Mark Haddon - A Spot Of Bother

He was kicking madly, trying to keep his head in the shrinking pyramid of stale air where the two walls met the ceiling.

His mouth was going under.

There was oily water in his windpipe.

He put his head between his legs.

He was going to throw up.

He sat back.

His body went cold and the blood drained from his head.

He put his head between his legs again.

He felt as if he were in a sauna.

He sat up and opened the little window.

The woman in the mauve raincoat glared.

The scab would strangle him with evil slowness, a malign, crusted appendage feeding off his own body.

“I peeked through the crack, looked at the track, the one going back…”

Camp beds? Walks along the Helford? Pints round the fire with Brian? What in heaven’s name had he been thinking? It would be a living hell.

He got out at Huntingdon, staggered to the nearest bench, sat down and reconstructed that morning’s Telegraph crossword in his head. Genuflect. Tankards. Horse brass…

It was ebbing a little.

He was dying of cancer. It was a horrible thought. But if he could just store it over there, in the Thoughts About Dying Of Cancer box, he might be OK.

Gazelle. Miser. Paw-paw…

He had to catch the next train home. Chat to Jean. Have a cup of tea. Put some music on. Loud. His own house. His own garden. Everything exactly where it was meant to be. No Brian. No tramps.

There was a monitor to his right. He got gingerly to his feet and moved round to the front so that he could read it.

Platform 2. Twelve minutes.

He began walking toward the stairs.

He would be home in an hour.

Jean dropped George off,got into the driving seat and drove back to the village.

She hadn’t spent four days alone in her entire life. Yesterday she’d been looking forward to it. But now that it was happening she was frightened.

She found herself calculating the precise number of hours she would be spending alone between working in Ottakar’s and going to St. John’s.

On Sunday she would spend the evening with David. But Sunday evening suddenly seemed a long way away.

It was at this point that she parked in front of the house, looked up and saw David himself standing on the path talking to Mrs. Walker from next door.

What in heaven’s name was he doing? Mrs. Walker noticed when they started ordering orange juice from the milkman. God knows what the woman was thinking now.

She got out of the car.

“Ah, Jean. I’m in luck after all.” David smiled at her. “I didn’t know whether I’d catch George. I forgot my reading glasses when I came round for dinner.”

Reading glasses? God, the man could lie for England. Jean wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or terrified. She looked at Mrs. Walker. The woman seemed smitten, if anything.

“Mr. Symmonds and I were having a chat,” she said. “He told me George makes a very good risotto. I thought he was pulling my leg.”

“Strange but true,” Jean said. “George does cook. About once every five years.” She turned to David. “He will be disappointed. I’ve just dropped him in town. He’s visiting his brother. In Cornwall.”

“That is a shame,” said David.

He seemed so relaxed that Jean began to wonder whether he really had forgotten a pair of reading glasses. “Well, you’d better come inside, I guess.”

He turned to Mrs. Walker. “Good to meet you.”

“You, too.”

They went inside.

“Sorry,” said David, “I got here a little early.”

“Early?”

“I thought you’d be back from the station. Bumping into the nosy neighbor wasn’t part of the plan.” He took his jacket off and hung it over a chair.

“The plan? David, this is our home. You can’t just turn up here when you like.”

“Listen.” He took her hand and led her toward the kitchen table. “I’ve got something I want to talk to you about.” He sat her down, took his reading glasses out of his jacket pocket and placed them on the table. “To wave at your neighbor when I leave.”

“You’ve done this before.”

“This?” He didn’t smile. “This is something I have never done before.”

She felt suddenly very uncomfortable. She was itching to make tea, wash up, anything. But he’d taken her right hand and placed his other hand over it, as if he were picking up a tiny animal and didn’t want it to escape.

“I need to say something. I need to say it face-to-face. And I need to say it when you have time to think about it.” He paused. “I’m an old man-”

“You’re not old.”

“Please, Jean, I’ve been practicing this for several weeks. Just let me get it out in one go without making a fool of myself.”

She’d never seen him looking nervous before. “Sorry.”

“When you get to my age you don’t get second chances. OK, maybe you do get second chances. Maybe this is my second chance. But…” He looked down at their hands. “I love you. I want to live with you. You make me very happy. And I know it’s selfish. But I want more. I want to go to bed with you at night and I want to wake up with you in the morning. Please, let me finish. This is easy for me. I live on my own. I don’t have to take other people into consideration. I can do what I want. But it’s different for you. I know. I respect George. I like George. But I’ve heard you talk about him and I’ve seen the two of you together and…You’re probably going to say no. And if you did I’d understand. But if I never asked I’d regret it for the rest of my life.”

She was shaking.

“Please. Just think about it. If you said yes I would do everything in my power to make it as painless and easy as possible for you…But if it’s impossible, I’ll pretend that this conversation never happened. The last thing I want to do is to frighten you away.” He looked up and met her eyes again. “Tell me I haven’t just messed everything up.”

She put her hand on top of his hand, so that their four hands made a little stack on the table. “You know…”

“What?” He looked genuinely troubled.

“That is the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

He breathed out. “You don’t have to give me an answer now.”

“I’m not going to.”

“Just think about it.”

“I’m going to have trouble thinking about anything else.” She laughed a little. “You’re smiling. You haven’t smiled since you came through the door.”

“Relief.” He squeezed her hand.

She pushed the chair back, walked round the table, sat on his lap and kissed him.

Katie and Grahamdidn’t talk about Ray. They didn’t even talk about the wedding. They talked about Bridget Jones and the petrol tanker hanging off the Westway on the TV news that morning and the truly bizarre hair of the woman in the far corner of the café.

It was exactly what Katie needed. Like putting on an old jumper. The good fit. The comforting smell.

She’d just asked the waitress for the bill, however, when she looked up and saw Ray coming into the café and walking toward them. For half a second she wondered whether there had been some kind of emergency. Then she saw the look on his face and she was livid.

Ray stopped beside the table and looked down at Graham.

“What’s this about?” Katie asked.

Ray said nothing.

Graham calmly put seven pound coins on the little stainless steel dish and slid his arms into his jacket. “I’d better be going.” He stood up. “Thanks for the chat.”

“I’m really sorry about this.” She turned to Ray. “For God’s sake, Ray. Grow up.”

For one horrible moment she thought Ray was going to hit Graham. But he didn’t. He just watched as Graham walked slowly to the door.