Mark Haddon - A Spot Of Bother

“What’s that?” asked Dr. Anderson.

“This is where he wanted to go,” said Jamie, unfolding the map and pointing to Folksworth. “Perhaps he took a taxi. I’m going to look for him.”

Dr. Anderson removed a small card from his jacket and handed it to Jamie. “I’m not really meant to do this. But if you find him, call me, OK?”

“Thanks.” Jamie slipped the card into his trouser pocket. “I’d better get going.”

Halfway down the stairs they bumped into Ray.

Dr. Anderson smiled and said, “I’m the photographer.”

“OK,” said Ray, looking a little puzzled, possibly by the fact that Jamie and the photographer had been upstairs together.

Jamie turned to Dr. Anderson. “It’s OK, he knows.”

“In which case, I’m a doctor,” said Dr. Anderson.

“Dad’s gone missing,” said Jamie. “I’m going to look for him. I’ll explain later.” Then he remembered that it was Ray’s wedding day, too. “I’m so sorry about this.”

“I’ll call you if he turns up,” said Ray.

Jean was getting dressedand wondering where on earth George had wandered off to when there was a ring at the front door and clearly no one else was going to answer it, so she fished her good shoes out of the bottom of the wardrobe, went downstairs and opened the door.

“Alan Phillips,” said the man. “Ray’s father. This is my wife, Barbara. You must be Jean.”

“How do you do,” said Barbara.

Jean ushered them inside and took their coats.

“Very good to meet you after all this time,” said Alan. “I’m sorry it’s so last minute.”

She’d expected a bigger man, someone with more bluster. Then she recalled Katie mentioning a chocolate factory, which seemed comical at the time, but rather appropriate now. He was the kind of man you could imagine playing with trains or growing carnations. “Have a seat.”

“It’s a lovely house,” said Barbara, and she sounded as if she meant it, which Jean found quite touching.

There was something formal about the two of them, and this was a relief (in her darker moments she’d imagined, well…some things were best forgotten). On the other hand, they didn’t look like the kind of people you could dump in the living room while you got on with other stuff.

Where was everyone? George, Jamie, Eileen, Ronnie. They seemed to have vanished into thin air.

“Could I get you some tea?” asked Jean. She sounded as if she was talking to Mr. Ledger who serviced the boiler. “Or coffee?” She could dig the cafetière out.

“Oh,” said Barbara, “we don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

“It’s no trouble,” said Jean, though to be honest it was a little inconvenient at this point.

“In which case, two teas would be lovely,” said Barbara. “Alan has half a sugar.”

Jean was rescued, yet again, by Ray who came in from the car carrying a tiny yellow action figure.

“Barbara. Dad.” He kissed Barbara on the cheek and shook his father’s hand.

“I was just going to make your parents a cup of tea,” said Jean.

“I’ll do that,” said Ray.

“That’s very good of you,” said Jean, brightly.

Ray was about to turn and head toward the kitchen when she said, quietly, “You don’t know where George is, do you? Just out of interest. Or Jamie, for that matter.”

Ray paused for rather a long time, which disturbed her slightly. He was about to answer when Ed appeared from the direction of the kitchen eating a bread roll, and Ray said, “Ed.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Phillips,” said Ed, through the bread roll.

Alan and Barbara stood up.

“Ed Hobday,” said Alan. “Goodness. I didn’t recognize you.”

Ed brushed the crumbs from his mouth and shook their hands. “Fatter but wiser.”

“Oh no,” said Barbara, “you’ve just filled out a bit.”

Ray touched Jean’s shoulder and said, quietly, “Come into the kitchen.”

By the time Georgereached the edge of the village he was feeling a little calmer.

He was halfway across the field by the railway line, however, when he saw Eileen and Ronnie heading toward him. They were hoisting their dog over the stile and he was fairly sure they had not noticed him. He crept into the depression by the hawthorn so that he was out of their line of sight.

The dog was barking.

He could not retrace his steps without being seen, and a bank of brambles prevented him crossing the railway line itself. His chest tightened.

His arm was still bleeding where he had bitten it.

The barking got louder.

He lay down and rolled into the shallow drainage ditch where the grass dipped before going under the fence. His coat was green. If he lay still they might not find him.

It was snug in the ditch, and surprisingly comfortable. Interesting, too, to find himself looking at nature from so close up, something he had not done since he was a small boy. There must have been forty or fifty species of plants within his reach. And he knew the names of none. Except the nettles. Assuming they were nettles. And the cow parsley. Assuming it was cow parsley.

Six years ago Katie had given him a book token for Christmas (a lazy present, but an improvement on those ridiculous Swedish wineglasses you hung round your neck on a string). He had used it to buy the Reader’s Digest Book of British Flora and Fauna with the intention of learning the names of trees at the very least. The only fact he could now recall from the book was that a colony of wallabies were living wild in the Cotswolds.

He realized that he did not have to walk somewhere to escape the wedding. Indeed, walking was more likely to attract attention. Better simply to lie here, or somewhere farther into the undergrowth. He could emerge at night.

Then Eileen was saying, “George?” and it occurred to him that if he did not move she might simply go away.

But she did not go away. She said his name again, then screamed when he failed to respond. “Ronnie. Come over here.”

George rolled over to prove that he was still alive.

Eileen asked George what had happened. George explained that he had been out for a walk and twisted his ankle.

Ronnie helped him to his feet and George pretended to limp and it was bearable for a few minutes because although the ditch was comforting the idea of spending the next ten hours alone was not. And, to be honest, he was rather relieved to find himself in the company of other human beings.

But Eileen and Ronnie were taking him back to the house and that was not good, and as they got progressively closer he felt as if someone were lowering a black bin liner over his head.

He very nearly ran when they reached the main road. He did not care whether the dog was trained to attack. He did not care about the embarrassment of a hare-and-hounds race with Ronnie through the village (a race he would almost certainly win; there was so much adrenaline coursing through his system he could have outrun a zebra). It was simply the only option left.

Except that it was not.

There was another option, and it was so obvious that he could not believe he had forgotten it. He would take the Valium. He would take all the Valium, as soon as he returned to the house.

But what if someone had thrown the bottle away? What if someone had flushed the pills down the toilet? Or hidden them to prevent them being swallowed accidentally by a child?

He broke into a run.

“George,” shouted Ronnie. “Your ankle.”

He had absolutely no idea what the man was talking about.

When Jean reachedthe kitchen Ray turned to her and said, “Got a bit of a problem.”