Rupert Thomson - The Insult

I saw him through the window as he came up out of the trees, his hair pale against the dark green of the foliage, his shoulders slightly rounded, his arms hanging loosely at his sides. There was nothing in his face to suggest that anything had happened — but then, I hadn’t expected there to be. He walked into the kitchen, stooped over the sink and, scooping a handful of water from the cold tap, brought it to his mouth. It was almost always the first thing he did when he got home, no matter how long he’d been away. It seemed odd to think of him as a creature of habit, but that was what he was.

‘Mazey?’

He turned round.

‘You did something, didn’t you?’

He stared at me, the tap still running behind him, the water dripping off his chin.

‘Do you know what you’ve done?’

He began to shuffle on the floor. The first time he shuffled like that, it was like nothing I’d ever seen before. It reminded me of what a cat does when it covers up its mess.

‘Well?’

‘I–I did something.’ He wasn’t confessing exactly, but it wasn’t a question either.

‘It was bad what you did, Mazey. It was really bad.’

He turned back to the sink again. He cupped his hand under the running water and drank. But not because he was thirsty.

‘Mazey,’ and I took him by the arm, ‘you can’t do things like that. If you do things like that, people will come and take you away.’ I shook him hard. ‘You remember that place Kroner took you to? That place I had to come and fetch you from?’

His grey eyes fixed on my face, and he nodded.

‘If you do things like that, they’ll take you back again and this time it’ll be for ever. I won’t be able to do a thing about it. Not a thing.’

‘You can fetch me.’

I shook my head. ‘Not this time, Mazey.’

‘You can fetch me. With the knife.’ He was grinning.

I couldn’t explain it to him. It was strange. He could operate my father’s lathe. He could even drive a truck. But there were things you couldn’t make him understand. Simple things, like the fact that we get older. Like the fact we die. Like God. And, who knows, maybe it was better that way, not understanding something that’s beyond our understanding anyway. He had his own way of thinking, which he sometimes made available to me. Sometimes.

I did the only thing I could think of: I put him in the car and drove out to my father’s house. I told him to take his wind-chimes with him; I thought they might be some consolation.

There were dark clouds to the west of us, a great curving bank of blackness in the sky, a kind of overhang, but the wind was coming out of the north and I thought the storm would pass us by. I drove over the bridge, loose boards drumming under the wheels. It was only four-thirty in the afternoon, but it felt later; I even had to switch the headlights on. We turned on to the track, two ruts with a strip of grass down the middle, grass that was long enough to brush against the underside of the car.

I parked in the yard. From where I was sitting I could see my father in the barn. For almost three years he’d been working on a dovecote. It was going to be a replica of the Leaning Tower, in Italy. He’d got the idea from one of Axel’s magazines. He’d torn the page out and pinned it to the wall above his tool-rack. But every time he got the angle right, the tower fell over. And it didn’t even have any doves inside it yet. Sometimes he thought he should have been less ambitious — but it was for Karin; only something out of the ordinary would do. I decided not to tell him what Mazey had done, at least for the time being. It wouldn’t be hard. He’d never had too much curiosity, even about his own family; and now that he was in his late seventies and partly deaf, he had good reason to dispense with it altogether. I opened the door and got out of the car.

When I drove away an hour later, Mazey wasn’t with me. I’d chained him to the truck, the truck that Axel had crashed in all those years ago (it was almost unrecognisable now, most of its paint stripped by the weather, and brambles coiling over the radiator grille and through the broken windscreen like snakes around a skull). Mazey didn’t seem to mind being made a prisoner. He didn’t seem to notice any loss of freedom. I’d hung his string of door-hinges from the roof of the goat shed. If he stood up, he could touch them. Or he could sit with his back against a tyre and whittle at his bits of wood. I told my father to put him in the barn if the temperature dropped — but I insisted on the chain at all times, as much for Mazey’s safety as for Karin’s. I wanted to keep him out of sight. There was no concealing the truth from Kroner and, when he found out, it was quite likely he would want to wreak some kind of vengeance.

I pulled into the hotel car-park. Kroner’s van was there. I sat behind the wheel and stared at it. It had KRONER CONSTRUCTION painted on the side. A new business he’d started up, which tied in with the quarry. Suddenly I wanted to laugh. Those reliable blue letters. I didn’t know what I was going to say. I could’ve sat in the car all night and I still wouldn’t have known.

I found him in the kitchen. He was wearing his work-boots and overalls. He said he’d been up to Karin’s room. The door was locked; she wouldn’t answer. He wanted to know what was wrong. I explained it as best I could. It was only a few words. I felt it should have taken longer, somehow, but I couldn’t think of anything else. I hadn’t been there when it happened. Nobody had told me much.

He sat still for a moment, then he reached out slowly for the broom that was leaning against the wall. He stood up and began to break the kitchen windows, one by one. When he’d broken all the windows, he started on the crockery. Then it was the glasses, the vases, the new electric clock. There was a determined look on his face. Sometimes he blinked. At one point he turned and looked at me, as if trying to decide what I was made of, whether I would smash. Though he was breathing hard, his head was motionless; blood ran from several small cuts on his face and arms. I stepped backwards, towards the door. Still looking at me, he hurled the broom sideways. It landed among the saucepans, knocked them to the floor. There was a movement behind me, and Karin pushed past me, into the room. She went to her father and carefully laid her cheek against his chest. He looked down at her. He seemed surprised to see her there. It was almost as if he’d forgotten she existed. Then his eyes closed.

‘I’m all right,’ she murmured. ‘Really. I’m all right.’

His chest heaved; tears poured down his face.

She kept on murmuring to him. ‘I’m all right, Dad. I’m all right. Really …’

Maybe she was. But he wasn’t. That evening, while I was taping newspaper over the broken windows, Karin ran into the kitchen.

‘It’s Dad,’ she panted. ‘Something’s happening to Dad.’

She took me out to the front of the hotel. The light from the doorway made a kind of V-shape on the grass. Kroner was lying in the darkness just beyond it, his boots lit up, the rest of him invisible. I hurried over. His arms were at strange angles to his body, and they were bent at the elbows; he could have been practising semaphore, communicating with someone in the sky. I felt for the pulse in his wrist. It was faint, irregular, but it was there. I told Karin to stay with him, then I ran to the phone and called Holbek.

In ten minutes the doctor was kneeling on the grass beside us. Kroner’s eyes were open, and saliva was spilling from one side of his mouth. The doctor examined him briefly, then asked if he could use the phone. As I followed him into the hallway to show him where it was, he turned to me.

‘He’s had a stroke. I’m going to call an ambulance.’