Rupert Thomson - The Insult

I kneeled by the basin, put my mouth to the cold tap. First I rinsed the water round my teeth and spat. Then I drank some, felt it cool my aching throat.

At last I could see through him. That docile voice (about as docile as a snake sleeping on a rock!). His infinite patience, his solicitude (genuine and false, both at the same time). How close I’d come with that question about research, and how expertly he’d fielded it! It wasn’t the way I’d thought it would be — glimpses of the truth, gradual revelations. No, it was more dramatic than that, and more fundamental. The whole ingenious façade had dropped away, like plaster from a wall with damp in it.

It seemed to me that we’d both been playing games of subterfuge, bluff and counter-bluff. I wondered if, by appearing to discourage me, by insisting that I should face what he called ‘reality’, he hadn’t actually been provoking me a little. Providing me with a regime I could rebel against. Indirectly pointing out the course he hoped I’d follow. How clever of him to allow me to think of him as stupid! He’d wanted me to believe that I was in possession of a secret power. He’d been curious about my reactions, curious to see how far I’d go. I’d been part of an experiment. His experiment.

I still was.

Later that evening I called Directory Enquiries and asked for the number of the eye clinic. There was no reason to hide, not now that I’d seen Visser less than twenty metres from my room. I would probably meet my parents next, weeping tears of joy as they came whirling through the revolving doors. Or Claudia, in one of those ghastly négligés that are supposed to put the excitement back into your sex life. Or, even worse, I’d step out of the lift and find my entire past gathered in the hotel lobby, like some nightmare episode of that famous TV programme. There’d be girls I’d betrayed. Relations I’d never written to. Friends I’d abandoned. There’d be people whose faces I couldn’t even remember — but they’d remember me. Oh yes, they’d remember! They’d be standing there, with glasses of cheap champagne and toothy smiles. Grimacing, I dialled the clinic. When the receptionist answered, I asked for Visser. In my mind I was walking those endless corridors again, and my heart had speeded up, as if I could hear footsteps behind me. The phone rang internally — once, twice, three times. I was almost hoping there was no one there. But on the fourth ring, someone picked it up.

‘Visser.’

I hesitated. The idea that I shouldn’t have any contact with the man had become so deeply ingrained that, for a moment, I couldn’t speak at all. Then I heard myself: ‘Surprise, surprise!’

‘Who’s speaking, please?’

I swallowed. ‘It’s me. Martin Blom.’

‘Martin!’

Oh, he was good. That lift in his voice. The inflection was perfect. Concern, astonishment, delight — even a little relief. They were all there, and in exactly the right proportions. That voice of his, synonymous with deceit, with exploitation. Suddenly I found my tone.

‘You must be tired, Doctor.’

‘Tired?’

‘Up half the night,’ I said, ‘in strange hotels.’

He tried to speak, but I talked over him.

‘A man of your distinction,’ I said, ‘in a hotel like that. And running, too!’

‘Where are you, Martin?’

‘You know where I am.’

‘I’ve been worried —’

I interrupted him again. ‘I’m fed up with games, Doctor. I want the truth.’

‘What about?’

‘The plate you put in my head. The titanium plate.’

‘Are you feeling some discomfort?’

I had to laugh. ‘Discomfort? That’s good.’

He waited for me to continue. He gave me time, as always.

‘No, I wouldn’t call it discomfort exactly,’ I said. ‘More like malfunction.’

‘I’m sorry. I don’t follow you —’

‘All right. I’ll be as straightforward as I can. I think you’re experimenting on me. No, wait. I don’t think. I know.’

‘Martin, that’s absurd.’

‘That’s one word for it. There’s another word. Obscene. Or here’s one that might get through to you. Unethical.’

‘Martin, listen to me —’

‘That’s the whole problem right there. I listened to you. All along I listened to you. I should never have done that.’

‘Martin, listen. I warned you about this the last time I saw you. I told you that you might experience phases of denial, or even recurrences of your hallucinations. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard. You’ve taken on too much. I think it would be best if you came in to see me. Then I could —’

‘I’m surprised you’re still bothering with that old story. Especially after last night.’

‘I think you should come and see me at the clinic. I really do. Or I could come to you, if you’d just tell me where you are …’

I was laughing again. He was like an actor who goes on playing his part, even after the curtain’s gone down.

‘So you’re not going to admit it, Doctor? You’re not going to come clean?’

‘Admit what?’

I couldn’t listen any more. The calmness, the compassion. That slight anxiety. All totally dishonest. Bogus. Fake.

‘Fuck you, Visser.’

I slammed the phone down. Then I picked it up again. He was still there.

‘Hey, Visser. Fuck you. All right? FUCK YOU.’

I sat on the edge of the bed, trembling. What would he do now? Would he send a private ambulance? Would he come for me, with muscular attendants? Would he pump me full of tranquillisers?

Would he operate again?

Just after six-thirty in the morning I heard a bicycle bell, and I knew from the sound of it that it was Loots returning from the factory. I turned to look and there he was, upside-down as usual, only this time he was juggling a pint of milk, some eggs and two or three bread rolls. His breakfast, presumably. Even though my situation was desperate I found that I was grinning.

By the time he stopped outside the building he was the right way up again, with his provisions safely stowed in a brown-paper bag. Whistling to himself, he locked his bicycle to a lamppost. I was sitting in the shadows, on the stoop, and he didn’t notice me until he started towards the front door, brown-paper bag in one hand, keys bouncing in the other.

‘Martin?’ he said. ‘What are you doing here?’

I stood up. My bones ached from the long wait in the cold.

Loots was eyeing my suitcase. ‘What’s happened?’ He came closer and peered at me. ‘What happened to your face?’ His voice had lifted an octave, in shock.

‘I tripped and fell. It’s nothing.’

‘It doesn’t look like nothing. Have you seen a doctor?’

‘Loots,’ I said, ‘could I possibly stay with you for a few days?’

‘Of course. Stay as long as you like.’

‘It seems like I’m always asking you for favours —’

‘Nonsense. Juliet will be delighted. She’s taken quite a shine to you.’ He put an arm around my shoulders. ‘Are you hungry?’

We ate breakfast at his kitchen table — fresh rolls with butter and honey, slices of cheese, a pot of coffee (I wondered what had happened to the eggs). The radio was on, low-volume. Some news programme.

‘Are you going to tell me what this is all about?’ he said.

‘I’m sorry, Loots. I can’t just yet.’ I paused. ‘And, if I did, you wouldn’t believe it.’ I yawned. ‘God, I’m tired.’

But Loots wouldn’t let me sleep until he’d seen to my injuries. There was a deep gash where my left eyebrow joined the bridge of my nose. He cleaned it with iodine and stuck a plaster over it. Then he gave me a bag of ice to hold against my swollen cheek while he made up a bed for me on the sofa in the living-room.