Mark Haddon - A Spot Of Bother

He tucked himself back in.

“I’m really sorry,” said Mike.

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.”