A Spot Of Bother

46

The hangover put George’s other problems out of his mind almost as effectively as the alcohol itself had done.

He had occasionally drunk to excess in his early twenties, but he could remember nothing quite like this. There seemed to be grains of genuine sand between his eyeballs and the surrounding socket. He took two ibuprofen, threw up and realized that he would have to wait for the pain to recede of its own accord.

He would have preferred not to shower, but he had wet himself while sleeping. He had also cut his head on the door frame and when he caught sight of his face in the mirror he looked not unlike the tramp he had seen on the station platform the day before.

He closed the curtains, turned the knob to hot, shut his eyes, removed his clothing, maneuvered himself into the jet of water, massaged some shampoo gingerly into his scalp then turned slowly like a kebab to rinse himself.

Only when he got out of the shower did he remember the sodden state of the towels. He fumbled his way blindly to the bedroom, extracted his own from the rucksack, dried himself gently then carefully inserted his body into a clean set of clothes.

A part of him wanted to sit on the edge of the bed for a couple of hours without moving. But he needed fresh air, and he needed to get away from this mess.

He put the wet towels into the bath and swilled his mouth with a pea of toothpaste and a little cold water.

He packed the rucksack, then discovered that bending over was beyond him and was forced to lie on the carpet to tie his laces.

He considered remaking the bed, but hiding the stains seemed worse than leaving them visible. He did, however, take a moist lump of toilet paper to the blood on the wall outside the bathroom.

He would never be able to come to this hotel again.

He put on his jacket, checked that he hadn’t lost his wallet, then sat for a few minutes gathering his strength before hoisting his rucksack onto his back. It seemed to contain actual bricks and halfway to the lift he had to lean against the wall of the corridor and wait for the blood to return to his head.

In the foyer he was hailed by the man behind the desk with a cheery “Morning, Mr. Hall.” He kept walking. They had his credit card details. He did not want to tell them what he had done to the room, or avoid telling them what he had done to the room. He did not want to stand in front of the desk swaying a little with a mysterious head wound.

A porter opened the door, he stepped into the noise and glare of the morning and began walking.

The air seemed to be filled with smells designed specifically to test his stomach to its very limit: car fumes, cooked breakfasts, cigarette smoke, bleach…He breathed through his mouth.

He was going home. He needed to talk to someone. And Jean was the only person he could talk to. As for the scene in the bedroom, they could deal with that later.

Indeed, at this point in time, dealing with the scene in the bedroom seemed less of a problem than taking a bus. The five-minute walk to the station felt like crossing the Alps and when his bus arrived he was packed into a confined space with thirty unwashed people and shaken vigorously for twenty-five minutes.

Having disembarked in the village he sat for a few minutes on the bench by the bus stop to gather his wits and let the grinding throb in his head die down a little.

What was he going to say? Under normal circumstances he would never have confessed to Jean that he was going insane. But under normal circumstances he would not be going insane. Hopefully his bedraggled state would engender sympathy without his having to explain too much.

He got to his feet, lifted his rucksack, took a deep breath and walked toward the house.

When he stepped through the front door she was standing in the kitchen.

“George.”

He deposited his rucksack by the stairs and waited for her to come into the hall. He spoke very quietly in order to keep the pain to a minimum. “I think I may be going mad.”

“Where have you been?” Jean said this quite loudly. Or maybe it just sounded loud. “We’ve been worried sick.”

“I stayed in a hotel,” said George.

“A hotel?” said Jean. “But you look as if-”

“I was feeling…Well, as I was saying I think I might be-”

“What’s that on your head?” asked Jean.

“Where?”

“There.”

“Oh, that.”

“Yes, that,” said Jean.

“I fell over and hit a door frame,” explained George.

“A door frame?”

“In the hotel.”

Jean asked whether he had been drinking.

“Yes. But not when I banged my head. I’m sorry. Could you talk a little more quietly?”

“Why on earth were you staying in a hotel?” said Jean.

It was not meant to be happening like this. He was the one who was graciously putting certain matters to one side. He was the one who deserved the benefit of the doubt.

His head hurt so much.

“Why didn’t you go to Cornwall?” said Jean. “Brian was ringing, wondering what had happened.”

“I need to sit down.” He made his way to the kitchen and found a chair which screeched horribly on the tiles. He sat and cradled his forehead.

Jean followed him. “Why didn’t you call me, George?”

“You were…” He nearly said it. Out of spite, mostly. Luckily he did not have the words. The sexual act was like going to the lavatory. It was not something one talked about, least of all in one’s own kitchen at nine-thirty in the morning.

And as he struggled and failed to find the words, the image came to mind again, that man’s scrotum, her sagging thighs, his buttocks, the warm air, the grunting. And he felt something like a blow to his belly, a deep, deep wrongness, partly fear, partly disgust, partly something way beyond either of these things, as disturbing as the sensation he might have felt if he looked out of the window and saw that the house was surrounded by ocean.

He did not want to find the words. If he described it to another human being he would never be free of the picture. And with this realization came a kind of release.

There was no need to describe it to another human being. He could forget about it. He could put it to the back of his mind. If it lay undisturbed for long enough it would fade and lose its power.

“George, what were you doing in a hotel?”

She was angry with him. She had been angry with him before. This was his old life. It felt comforting. It was something he could deal with.

“I’m frightened of dying.” There. He had said it.

“That’s absurd.”

“I know it’s absurd, but it’s true.” He felt a glow of a kind he never expected to feel, this morning of all mornings. He was talking to Jean more frankly than he had ever done.

“Why?” she asked. “You’re not dying.” She paused. “Are you?”

She was scared. Well, perhaps it was good for her to feel a little scared. He began to untuck his shirt, just as he had done in Dr. Barghoutian’s consulting room.

“George…?” She steadied herself with a hand on the back of the chair.

He lifted his vest and lowered the waistband of his trousers.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Eczema.”

“I don’t understand, George.”

“I think it’s cancer.”

“But it’s not cancer.”

“Dr. Barghoutian said it was eczema.”

“So why are you worried about it?”

“And there are these tiny red spots on my arm.”

The phone rang. Neither of them moved for a couple of seconds. Then Jean shot across the room at a surprising speed, saying, “Don’t worry. I’ll get it,” though George had shown no intention of moving anywhere.

She picked the phone up. “Hello…Yes. Hello…I can’t talk right now…No, nothing’s the matter…He’s here now…Yes. I’ll call you later.” She put the phone down. “That was…Jamie. I rang him last night. When I was wondering where you were.”

“Have you got any of those codeine tablets left?” George asked.

“I think so.”

“I have a very bad hangover.”

“George?”

“What?” he asked.

“Do you think it might be a good idea if you went to bed? See if you feel any better in a couple of hours.”

“Yes. Yes, that might be a very good idea.”

“Let’s get you upstairs,” said Jean.

“And the codeine. I think I really do need the codeine.”

“I’ll dig some out.”

“And maybe not the bed. Maybe I’ll just lie on the sofa.”