Mark Haddon - A Spot Of Bother

“Grow up, Jamie.”

“Fuck.”

Tony started to close the door.

Jamie had assumed Tony would let him in at the very least. So they could talk. It was the same selfishness all over again. Thinking everyone would fall in with his plan. Jamie could see it now. But it was too difficult to say this in half a second.

“Wait.” He stepped onto the threshold to prevent Tony closing the door.

Tony recoiled slightly. “Christ. You smell of vomit.”

“I know,” said Jamie, “but it’s not my vomit.”

Tony placed the flat of his hand on Jamie’s chest and pushed him back down onto the step. “Good night, Jamie.”

The door closed.

Jamie stood on the step for a few minutes. He wanted to lie down on the little patch of concrete by the dustbins and sleep there till morning so Tony came out and saw him and felt sorry for him. But he could see straightaway that this was as stupid and self-indulgent and childish as the rest of his stupid, self-indulgent, childish plan.

He sat on the curb and wept.

Jean was goingto have to arrange the wedding herself. She was clearly not going to get much help from the rest of the family.

Honestly. She loved her daughter. But for all Katie’s talk about women being as good as men, she could be heroically disorganized sometimes.

“Laid-back” was the term Katie used.

Coming home from university with all her clothes in black rubbish bags and leaving them in the open garage so the binmen took them away. Spilling that paint over the cat. Losing her passport in Malta.

Poor George. She did give him the runaround. It was like two creatures from different planets.

Twelve years arguing over toothpaste. George assuming she did it deliberately to wind him up. Spitting it into the sink and refusing to rinse it away so it hardened into lumps. Katie unable to believe that anyone in their right mind could get worked up about something so trivial.

She still did it, actually. She’d done it this morning. Jean had cleaned it up. Just like old times.

Actually, Jean was secretly rather proud of the way Katie refused to take orders from anyone. Of course there were times when she worried. That Katie would never get a decent job. Or fall pregnant by accident. Or never find a husband. Or get into some kind of trouble (she’d been cautioned once for being rude to a policewoman).

But Jean liked the fact that she’d brought such a free spirit into the world. She would look at her daughter sometimes and see little gestures or expressions that she recognized as her own, and wonder whether she might have been more like Katie had she been born thirty years later.

How ironic that Jamie should turn out to be gay. Now, if he were getting married he would have his guest list and invitations printed several years in advance.

Never mind.

The first time round arranging a wedding seemed like planning the D-Day landings. But after working in the bookshop and helping out at the school, she realized it was no more difficult than buying a house or booking a holiday, just a string of small tasks, all of which had to be done by a certain time. You wrote a list of things to do. You did them. You ticked them off.

She arranged the flowers. She booked the disco Claudia had used for Chloë’s wedding. She finalized the menu with the caterers. She booked the photographer.

It was going to be perfect. For her sake if no one else’s. It was going to run like clockwork and everyone was going to have a good time. She was going to put her feet up at the end of the day and feel a sense of achievement.

She wrote Katie a letter detailing all the things she still needed to do (taped music for the register office, Ray’s suit, present for the best man, rings…). It would drive Katie up the wall, but judging by her daughter’s performance at the weekend it seemed entirely possible that Katie might actually forget she was getting married.

She ordered the place cards. She bought herself a new dress and took George’s suit for dry cleaning. She ordered a cake. She booked three cars to bring the immediate families back to the village. She put names on their invitations and addressed the envelopes.

She briefly considered crossing David off the list. George had insisted on inviting him after their dinner. Something about boosting their numbers to avoid being “swamped by Ray’s clan.” But she didn’t want George asking uncomfortable questions. So she sent him an invitation. It didn’t mean he had to come.

It had been almostenjoyable, seeing Dr. Barghoutian.

Obviously, his benchmark for what was and was not enjoyable had been lowered considerably over the last few weeks. Nevertheless, talking about his problems to someone who was being paid to listen was oddly soothing. More soothing than watching Volcano or The Peacemaker, during which he could always hear a kind of churning bass note of fear, like someone doing building work across the street.

Strange to discover that describing his fears out loud was less frightening than trying not to think about them. Something about seeing your enemy out in the open.

The pills were less good. He had trouble sleeping that first night and noticeably more trouble the second night. He wept a great deal and had to fight back the urge to go on long walks in the early hours of the morning.

He was taking a couple of codeine at breakfast now, then drinking a large whiskey mid-morning, brushing his teeth vigorously afterward so as not to arouse Jean’s suspicions.

The idea of going into a psychiatric hospital was beginning to seem more and more attractive. But how did one get into a psychiatric hospital? What if you drove your car into a neighbor’s garden? What if you set light to your bed? What if you lay down in the middle of the road?

Did it count if one did that kind of thing deliberately? Or was pretending to be insane itself a symptom of insanity?

And what if the bed was more flammable than expected?

One could perhaps pour water over a large circle of carpet around the bed to act as some kind of barrier.

The third night was pretty much unbearable.

Nevertheless, he doggedly continued to take the pills. Dr. Barghoutian had said that there might be side effects and, on the whole, George preferred treatments which involved pain. After falling off the stepladder he had gone to see a chiropractor who did little more than clap her hands at the back of his head. After several more weeks of discomfort he went to an osteopath who gripped him firmly from behind and hoisted him violently making his vertebrae crack. Within a couple of days he was walking normally again.

Nevertheless he was grateful when his appointment with the clinical psychologist rolled round on day six of the medication.

He had never met a clinical psychologist, professionally or otherwise. In his mind they were not that far removed from people who read tarot cards. It was entirely possible that he would be asked about seeing his mother naked and being bullied at school (he wondered what had happened to the infamous Gladwell twins). Or was that psychotherapy? He was a little unclear about these distinctions.

In the event, his meeting with Ms. Endicott entailed none of the touchy-feely nonsense he was expecting. In fact he could not remember the last time he had had such an engaging conversation.

They talked about his job. They talked about his retirement. They talked about his plans for the future. They talked about Jean and Jamie and Katie. They talked about the forthcoming wedding.

She asked about the panic attacks, when they occurred, what they felt like, how long they lasted. She asked if he had considered suicide. She asked precisely what frightened him and was endlessly patient while he struggled to put into words things which were difficult to put into words (the Orcs, for example, or the way the floor seemed to give way). And if he was embarrassed by some of these things, her attention was earnest and unwavering.