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50. SUMMER 2013

Just a little nudge, that’s all it would have taken. I had to clean myself up, make myself look presentable. I spent longer in front of the mirror this morning than usual. I wanted to look as good as it is possible to do at my age. I am missing a few teeth, but luckily they’re not at the front and if I manage my smile carefully, I think the gaps are not too noticeable. I practiced smiling in front of the mirror. My eyes were a problem though. They didn’t catch my smile and the whites were the colour of spit with a trace of tobacco. I opened the bathroom cabinet and found some drops. Probably not a sensible thing to do, as they were long out of date, but I administered them anyway. It stung and for a moment I feared I’d done some serious damage, but after frantic blinking they recovered and looked slightly more wholesome than they had before.

Dressing was altogether more straightforward. I have one decent jacket, and a shirt I’ve always been fond of. Not too jazzy. Soft cotton, white with a faint check in it. Neither fits as well as they used to, but with Nancy’s cardigan underneath to fill me out, it worked I think. I haven’t completely lost it, you know. I do have some sense of how I need to appear to the outside world. It’s all very well, wearing comfortable old clothes at home when only your loved one can see you, but some effort must be made for strangers.

If the father had been there, I’m sure things would have gone to plan. He would have welcomed me, even fetched me tea. An elderly man parched, exhausted by the two hours it has taken me to get to the hospital. Public transport…

“… yes, it’s a long way, but I had to see Nicholas. I know it’s what my wife would have wanted. She was wonderful with young people, you know… she would have loved the chance to get to know Nicholas… it would have meant a lot to her… No, no, of course, I understand. I understand. It’s not your fault. Oh, thank you, that is thoughtful. Yes, a cup of tea would be very nice.” And I would have watched him leave and then I would have flicked a switch, pulled out a tube, and left. All over. Finished. The boy wouldn’t have known anything about it. Quite a nice way to go really. He wouldn’t have felt a thing. Quicker than drowning. And he’s halfway there already, probably more than halfway. Took himself there, I didn’t touch him. I didn’t lay a finger on him. And the consequences? What do I care for the consequences? I don’t. I really don’t. But that’s not what happened.

When I looked into the ward and saw the rows of beds, I worried that I wouldn’t find him, but a nurse kindly pointed him out. And smiled. I smelled right. I looked unthreatening. All I had to say was “Nicholas Ravenscroft” in a whisper, and she just assumed I was a grandparent. No need to correct her. But then in flew the mother. The Fury. Stupid of me. I had assumed that she’d be as negligent with her son now as she had been when he was a child. I thought she would have been safely tucked up in her bed at that time of night.

There was fear in her eyes when she looked down at me. I recognised it straightaway because I’ve seen it before, although I’m not used to seeing it in an adult. I’ve never been the type of man who strikes fear in those his own size. Yes, she looked frightened, but not for herself. She was frightened for her son and that surprised me because it was not what I was expecting. I expected anger, fury and righteousness, but not that instinctive protection for her child. But then I became distracted by the nurse touching me. It’s been such a long time since a woman has shown me concern. I liked feeling her hands on me, taking care not to hurt me, being careful with my pain. And her voice was gentle too. It was real, her concern for me, and so was my response. I was grateful for her kindness.

Now it has become more complicated. I thought I’d be able to slip in and out, job done, but now I will have to pay another visit. What is the alternative? To rely on fate to finish him off? It is possible that he will slip away all by himself with no need for intervention. A stroke, the nurse said. He’s had a stroke. He may survive, but he may be “severely impaired.” Will that do, Nancy? No? Severely impaired not enough? I am tired and I ache from the fall and the journey back home.

The phone rings. Nancy answers. A man’s voice leaves a message but I interrupt.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Mr. Brigstocke, it’s Robert Ravenscroft here.”

I wait. Why should I help him?

“I hope you don’t mind me calling. I wanted to say how sorry I was about what happened. About my wife. I’m so, so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, Mr. Ravenscroft…”

“Robert, please call me Robert.”

“She was shocked, I suppose, to see me there. You didn’t tell her you had invited me?”

He doesn’t answer. I wait again.

“We don’t really speak. It’s silly, I know, with Nicholas so ill but… I’m finding it hard to understand what she did… why she didn’t tell me….”

“I’m sure it is difficult for you…”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound self-pitying. I just wanted to apologise for her and to say I hope you will come again. I am sure Nicholas would want you there. Perhaps we could meet. I can understand if you feel nervous about that but…”

“Yes, perhaps we can,” I say. “But I’m afraid I must go now. I’m very tired and a bit shaken, to be honest. I was just on my way up to bed….”

“Yes, of course. Again, I’m so sorry. I just wanted to make sure you got home safely.”

“Quite safely thank you, Robert.” And I hang up.

I rather regret giving him my number. I can see he might become a nuisance. I hold on to the banister, dragging myself up the stairs. The nurse said the base of my spine may be bruised but I suppose it could have been worse, I could have broken something. On second thought perhaps that would have been useful. I would have had to stay in hospital, planted on a ward, perhaps just down the corridor from the boy. Never mind, I have an invitation from the father himself. We will stand together over his gravely ill son’s bed.

I reach for the glass of water on the bedside table. It is half empty, but there is enough for me to take the pills. Two for pain, two for sleep. A little something for anxiety. The water tastes stale; it’s been there for a while. Dusty and stale. Sleep will come easily now, I can feel it on its way, but I hope it won’t be so deep that I miss the phone if the husband calls again. He has promised to let me know of any change in Nicholas’s condition. Nancy will answer though. He will hear her touchingly hesitant voice: We are not at home at the moment but please leave us a message so that we may call you back. I drift off for a while but then I wake too soon and it is not Nancy’s voice which has woken me, I am sure of that.

The house is silent, but something has pulled me back to consciousness because I am still thick with sleep. I shouldn’t be awake, but I am. I had been dreaming that I’d fallen through a window, crashed through a huge pane of glass. The glass had gone before me and was waiting, hovering above the ground, its edges pointing upwards, ready to slice me like wafer-thin ham. That is what woke me. The sound of breaking glass. Someone is downstairs.

And then I hear the door close. It is impossible to shut our front door silently; the catch is positioned a little off-kilter so it always clicks when opening or closing. So. Has someone just arrived or has someone just left? I imagine gloved hands. I imagine the police, but this is silly. A twinge of guilt perhaps. Silly though. The police would knock, they would have no need to break in. I heard the front door, but now nothing. I pull on my trousers and take the sweater from the back of the chair. I creak, the floorboards creak, the stairs creak. There is no hiding my descent and I don’t try to. I am fearless, no longer a coward.

I stand at the bottom of the stairs and look around. Light is shooting through the bottom of the curtains. The pane of glass in the front door has been smashed. I look around the room, half waiting for something to hit me on the back of the head. But nothing happens. And the room is empty. I walk through to the kitchen, slowly, still stiff and sore. The house is empty. But then I see that I am mistaken. The house is empty but I am not alone. She is standing in our garden, looking at the bonfire which still smoulders. I walk to the back door and she turns and looks at me. This is the moment I have been waiting for. Here she is. She is destroyed. Nicholas is dead. What will she do? Will she try and kill me? I wait. Neither of us says a word. Then she walks towards me and I stand aside, letting her come back into the house. She sits down at the kitchen table and puts her head in her hands. She rubs at her eyes so hard I fear they will pop from her head. When she looks up they are red and dry. There are no tears. Red rimmed, but not wet. I wait for her to speak.

“Sit down.”

So I do. Why not?

And then she spits at me. Covers me with it. It seems as if she cannot stop. It keeps coming until I am awash with thick, clogging mucus which pours out of her, and settles on me. I am an insect again, trapped by the spittle of my predator who is planning to eat me alive. I am being eaten alive.