Pat Barker - Another World

Nothing. He goes into Jasper’s room, and climbs back into bed, between the cooling sheets. He’s just about to settle down when he hears the sound again. Somewhere in the house a door opened and closed.

Footsteps climb the stairs. He waits, not moving, expecting the steps to go past, but they don’t. They stop on the other side of the door. Breathless now, he watches the handle turn.

A girl comes into the room. A girl in a long white nightdress, her hair hanging down around her shoulders. Miranda of course. After the first thud of his heart, he thinks, Who else? She doesn’t look at him, but turns and goes towards the cot.

He has to stop whatever’s going to happen next. Or rather he has to shield himself from ever knowing what it is. He says, ‘Miranda.’ She doesn’t turn to face him, even then. Moving quietly forward, he sees that her hand’s on Jasper’s face, covering his nose and mouth, not cutting off the air, more as if she’s exploring his face, trying to identify him from touch alone. Nick says again, ‘Miranda.’

She turns to face him then, her eyes wide and brilliant in the white light, but though they fasten on his face there’s no change of expression, no recognition, and with a chill of fear he realizes she’s asleep. He stares at her, tries to swallow. She seems to be aware of his presence, or at least she’s aware of somebody’s presence. ‘I didn’t do it,’ she says, her voice slurred. ‘I wasn’t there.’

He has to end this — already the moment seems to have lasted years — but he daren’t wake her. He stretches out his hands, and grips her shoulders. Only the thinnest possible layer of skin seems to cover the bone, and she’s cold. Colder than the warm September night can possibly account for. He’d have said it was impossible for him ever to feel revulsion from Miranda, but he feels it now. He takes her in his arms and presses her unyielding body against his chest.

He has to say something to close the terrible eyes. Gripping the icy flesh between his hands, he says, ‘I know you didn’t. Look at me. I know it wasn’t you.’

As he continues to hold her, the strained look starts to leave her face. Its lines soften, become more recognizably hers. He’s afraid she may wake too quickly and be shocked to find herself here, so he goes on holding her, rocking her, until the greater heaviness of her body in his arms tells him that she’s slipped into a natural sleep.

At six-thirty the phone rings. Stumbling downstairs, Nick looks at his watch, can’t believe the time. It’s got to be Frieda, he braces himself as he snatches up the phone, expecting to hear that Geordie’s dead. Frieda shouting into the dreadful phone sounds even more panicky than she probably is. He’s not dead, but he’s had a terrible night — she’s had a terrible night. It can’t be long now. Could he possibly come over? ‘Soon as I can,’ he says. He wonders whether to wake Fran, but she needs her sleep, trailing three children round the Viking centre, then tea with her mother, then leaving Gareth behind, it won’t be easy. In the end he writes a note and leaves it propped up against a milk bottle. He’ll phone later in the morning before she goes. The streets are deserted. Something about their blankness makes him feel more tired, he’s cold, his eyelids prickle, he keeps yawning, leans forward, hugs the wheel.

Frieda’s on the doorstep in a pink dressing-gown, looking up and down the street, waiting. Arms tightly folded across her chest, her expression grudging, hyper-respectable, because she’s out here, virtually on the pavement, in full view of the neighbours, who for all she knows may be getting glimpses of her nightie.

‘He’s asleep,’ she says. She doesn’t know whether to have the doctor back to him or not.

Nick goes upstairs. He is fast asleep, two spots of colour in his cheeks, his nose sharper than before. For his nose was as sharp as a pen and a’ babbled o’ green fields… Well well.

Downstairs, Nick says, ‘Why don’t we leave it for a bit? See how he goes on.’ He makes toast and tea for both of them. When she’s finished, he says, ‘You go on up, see if you can get a bit more sleep.’ ‘I can’t sleep during the day,’ she says. ‘Never have been able to.’ ‘Well, just lie and rest.’ Reluctantly, she agrees. Five minutes later, when he goes up to check on Geordie, little whistly snores are coming from the spare room.

Nick lies on the sofa with a coat over him, saying to himself that he won’t sleep, he’ll just close his eyes. Two hours later, hearing voices, he’s struggling to sit up, his brain numbed by sleep.

There’s a confusion of stumbling footsteps at the top of the stairs, followed by a sharp cry, a yelp of pain, and Frieda’s voice saying, ‘Use the bucket, Dad.’

Nick’s up and running before he has time to think, taking the stairs three at a time. Geordie’s squatting over a yellow plastic bucket which buckles under his weight and Frieda’s bending over him, trying to support him with her hands in his armpits.

‘Didn’t make it,’ Geordie says, white-lipped.

Nick takes over, lifting him gently, helping him back on to the bed. Grandad’s trying to drag his pyjamas up, more to save the sheet than to hide his genitals.

‘Don’t worry about that,’ Nick says.

The stench from the bucket’s terrible. He fetches loo paper, soap and a flannel, and cleans and washes Geordie’s bottom, puzzled because the shit on the paper looks like tar. The only thing he’s seen remotely like it is meconium. ‘All right now?’

It’s very obviously not all right. Geordie lies curled up like a foetus, rigid with shame. He’ll die now, Nick thinks dispassionately. This is it. He’s had his bum wiped like a toddler. He’ll die now. And indeed, at that moment, with a gesture Nick can hardly believe he’s witnessing, he’d been so certain it was cliché, Geordie turns his face to the wall.

All this time Frieda’s been hovering in the doorway, wanting to help, but knowing she’s better out of it. That Nick should see Grandad like this is bad enough, but it would be worse for him to be seen by her. Only when it’s over, after Nick’s drawn back the curtains and picked up the bucket, does he realize it’s full of black digested blood.

‘Have you seen this?’

Frieda doesn’t reply, just whimpers and turns her head away.

‘That solves whether we call the doctor or not. I suppose I ought to save some of this for him to look at.’

‘Just leave it,’ she says.

‘No, it’ll stink the house out. He only needs to see a bit.’

He carries the bucket to the kitchen, finds a bowl and scoops out a sample. On his fingertips, when he’s finished, is a trace of red, mixed in with the black, but only a trace. He covers the bowl and sets it to one side to await the doctor’s arrival, then tips the rest down the loo and presses the flush. A swirl of blackness leaves the bowl startlingly clean. He washes and scrubs his hands under the hot tap, dries them on loo paper and throws the paper away. Then he goes downstairs and calls the surgery.

When he goes back, Geordie’s propped up against the pillows, their whiteness making his skin look dingy. ‘I’m not having any doctor.’

‘Too late. I’ve rung the surgery.’

‘Aw hadaway, man, there’s nowt he can do. We all know what it is.’ He subsides, muttering, ‘Complete waste of bloody time.’

He turns away, shoulders hunched, sulky as a parrot. Nick asks about the pain, gets no reply.

Downstairs Frieda’s buttering bread. ‘I don’t want anything,’ he says automatically, then thinks she needs it herself and she’s more likely to eat if he eats with her.

‘No, go on, then. We’ll probably feel better if we have something.’