nowt, me. You can just come here and play your sick games and keep me guessing. Well, I’m pretty good at guessing. I know Danny – better than you do.’
Mark moved across the bed. He touched the boy’s shoulder and felt him tense. Expecting to be shrugged off, instead Steven kept very still. Carefully, Mark said, ‘Shall I tell you everything? Then you won’t have to guess.’
Steven turned to look at him. ‘I don’t think you have the words.’
‘Lie down,’ Mark said. ‘Let me hold you. I’ll tell you everything.’
Chapter 26
Driving to Tanner Street, Simon almost turned around and drove home, worried about leaving Joy alone. She had seemed less frail in hospital, more ready to face the world. But patients in hospital took the trouble to convince their doctors they should be allowed home and he should have recognised the signs, he had seen them often enough. Women like Joy put on a little lipstick and brushed their hair, they made sure they were sitting up in the chair rather than in bed when he made his rounds. They smiled and made their voices bright, just as Joy had. And their husbands, if they were about, smiled too and told him how ready they were to look after their wives and how much the little woman was longing to be home. He had become just such a husband, aching for his wife and for some semblance of normality to return to his life. Selfish, he had always thought these husbands selfish, and childishly dependent.
He sighed, driving the car on through the traffic lights in the High Street, knowing that he wouldn’t turn round, that he would go on until he reached Tanner Street. He imagined parking the car and getting out, knocking on number seven’s door and waiting for Annette to answer. She would be shocked to see him, and afraid, no doubt. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, angry suddenly and unsure where his anger was directed. At himself, he thought. Somehow he had become useless, sunk in the concerns of women.
Tanner Street was a short terrace of two-up, two-down houses, the road cobbled so that the car rattled and bumped a
long. He parked and locked the car, ashamed that he was so ready to believe that Annette’s neighbours were thieves. Number seven was half way down the terrace. He looked up at it, noticed that its curtains were drawn, not quite meeting in the middle even though the cloth was tightly stretched. Even from the street there was an air of neglect about the little house. Simon found himself sighing again, uselessly. He glanced back at the car; he could go home, he could tell Joy that it was best they didn’t interfere.
Remembering how worried Joy was about the girl and her child, he walked quickly to Annette’s door and knocked sharply. Flakes of paint fell at his feet. He glanced at the bay window and saw that there was a hole in its glass, taped over with a torn cornflake packet. The windowsill was rotting, its wood spongy-looking so that he could imagine breaking off huge clumps with his bare hands. No doubt the house was damp. He knocked on the door again, then crouched down to peer through the letterbox.
Annette was sitting on the stairs, so rigid and still he was reminded of an animal about to run for its life. Through the letterbox he could see the petrified look on her face. As her hand went to her throat, she seemed to mouth something – but no sound came.
‘Annette? It’s Doctor Walker. Why don’t you let me in…?’ He laughed self-consciously, feeling his alarm undermined by a sense of foolishness as he crouched there, knowing that all she could see were his eyes or his mouth as he spoke. He could smell the breath of the house, damp and dirty; it mixed with the metal smell of the letterbox and sickened him. Taking a deep breath of fresh air, he called to her again. ‘Annette, please. Let me in. I only want to see that you’re all right.’ She began to back up the stairs, her eyes fixed on the door. ‘Annette,’ he said more gently, ‘please let me in – there’s nothing to be afraid of –’
He heard a man’s voice. Straightening up, Simon knocked again. ‘Mr Carter? Would you open the door please? It’s Doctor Walker, Annette’s employer.’
There was a silence. Simon waited, sure that in a moment the door would be opened and Carter would appear. He could guess what this boy would be like: a swaggering bully, smiling excuses and assuming that he shared his posturing, man-to-man attitude towards women and their ways. Or he would be aggressive, demanding to know what right he had to come looking for his wife, sticking his nose in. Simon felt his anger rise, knowing that whatever type Carter was he would want to smash his teeth down his throat. The man hurt his children and his wife, he scared them to death. Thinking of the silent little boy the teacher had brought to his house, Simon began to pound on the door with his fist, causing it to swing open. He found himself face to face with a naked man.
Say You Love Me Page 27
