by Mark Haddon
They joined the main road and seven texts pinged onto Melissa’s phone. ring me we’re so in the shit cal x … I’m really really really sorry. megan x … ring me megan has dumped us in it cally x … She couldn’t face reading the others.
Being the man, Dominic had been voted into the front seat to converse with the taxi driver who was telling him a story about how his brother lost his farm outside Llandovery during the foot and mouth epidemic. Green numbers on the meter flicking over, the little map on the satnav twisting, though this was probably the kind of place where it led you up cattle tracks and into ravines. He was having trouble concentrating on what the taxi driver was saying. Stupidly he’d left his mobile in his coat pocket overnight. He was relieved at first to find no message, then he checked the inbox and found one sitting there unflagged. Had someone read it? He wished he were sharing a car with Angela so that he could see her face and hear her voice and stop this churning anxiety. Amy’s threat of last night. I’m not letting you do this to me. But what was his offence? They weren’t going to spend the rest of their lives together, he was saving them both from a terrible mistake. It had always been an experiment. If she’d wanted more she should have said so. He had never lied to her. But where was the tribunal one could take these matters to? LOVE and HATE tattooed on the man’s knuckles. Was that Hell’s Angels or Skinheads? Dominic couldn’t quite remember. The man seemed harmless now, pudgy, balding.
Louisa was sitting in the centre of the back seat being a buffer between the two girls, the place usually allotted to the smallest child. Daisy’s proximity made her feel uncomfortable, the way their hips touched as they went round corners, a slight sexual discomfort, a sense of having been watched in a way she hadn’t realised.
But Daisy was a thousand miles away, forehead against the window, a daydreaming child. Long stripes of fluffy cloud above the hill like something was in the process of being knitted. Dragonfly microlight. A cluster of semi-derelict buildings at the bottom of the valley which she hadn’t seen last time, a mouldy green caravan. You could imagine some crazy guy with a gun, dirty children with little hairy tails snarling over a bucket of peelings. Big trees like lungs, roots underground like the same trees upside down in the dark, worms swimming through their branches. This inexplicable abundance, you could see why people dreamt up animating spirits. Naiads, zephyrs. But nowadays? Would the world look any different if there were no God? Could she believe that? It was an extraordinary thing to think, like tower blocks collapsing, like the touch of a feather.
Fine. It was the same anger, wasn’t it, the anger she felt whenever Mum broached the subject of religion, the way she wanted Mum to say the wrong thing, the need to be offended, to be excluded. She liked it, didn’t she, more at home with that anger than she had ever felt in the church. Maybe it wasn’t equilibrium she was seeking. Gemma’s Choice. The lime-green cardigan. Maybe it was release. Maybe it was the ability to say Fuck you to everyone.
Angela told Benjy that the way to stop feeling nauseous was to look out of the window but he was in the middle of some game and she wasn’t in the mood for a fight. He held out till the car park at least, climbing out and vomiting copiously onto the tarmac, the tinny music of Mario at the Winter Olympics piping and chiming from the Nintendo at the end of his outstretched hand.
Richard hoisted himself upright using the cane and shut the car door behind him.
I told you. Angela fished in her handbag for wet wipes.
Benjy just stood there, head forward, letting a drooly trail lengthen.
Angela shook out the little damp square. Come here.
Richard turned away and gazed over the fields. Blood he could handle, but faeces, vomit, sweat … the smell of unwashed patients, stayed with you all day. The soothing green of the hills. He was upwind thankfully.
Drink some of that. Angela handed Benjy a plastic bottle from her handbag.
Benjy swilled the water round his mouth and spat it on to the sick to help wash it away a bit. He hadn’t thrown up for seven months. Something reassuring about it once you’d got the taste out of your mouth, so long as it hadn’t gone up into the back of your nose, like sugar and banana sandwiches, or rubbing an old blanket. That nice sharpness on the back of your teeth where acid had taken the plaque away.
They all regrouped at the top of the car park by the zebra crossing, waiting for Richard to negotiate the stone steps. Dominic and Benjy headed off to The Shop of Crap while Angela, Melissa and Daisy dispersed singly in various directions so that Richard and Louisa found themselves alone. Coffee? He liked the idea of sitting and talking.
Let’s walk. Louisa took his arm in the old-fashioned way. Keep mobile. Isn’t that what the doctors say?
And it was true, he did start to feel a little better for moving. Backfold Books. Nepal Bazaar. An old lady with five dachshunds, looking like a maypole. Last night. You said Daisy was gay, or was that a particularly vivid dream?
She tried to kiss Melissa.
Why would she do that? The surprise stopped him in his tracks. That wasn’t meant to sound quite so insulting.
I have trouble understanding why anyone would want to kiss Melissa. Bit like sticking your head in the lion’s mouth.
Do Angela and Dominic know?
I have no idea. They continued walking. Melissa was horrible to Daisy about it. Predictably.
He kept his own counsel and they walked past The Granary, turning left towards the river. In the centre of the bridge they stopped and leant against the balustrade so that he could rest and take the weight off his left foot completely. Daisy, Alex, Benjamin, he had managed to upset all of them. That shrew. He simply hadn’t thought. But he liked them, he really did like them. Water purling between the shallow rocks, weed under the surface like green hair in the wind. Carl and Douglas, they hadn’t come to the wedding. Too far, too expensive. We should visit your brothers.
Really. You’d have nothing in common.
We have you in common.
She used to picture it in bad dreams, Richard standing in that shabby room, ceiling tiles coming loose and that bloody dog yapping, TV left running at maximum volume since 1973. For the first time she could imagine him finding it simply funny, or interesting, or sad. Upstream a heron took off.
I’m going to go and talk to Ruth Sharne.
Ruth …?
The girl in the wheelchair. The operation that went wrong.
Is that advisable?
It’s not advised, not by the lawyers. But ‘inadvisable’ …?
You’re not going to say it was your fault, are you?
Nor Mohan’s, just that we very much regret what happened. I don’t think anyone’s said that, except on paper.
Will it get you into trouble?
She comes into the OT unit. She must know that we’re over there in the main building, a couple of hundred yards away. Can you imagine how that must feel?
Richard …
If it comes to court then I want to walk into that room feeling honourable, not scared.
Dominic picks up a cap gun, a proper old-fashioned cowboy pistol, dull sheen, sprung hammer, rotating chamber. Memories of childhood scooping him up and lifting him out of the troubled present. Yes. If you cracked it open at the hinge there was the housing where you placed the roll of caps and the ratchet which pushed the next cap into line. That smell, like nothing else. The little trail of smoke. Crawling through the long grass in the wasteground behind Fennell’s. The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. Jumping out of trees onto cardboard boxes from the Co-op. Mr Hines stabbing their football with a breadknife. Benjy, look at this. He holds out the gun, expecting Benjy to take it, but he seems downcast. What’s the matter?
It’s nothing.
He squats so their faces are level. Tell me.
Really, it’s nothing.
But you were so looking forward to coming here.
Really. It’s OK.
Alex sat on the steps of the town clock eating two bananas from Spar, tired muscles b
uzzing, mind near empty. A blind man with a guide dog. Always golden retrievers, for some reason. Swallows overhead like little pairs of scissors. He closed his eyes and waited for the lime-green after-image of the street to fade to black.
How was that?
He opened his eyes to find himself looking up at Dad and Benjy. Really good. Hour fifty-five. But there was something wrong with Benjy. What happened, kiddo?
Nothing.
Sometimes Alex didn’t notice Benjy because Benjy was eight. Then, sometimes, he remembered being eight himself and how hard it could be. Why don’t you come with me?
OK, said Benjy. He smiled and Alex felt his heart lift a little.
She sits in Shepherd’s stealing glances at other girls, other women. Panic, fascination, guilt. A tired young mum in a shapeless grey tracksuit, unwashed hair scraped back, baby in a high chair, two older ladies straight out of a sitcom, all cake and bosom and jollity. In the corner a girl of sixteen, seventeen, with her family but not really with them. Long brown hair, bangles, black T-shirt with a skull on that might be goth or ironic, it’s hard to tell. That mix of sullenness and under-confidence, still not quite sure of who she is yet. She turns to look at Daisy, or something over Daisy’s shoulder, or maybe nothing at all. Daisy glances away feeling both utterly invisible and completely exposed. The girl turns back to her family. Is Daisy attracted to her? She imagines talking to her, imagines touching her. The long ripple of her backbone as she takes that t-shirt off. A little jolt of what? desire? fear? disgust? But how did you know if someone returned your feelings? Was there a secret language? She feels unqualified, like she’s failed to prepare for a vital interview. She stares at the table’s plastic surface, tiny ticks and slashes, beige, brown, blue. Classic FM in the background, something orchestral and slushy. Because now that she thinks about it there’s a feeling, isn’t there, a feeling that’s always been there, so constant she never really notices it. When she looks at women. Not even sexual, really, just a rightness, a comfort in their presence. Melissa, of all people. Magnetism and self-assurance. Was it so wrong to want these things? Was it so wrong to want someone who had these things? Maybe it wasn’t God after all, maybe it was the heart which punished one with such exquisite accuracy.
Machine guns. Popguns. Potato guns. Cap guns. Bows and arrows. Axes. Tomahawks. Brooms. Dusters. J-Cloths. Nail brushes. Dog chews made of dried pigs’ ears. Kendal Mint Cake. Butter dishes. Lovespoons. Skipping ropes. Golf balls. Tennis balls. Squishy cow keyrings that moo and light up when you squeeze them. Squishy duck keyrings that quack and light up when you squeeze them. Little forks for indoor gardening. Rubber knee mats for outdoor gardening. Creosote. Weedkiller. Hanging baskets. Brillo pads. Orthopaedic pangrips and tin openers. Stanley 15-mm heavy-duty nails. Clout nails, galvanised, in ten sizes. Baby Bio. Itching powder. Whoopee cushions. Vampire teeth. Hoover bags. Alarm clocks with bells on top. Plastic farm animals. Videos of Mall Cop, Hannah Montana, Transformers. Fish food. Cafetières. Musical birthday cards. Peanuts in lard for overwintering birds. Wooden chocks to hold doors open. Ashtrays in the shape of tiny toilets. Sports whistles. Firedogs. Bootscrapers. Laces of assorted length. Postcards of hills. Postcards of sheep.
Cally picked up the phone at the far end. Melissa.
What the fuck is going on?
You are not going to believe this.
Just tell me, all right?
Megan the genius. She texted Michelle.
Saying what?
Oh, something along the lines of, ‘You’re a bitch and a liar.’ Like, we’re being accused of bullying her, so she bullies her. Sends actual proof to Michelle’s phone. How fucking moronic is that?
Think, think. Over the road a fat man was stooping to pick up a piece of dogshit using a little pink plastic bag as a glove. Her brain wouldn’t work. I’ll be back tomorrow, right? We’ll have, like, a war cabinet. It was starting to rain, dark spots on the tarmac. What if they blamed everything on Megan? Megan the loose cannon, Megan the bully. A blue umbrella popping open on the far pavement. She wanted to lie down and curl up and sleep, she wanted someone to come along and pick her up and look after her. She wanted someone to be kind to her for once.
* * *
Alex and Benjy were sitting on the bench at the side of the market square, just off the main drag so Mum and Dad didn’t catch Benjy eating the ice cream Alex had bought him. What’s up, kid?
Nothing.
This is a holiday and you’re meant to be having a good time.
I don’t want to say.
Was Dad horrible to you this morning?
No. But he had to tell someone and if he was going to tell anyone it was best to tell Alex. I found a message.
A message? It sounded like a rolled-up treasure map in a bottle on a beach.
It was on Dad’s phone. He felt silly now for getting so panicked. I went downstairs in the night, and there was a beep.
What did it say?
It said, ‘Call me’. And it said, ‘I can’t bear this’. He could still see it blocking out the picture of them at Blakeney.
And who was it from?
It was from someone called Amy.
Alex let it sink in. A kind of satisfaction almost, as if he’d been waiting all along for Dad to fuck up properly and justify his disdain.
Who’s Amy? asked Benjy.
Amy … He had to take this slowly, he had to get this right. Amy works at Waterstone’s with Dad. She was stealing books. Yes, that was it. Dad caught her stealing books.
Will she go to prison?
Poor Benjy. He looked so sad on this woman’s behalf. She wants Dad to keep it a secret.
But he has to tell the truth.
Yeh, he has to tell the truth.
Benjy hated thinking of Dad being put in a difficult position like this, but he was flattered, too, by this brief view through the closed door of the adult world.
Spatters of rain out of a darkening sky. You’re wasting your ice cream, mate.
Benjy changed hands and stuck all four creamy fingers into his mouth. Alex leant back against the wall. What an arsehole, what a fucking amateur. It’s a secret, by the way. So don’t tell anyone, even Mum.
It’s OK. You can trust me.
Good man.
Can we go to the shop?
Which shop?
The Shop of Crap. I didn’t want to buy anything before, but I do now.
What? Melissa guessed instantly but she was going to make Mum work for this.
That was your headmaster on the phone. Michelle tried to kill herself. After you, Cally and Megan bullied her.
We had an argument. Melissa tried to sound as if she were discussing a group of people in whom she had merely a passing interest. Michelle can get a bit over-dramatic sometimes.
Avison wants us to come in.
It’ll be fine. Trust me.
Trust you? Are you serious, Melissa? You knew all about this and you didn’t even think to tell me.
Because I didn’t want to mess up your holiday.
Tell me about the photograph.
I think you’re better off not knowing, frankly.
Stop patronising me.
OK, OK. Michelle was drunk. Possibly she’d taken a couple of her mum’s diazepam, to which she is, like, a bit partial. She described the blow job with mild disgust. So Megan grabs my phone and takes a picture.
You’re lying.
Hey. Chill out. We’re, like, standing in the rain in the middle of a road here.
Don’t treat me like a moron.
I’m bloody telling the truth.
I know you, Melissa. You’re a little operator. If someone else took that photo you’d have covered your back by telling me a week ago.
I’ll sort everything out when we get back.
You think you’re charmed. You think you’re a princess. You think it will just keep on coming, the money, the clothes, the friends, the easy life. My parents had nothing, your father’s parents had nothing. It can vanish li
ke that. She clicked her fingers. No, be quiet. I’m having the last word for once. You are not going to blame anyone else. Give me your phone.
The rain had stopped. Dominic stood on the raised pavement outside The Granary not knowing where to go or what to do. A need for something more central, cathedral, theatre, train station, but this was it, wasn’t it, the Seven Stars and Jigsaw World. He would kill himself after a month here. Ageing hippies and inbred farmers and geography teachers with their bloody hiking sticks, eating their bloody scones. He took out his iPod, put the headphones in and scrolled. Steve Reich. Variations for Wind, Strings and Keyboards. He let music wash over him. That little green sports car, the fat woman with her arm in a sling. The way music turned the world into television.
Benjy decided to buy a catapult. £7.99. Alex was pretty sure Mum and Dad would have vetoed it on account of it being a Weapon of Mass Destruction but he couldn’t give a fuck right now. Benjy could have it as a present from his big brother. They took it to the bottom of the car park and fired stones into the field.
Louisa held the earring against her cheek. Sunflowers, she supposed, alternating leaves of bronze and silver, hammered and cut. Different. But different good? She didn’t want to make the same mistake she made with those ridiculous china puffins.
Richard was leafing through second-hand CDs, Bernstein, Perahia, some unpronounceable Czech playing Debussy on Naxos. Just showing willing, really, because he wouldn’t actually purchase a second-hand CD. Also he was steering clear of books. The Complete SAS Fitness Training Handbook in a knotted bag at the bottom of the bin in the shed. Ah, but this … Hommage à Kathleen Ferrier. Looked rather good, 1950/51 recording, on Tahra, distributed by Harmonia Mundi, bit of Handel, bit of Purcell, Parry, Stanford, extracts from a Matthew Passion under Karajan.
