A Spot of Bother by Mark Haddon
Jamie opened the drawer and handed him the tea towel with the London bus pattern that he’d never liked much.
Mike wiped his face. “I need to go to the toilet.”
“Top of the stairs,” said Jamie.
“Where are the stairs?” asked Mike.
Dear God, the man was unable to see.
Jamie helped Mike up the stairs then returned to the kitchen so that he didn’t have to smell or hear what was about to happen in the bathroom.
He wanted Mike out of the house. But he also needed to be a better person. And being a better person meant not wanting Mike out of the house. Being a better person meant looking after Mike. Because when shit happened to nice people they could say that it was an accident, or bad luck, or just the way the world worked. But when shit happened to horrible people they knew it was their fault and that made the shit so much worse.
He put on the washing-up gloves from under the sink. He got two Tesco bags from the cupboard and put one of them inside the other. He got the cake slice from the thingumajig drawer and knelt down and began scraping the sick off the floor and dolloping it into the bags. It was not a pleasant task (there would doubtless be worse upstairs). But it was good having an unpleasant task to do.
Penitence. That was the word he was looking for.
Oh Jesus. Sick was going down the cracks between the boards.
He wiped the floor with a couple of squares of kitchen roll and threw them into the Tesco bags. He filled a jug with soapy water, scrubbed the cracks with the vegetable brush, then threw the vegetable brush into the Tesco bags.
There was a bad noise from the toilet.
He poured some bleach onto the floor, rubbed it over the whole area with a cloth wipe, then disposed of it in the bags along with the vegetable brush. He wiped the cake slice with a second cloth wipe and thought, briefly, about leaving it overnight in a solution of bleach, but realized he would probably never use it again and threw it into the Tesco bags along with everything else. He tied the handle of the inner bag, then the handle of the outer bag. He then put them into a third bag in case of leakage, tied the handle of the third bag, carried it down the hallway, opened the front door and threw it into the bin.
There was another bad noise from the toilet.
He loved Tony. It was suddenly and painfully clear. Their stupid arguments. Over the wedding. Over the binoculars. Over the ketchup. They meant nothing.
He was going round to Tony’s flat. Right after he’d sorted all this out. No matter what the time was. Say sorry. Tell him everything.
They were going to the wedding together. No. Better than that. He’d take Tony up to Peterborough next weekend.
Except that Dad was having some kind of breakdown. He ought to make a few inquiries about that first.
Whatever. He’d take Tony up to Peterborough as soon as possible.
He went up to the bathroom and knocked quietly.
“You OK?”
“Not terribly,” said Mike.
Even through the door the smell was not good. He asked Mike if he needed any help with some trepidation, and heard Mike say “No” with considerable relief.
“Imodium,” said Jamie. “I’ve got some Imodium in the bedroom.”
Mike said nothing.
Several minutes later Jamie was sitting at the kitchen table with a selection of over-the-counter pharmaceuticals spread out in front of him, like a native trader waiting for the men from the big boat.
Imodium. Antacid tablets. Paracetamol. Ibuprofen. Aspirin. Antihistamines. (Were antihistamines intended for that kind of allergic reaction? He wasn’t sure.)
He put the kettle on and checked that he had all the requisite teas and coffees to hand. There was a good half liter of semi-skimmed in the fridge. There was no drinking chocolate but there was an unopened tin of cocoa from an abortive baking project.
He was fully equipped.
After ten or so minutes he heard the ker-snick of the bathroom door being unlocked, then Mike’s feet on the stairs. He was clearly descending with some care.
A hand appeared on the door frame and Mike maneuvered himself into view. He did not look healthy.
Jamie was about to ask what he could offer in terms of medication and hot drinks when Mike said, “I’m so sorry,” and headed down the hall toward the front door.
By the time Jamie had got to his feet Mike had closed the front door behind him. Jamie paused. Being good meant looking after people. It didn’t mean keeping them prisoner. And obviously Mike could see now. Or he wouldn’t have left.
Would he?
Jamie went to the window and lifted the edge of the curtain to glance up and down the street. It was empty. He was fairly certain that blind people didn’t move at that kind of speed.
He went upstairs. The bathroom was spotless.
He was still too drunk to drive. He grabbed his keys and jacket and went out the front door, locking it behind him.
He could have rung for a taxi but he didn’t want to wait. It would take half an hour to walk to Tony’s flat, but he needed the fresh air. And if he woke Tony up, well, this was more important than sleep.
He set off down Wood Vale Gardens and over Park Road in front of the hospital. The rain had stopped and most house lights were off by now. The streets were full of a dirty orange glow and the shadows under cars were thick and black.
Tony was right. He’d been selfish. You had to make compromises if you wanted to share your life with another person.
He crossed Priory Road.
He’d ring Katie tomorrow. She was probably getting everything out of proportion. Which was understandable if she and Ray were having a rough patch. His father going crazy? His mother leaving? He didn’t know which was harder to imagine.
A drunken cyclist zigzagged past.
His father worrying too much and his mother saying she couldn’t take much more. That he could imagine. That was pretty much situation normal.
It would be all right. It would have to be all right. He was going to that wedding with Tony come hell or high water.
He was walking down Allison Road when a small dog came out of an alleyway. No, not a dog. A fox. That weightless trot. That bushy tail.
A car engine started up and the fox slid into an alleyway.
He reached Vale Road at half past midnight.
His mood had lifted during the walk. He thought about trying to look sad, then realized it was a stupid idea. He didn’t want Tony back because he’d had a horrible evening. It was the horrible evening which made him realize that he wanted Tony back. Forever. And that was a happy thought.
He rang the bell and waited for thirty seconds.
He rang the bell again.
Another thirty seconds passed before he heard footsteps. Tony opened the door wearing his boxer shorts and nothing else. There was a steely expression in his eyes. “Jamie…?”
“I’m sorry,” said Jamie.
“It’s OK. What’s happened?”
“No. I mean sorry for everything. Everything else.”
“Meaning?”
Jamie gathered himself. He should have planned this a little more carefully. “For making you leave. For…Tony, look, I’ve had a shitty evening and it’s made me realize lots of things—”
“Jamie, it’s the middle of the bloody night. I’ve got work in the morning. What is this about?”
Deep breath. “I miss you,” said Jamie. “And I want you back.”
“You’re pissed, aren’t you.”
“No. Well, I was. But I’m not now…Listen, Tony. I’m serious.”
Tony’s expression didn’t change. “I’m going back to bed. It’s probably a good idea if you went back to bed as well.”
“You’ve got someone in there with you, haven’t you.” Jamie was starting to cry. “That’s why you don’t want me to come in.”
“Grow up, Jamie.”
“Fuck.”
Tony started to close the door.
Jamie had assum
“Wait.” He stepped onto the threshold to prevent Tony closing the door.
Tony recoiled slightly. “Christ. You smell of vomit.”
“I know,” said Jamie, “but it’s not my vomit.”
Tony placed the flat of his hand on Jamie’s chest and pushed him back down onto the step. “Good night, Jamie.”
The door closed.
Jamie stood on the step for a few minutes. He wanted to lie down on the little patch of concrete by the dustbins and sleep there till morning so Tony came out and saw him and felt sorry for him. But he could see straightaway that this was as stupid and self-indulgent and childish as the rest of his stupid, self-indulgent, childish plan.
He sat on the curb and wept.
57
Jean was going to have to arrange the wedding herself. She was clearly not going to get much help from the rest of the family.
Honestly. She loved her daughter. But for all Katie’s talk about women being as good as men, she could be heroically disorganized sometimes.
“Laid-back” was the term Katie used.
Coming home from university with all her clothes in black rubbish bags and leaving them in the open garage so the binmen took them away. Spilling that paint over the cat. Losing her passport in Malta.
Poor George. She did give him the runaround. It was like two creatures from different planets.
Twelve years arguing over toothpaste. George assuming she did it deliberately to wind him up. Spitting it into the sink and refusing to rinse it away so it hardened into lumps. Katie unable to believe that anyone in their right mind could get worked up about something so trivial.
She still did it, actually. She’d done it this morning. Jean had cleaned it up. Just like old times.
Actually, Jean was secretly rather proud of the way Katie refused to take orders from anyone. Of course there were times when she worried. That Katie would never get a decent job. Or fall pregnant by accident. Or never find a husband. Or get into some kind of trouble (she’d been cautioned once for being rude to a policewoman).
But Jean liked the fact that she’d brought such a free spirit into the world. She would look at her daughter sometimes and see little gestures or expressions that she recognized as her own, and wonder whether she might have been more like Katie had she been born thirty years later.
How ironic that Jamie should turn out to be gay. Now, if he were getting married he would have his guest list and invitations printed several years in advance.
Never mind.
The first time round arranging a wedding seemed like planning the D-Day landings. But after working in the bookshop and helping out at the school, she realized it was no more difficult than buying a house or booking a holiday, just a string of small tasks, all of which had to be done by a certain time. You wrote a list of things to do. You did them. You ticked them off.
She arranged the flowers. She booked the disco Claudia had used for Chloë’s wedding. She finalized the menu with the caterers. She booked the photographer.
It was going to be perfect. For her sake if no one else’s. It was going to run like clockwork and everyone was going to have a good time. She was going to put her feet up at the end of the day and feel a sense of achievement.
She wrote Katie a letter detailing all the things she still needed to do (taped music for the register office, Ray’s suit, present for the best man, rings…). It would drive Katie up the wall, but judging by her daughter’s performance at the weekend it seemed entirely possible that Katie might actually forget she was getting married.
She ordered the place cards. She bought herself a new dress and took George’s suit for dry cleaning. She ordered a cake. She booked three cars to bring the immediate families back to the village. She put names on their invitations and addressed the envelopes.
She briefly considered crossing David off the list. George had insisted on inviting him after their dinner. Something about boosting their numbers to avoid being “swamped by Ray’s clan.” But she didn’t want George asking uncomfortable questions. So she sent him an invitation. It didn’t mean he had to come.
58
It had been almost enjoyable, seeing Dr. Barghoutian.
Obviously, his benchmark for what was and was not enjoyable had been lowered considerably over the last few weeks. Nevertheless, talking about his problems to someone who was being paid to listen was oddly soothing. More soothing than watching Volcano or The Peacemaker, during which he could always hear a kind of churning bass note of fear, like someone doing building work across the street.
Strange to discover that describing his fears out loud was less frightening than trying not to think about them. Something about seeing your enemy out in the open.
The pills were less good. He had trouble sleeping that first night and noticeably more trouble the second night. He wept a great deal and had to fight back the urge to go on long walks in the early hours of the morning.
He was taking a couple of codeine at breakfast now, then drinking a large whiskey mid-morning, brushing his teeth vigorously afterward so as not to arouse Jean’s suspicions.
The idea of going into a psychiatric hospital was beginning to seem more and more attractive. But how did one get into a psychiatric hospital? What if you drove your car into a neighbor’s garden? What if you set light to your bed? What if you lay down in the middle of the road?
Did it count if one did that kind of thing deliberately? Or was pretending to be insane itself a symptom of insanity?
And what if the bed was more flammable than expected?
One could perhaps pour water over a large circle of carpet around the bed to act as some kind of barrier.
The third night was pretty much unbearable.
Nevertheless, he doggedly continued to take the pills. Dr. Barghoutian had said that there might be side effects and, on the whole, George preferred treatments which involved pain. After falling off the stepladder he had gone to see a chiropractor who did little more than clap her hands at the back of his head. After several more weeks of discomfort he went to an osteopath who gripped him firmly from behind and hoisted him violently making his vertebrae crack. Within a couple of days he was walking normally again.
Nevertheless he was grateful when his appointment with the clinical psychologist rolled round on day six of the medication.
He had never met a clinical psychologist, professionally or otherwise. In his mind they were not that far removed from people who read tarot cards. It was entirely possible that he would be asked about seeing his mother naked and being bullied at school (he wondered what had happened to the infamous Gladwell twins). Or was that psychotherapy? He was a little unclear about these distinctions.
In the event, his meeting with Ms. Endicott entailed none of the touchy-feely nonsense he was expecting. In fact he could not remember the last time he had had such an engaging conversation.
They talked about his job. They talked about his retirement. They talked about his plans for the future. They talked about Jean and Jamie and Katie. They talked about the forthcoming wedding.
She asked about the panic attacks, when they occurred, what they felt like, how long they lasted. She asked if he had considered suicide. She asked precisely what frightened him and was endlessly patient while he struggled to put into words things which were difficult to put into words (the Orcs, for example, or the way the floor seemed to give way). And if he was embarrassed by some of these things, her attention was earnest and unwavering.
She asked about the lesion and said Dr. Barghoutian could refer George to a dermatologist if that might help. He said, “No,” and explained that he knew, in his heart of hearts, that it was only eczema.
She asked whether he had any friends with whom he had discussed these things. He expl
He left the surgery with no tasks to perform and no exercises to do, only the promise of a second appointment in a week’s time. Standing in the car park he remembered that he had failed to mention the side effects of the medication. Then it dawned on him that he was not the person who had got on the bus that morning. He was stronger, more stable, less frightened. He could cope with the side effects of a few pills.
Later that afternoon he was lying in bed watching some golf championship on BBC2. The game had never really appealed to him. But there was something reassuring about the sensible jumpers and all that greenery stretching into the distance.
It seemed unjust that all his efforts at sorting out the mental aspects of the problem had done nothing to sort out the physical aspect of the problem.
It occurred to him that if the lesion were on a toe or a finger he could have it removed and simply be done with it. Then he would have to do nothing except take the tablets and return to the surgery each week till everything returned to normal.
A plan was forming in his head.
The plan, it seemed to him, was rather a good plan.
59
Katie posted the invitations, left a message for Jamie, then sat back down at the table.
She wanted to break something. But she wasn’t allowed to break things. Not after the roasting she’d given Jacob for kicking the video player.
She picked up the big knife and stabbed the breadboard seven times. When she stabbed it for the eighth time the blade broke and she cut the edge of her hand on the snapped-off end sticking up from the breadboard. There was blood everywhere.
She wrapped her hand in a kitchen towel, got out the first-aid tin, stuck a couple of large plasters over the cut, then cleaned up and threw the broken knife away.
She was obviously not going to get any sleep. The bed meant lying next to Ray. And the sofa meant admitting defeat.
Did she love Ray?
Did she not love him?