A Spot of Bother

by Mark Haddon

  Unaccountably he was now on all fours between the armchair and the television, rocking back and forth, attempting to comfort himself by making the sound of a cow.

  He considered grasping the nettle and lifting his shirt and undoing his trousers to examine the lesion. A part of his mind knew that it would be reassuringly unchanged. Another part of his mind knew with equal certainty that it would be broiling like a fist of live bait. And a third part of his mind knew that the precise nature of what he would find was irrelevant to this new problem which was bigger and considerably less soluble than the health of his skin.

  He was not used to having his mind occupied by three entirely separate voices. There was so much pressure inside his head it seemed possible that his eyes might burst.

  He tried moving back to the armchair, for propriety’s sake if nothing else, but he couldn’t do it, as if the terrifying thoughts now haunting him were borne on some ferocious wind which was partly blocked by the furniture.

  He continued to rock back and forth and resigned himself to keeping the mooing at as low a volume as possible.

  24

  Jamie parked round the corner from Katie’s house and composed himself.

  You never did escape, of course.

  School might have been shit, but at least it was simple. If you could remember your nine times table, steer clear of Greg Pattershall and draw cartoons of Mrs. Cox with fangs and bat wings you pretty much had it sorted.

  None of which got you very far at thirty-three.

  What they failed to teach you at school was that the whole business of being human just got messier and more complicated as you got older.

  You could tell the truth, be polite, take everyone’s feelings into consideration and still have to deal with other people’s shit. At nine or ninety.

  He met Daniel at college. And at first it was a relief to find someone who wasn’t shagging everything in sight now they were away from home. Then, when the thrill of having a steady boyfriend faded, he realized he was living with a bird-watching Black Sabbath fan and the horrifying thought occurred to him that he might be cut from the same cloth, that even being a sexual pariah in the eyes of the good burghers of Peterborough had failed to make him interesting or cool.

  He’d tried celibacy. The only problem was the lack of sex. After a couple of months you’d settle for anything and find yourself being sucked off behind a large shrub at the top of the heath, which was fine until you came, and the fairy dust evaporated and you realized Prince Charming had a lisp and a weird mole on his ear. And there were Sunday evenings when reading a book was like pulling teeth, so you ate a tin of sweetened condensed milk with a spoon in front of French and Saunders and something toxic seeped under the sash windows and you began to wonder what in God’s name the point of it all was.

  He didn’t want much. Companionship. Shared interests. A bit of space.

  The problem was that no one else knew what they wanted.

  He’d managed three half-decent relationships since Daniel. But something always changed after six months, after a year. They wanted more. Or less. Nicholas thought they should spice up their love life by sleeping with other people. Steven thought he should move in. With his cats. And Olly slid into a deep depression after his father died so that Jamie turned from a partner into some kind of social worker.

  Fast-forward six years and he and Shona were in the pub after work when she said that she was going to try and fix him up with a cute builder who was decorating the Prince’s Avenue flats. But she was drunk and Jamie couldn’t imagine how Shona, of all people, had correctly ascertained the sexual orientation of a working-class person. So he forgot about the conversation completely until they were over in Muswell Hill, and Jamie was doing a walk-through, zapping the interior measurements and having a vague sexual fantasy about the guy painting the kitchen when Shona came in and said, “Tony, this is Jamie. Jamie, this is Tony,” and Tony turned round and smiled and Jamie realized that Shona was, in truth, a wiser old bird than he’d given her credit for.

  She slipped away and he and Tony talked about property development and cycling and Tunisia, with a glancing reference to the ponds on the heath to make absolutely sure they were singing from the same hymn sheet and Tony pulled a printed business card from his back pocket and said, “If you ever need anything…” which Jamie did, very much.

  He waited a couple of nights so as not to seem desperate, then met him for a drink in Highgate. Tony told a story about bathing naked with friends off Studland and how they had to empty wastebins and turn the black bags into rudimentary kilts to hitch back to Poole after their clothes were nicked. And Jamie explained how he reread The Lord of the Rings every year. But it felt right. The difference. Like two interlocking pieces of jigsaw.

  After an Indian meal they went back to Jamie’s flat and Tony did at least two things to him on the sofa that no one had ever done to him before then came back and did them again the following evening, and suddenly life became very good indeed.

  It made him uncomfortable, being dragged along to Chelsea matches. It made him uncomfortable, ringing in sick so they could fly to Edinburgh for a long weekend. But Jamie needed someone who made him uncomfortable. Because getting too comfortable was the thin end of a wedge whose thick end involved him turning into his father.

  And, of course, if a banister broke or the kitchen needed a new coat of paint, well, that made up for the Clash at high volume and work boots in the sink.

  They had arguments. You couldn’t spend a day in Tony’s company without an argument. But Tony thought they were all part of the fun of human relationships. Tony also liked sex as a way of making up afterward. In fact, Jamie sometimes wondered whether Tony only started arguments so they could make up afterward. But the sex was too good to complain.

  And now they were at one another’s throats over a wedding. A wedding that had bugger all to do with Tony and, to be honest, not a lot to do with Jamie.

  There was a crick in his neck.

  He lifted his head and realized that he’d been leaning his forehead on the steering wheel for the last five minutes.

  He got out of the car. Tony was right. He couldn’t make Katie change her mind. It was guilt, really. Not having been there to listen.

  There was no use worrying about that now. He had to make amends. Then he could stop feeling guilty.

  Fuck. He should have bought cake.

  It didn’t matter. Cake wasn’t really the point.

  Half past two. They’d have the rest of the afternoon before Ray got home. Tea. Chat. Piggybacks and airplanes for Jacob. If they were lucky he’d take a nap and they could have a decent talk.

  He walked up the path and rang the bell.

  The door opened and he found the hallway blocked by Ray wearing paint-spattered overalls and holding some kind of electric drill.

  “So, that’s two of us taking the day off,” said Ray. “Gas leak at the office.” He held up the drill and pressed the button so that it whizzed a bit. “You heard the news, then.”

  “I did.” Jamie nodded. “Congratulations.”

  Congratulations?

  Ray extended a beefy paw and Jamie found his own hand sucked into its gravitational field.

  “That’s a relief,” said Ray. “Thought you might’ve come to punch my lights out.”

  Jamie managed a laugh. “It wouldn’t be much of a fight, would it.”

  “No.” Ray’s laughter was louder and more relaxed. “You coming in?”

  “Sure. Is Katie around?”

  “Sainsbury’s. With Jacob. I’m fixing stuff. Should be back in half an hour.”

  Before Jamie could think of an appointment he might have been en route to Ray closed the door behind him. “Have a cup of coffee while I stick the door back on this cupboard.”

  “I’d prefer tea, if that’s OK,” said Jamie. The word tea did not sound manly.

  “I reckon we can do tea.”

  Jamie sat himself down at the kitchen table f
eeling not unlike he had felt in the back of that Cessna before the ill-fated parachute jump.

  “Glad you came.” Ray put the drill down and washed his hands. “Something I wanted to ask you.”

  A horrifying image came to mind of Ray patiently soaking up the hate waves over the past eight months, waiting for the moment when he and Jamie were finally alone together.

  He put the kettle on, leant against the sink, pushed his hands deep into his trouser pockets and stared at the floor. “Do you reckon I should marry Katie?”

  Jamie wasn’t sure he’d heard this correctly. And there were certain questions you just didn’t answer in case you’d got the wrong end of a very big stick (Neil Turley in the showers after football that summer, for example).

  “You know her better than me.” Ray had the look on his face that Katie had at eight when she was trying to bend spoons with mind power. “Do you…? I mean, this is going to sound bloody stupid, but do you think she actually loves me?”

  This question Jamie heard with horrible clarity. He was now sitting at the door of the Cessna with four thousand feet of nothing between his feet and Hertfordshire. In five seconds he’d be dropping like a stone, passing out and filling his helmet with sick.

  Ray looked up. There was a silence in the kitchen like the silence in an isolated barn in a horror film.

  Deep breath. Tell the truth. Be polite. Take Ray’s feelings into consideration. Deal with the shit. “I don’t know. I really don’t. Katie and I haven’t talked that much over the last year. I’ve been busy, she’s been spending time with you…” He trailed off.

  Ray seemed to have shrunk to the size of an entirely normal human being. “She gets so bloody angry.”

  Jamie badly wanted the tea, if only for something to hold.

  “I mean, I get angry,” said Ray. He put tea bags into two mugs and poured the water. “Tell me about it. But Katie…”

  “I know,” said Jamie.

  Was Ray listening? It was hard to tell. Perhaps he just needed someone to aim the words at.

  “It’s like this black cloud,” said Ray.

  How did Ray do it? One moment he was dominating a room the way a lorry would. Next minute he was down a hole and asking you for help. Why couldn’t he suffer in a way they could all enjoy from a safe distance?

  “It’s not you,” said Jamie.

  Ray looked up. “Really?”

  “Well, maybe it is you.” Jamie paused. “But she gets angry with us, too.”

  “Right.” Ray bent down and slid Rawlplugs into four holes he’d drilled inside the cupboard. “Right.” He stood and removed the tea bags. The atmosphere slackened a little and Jamie began looking forward to a conversation about football or loft insulation. But when Ray placed the tea in front of Jamie he said, “So, what about you and Tony?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, what about you and Tony?”

  “I’m not sure I understand,” said Jamie.

  “You love him, right?”

  Jesus H. Christ. If Ray made a habit of asking questions like this, no wonder Katie got angry.

  Ray slid some more Rawlplugs into the door of the cupboard. “I mean, Katie said you were lonely. Then you met this chap and…you know…Bingo.”

  Was it humanly possible to feel more ill at ease than he did at this moment? His hands were shaking and there were ripples in the tea like in Jurassic Park when the T. rex was approaching.

  “Katie says he’s a decent bloke.”

  “Why are we talking about me and Tony?”

  “You have arguments, right?” said Ray.

  “Ray, it’s none of your business whether we have arguments or not.”

  Dear God. He was telling Ray to back off. Jamie never told people to back off. He felt like he did when Robbie North threw that can of petrol onto the bonfire, knowing that a bad thing was about to happen very soon.

  “Sorry.” Ray held up his hands. “This gay stuff’s all a bit foreign to me.”

  “It’s got absolutely nothing to do with…Jeez.” Jamie put his tea down in case he spilled it. He felt a little dizzy. He took a deep breath and spoke slowly. “Yes. Tony and I have arguments. Yes, I love Tony. And…”

  I love Tony.

  He’d said he loved Tony. He’d said it to Ray. He hadn’t even said it to himself.

  Did he love Tony?

  Christ alive.

  Ray said, “Look—”

  “No. Wait.” Jamie put his head in his hands.

  It was the life/school/other-people thing all over again. You turned up at your sister’s house with the best of intentions, you found yourself talking to someone who had failed to grasp the most basic rules of human conversation and suddenly there was a motorway pileup in your head.

  He steeled himself. “Perhaps we should just talk about football.”

  “Football?” asked Ray.

  “Man stuff.” The bizarre idea came to him that they could be friends. Maybe not friends. But people who could rub along together. Christmas in the trenches and all that.

  “Are you taking the piss?” asked Ray.

  Jamie breathed deeply. “Katie’s lovely. But she’s hard work. You couldn’t give her a biscuit against her will. If she’s marrying you it’s because she wants to marry you.”

  The drill slid off the counter and hit the stone floor tiles and it sounded like a mortar shell going off.

  25

  Something had happened to George.

  It started that evening when she came back into the living room to find him scrabbling about under the armchair looking for the TV remote. He got to his feet and asked what she’d been up to.

  “Writing a letter.”

  “Who to?”

  “Anna. In Melbourne.”

  “So what have you been telling her?” asked George.

  “About the wedding. About your studio. About the extension the Khans have added to her old house.”

  George didn’t talk about her family, or the books she was reading, or whether they should get a new sofa. But for the rest of the evening he wanted to know what she thought about all these things. When he finally fell asleep it was probably due to exhaustion. He hadn’t sustained a conversation this long in twenty years.

  The following day continued in much the same fashion. When he wasn’t working at the bottom of the garden or listening to Tony Bennett at double the usual volume he was following her from room to room.

  When she asked if he was OK he insisted that it was good to talk and that they didn’t do it enough. He was right, of course. And perhaps she should have been a little more appreciative of the attention. But it was scary.

  Dear God, there were times when she’d prayed for him to open up a little. But not overnight. Not like he’d suffered a blow to the head.

  There was a practical problem, too. Seeing David when George had no interest in what she was doing was one thing. Seeing David when George was following her every move was another.

  Except that he wasn’t very good at it. The listening, the taking an interest. He reminded her of Jamie at four. Froggy wants to talk to you on the phone…Get on the sofa train, it’s about to start! Anything to hold her attention.

  Just before they climbed into bed he’d wandered out of the bathroom holding a soiled Q-tip to ask whether she thought it was normal to have that much wax in one’s ear.

  David could do it. The listening, the taking an interest.

  The following afternoon they were sitting in his living room with the French windows open. He was talking about stamps.

  “Jersey World War Two occupation issues. The 1888 dull green Zululand one shilling. Perforates. Imperforates. Inverted watermarks…Lord knows what I thought I was going to achieve. Easier than growing up, I guess. I’ve still got them somewhere.”

  Most men wanted to tell you what they knew. The route to Wisbech. How to get a log fire going. David made her feel she was the one who knew things.

  He lit a cigar and they sat qu
ietly watching the sparrows on the bird table and the mackerel sky moving slowly from right to left behind the poplars. And it felt good. Because he could do silence, too. And in her experience there were very few men who could do silence.

  She left late and found herself in a traffic jam by the roadworks outside B & Q. She was worrying about what to say to George to explain her lateness when it occurred to her that he knew about David. That his attentiveness was a way of making amends, or competing, or making her feel guilty.

  But when she manhandled the bags into the kitchen he was sitting at the table with two mugs of hot coffee, waving a folded newspaper.

  “You were talking about the Underwood boys. Well, apparently, these scientists in California have been studying identical twins…”

  The shop was unusually quiet the following week. As a result her paranoia began to grow. And because Ursula was in Dublin there was no one she could discuss her fears with.

  Mornings at St. John’s were her only respite, sitting in the Jungle Corner with Megan and Callum and Sunil reading Winnie the Witch and Mr. Gumpy’s Outing. Especially Callum, who couldn’t sit still and look in the same direction for five seconds (sadly, she wasn’t allowed to bribe him with biscuits like she did with Jacob). But as soon as she walked out of the main doors into the car park it began nagging at her all over again.

  On Thursday George announced that he’d booked the marquee firm and arranged a meeting with two caterers. This from a man who forgot his children’s birthdays. She was so surprised she didn’t even complain about the lack of consultation.

  Later that evening a sinister voice in her head began to ask whether he was making her dispensable. Ready for when she moved out. Or when he told her to go.

  Yet when the day of the dinner with David rolled around he was unexpectedly cheerful. He spent the day shopping and making risotto in the time-honored male way, removing all the utensils from the drawers and laying them out like surgical instruments, then decanting all the ingredients into small bowls to maximize the washing up.