A Spot of Bother - Mark Haddon [52]
George was working out how to increase the volume using the remote control when one of the young men turned unexpectedly, ran toward the precipice in the background and launched himself into the void.
George lunged at the television in an attempt to grab the man.
The shot altered and George saw the man plunging down a vast rock face. One, two, three seconds. Then his parachute opened.
George’s heart was still hammering. He changed channel.
On channel 45 a scientist received an electric shock, his hair stood on end and his skeleton became briefly visible. On 46 a group of pneumatically breasted women in bikinis gyrated to pop music. On 47 the camera panned over the aftermath of a terrorist outrage in a country with an incomprehensible language. On 48 there was an advert for cheap jewelry. On 49 there was a program about elephants. On 50 there was something in black-and-white with aliens.
If there were only four channels he might have been forced to watch one of them, but the sheer number was addictive and he went round the clock several times, pausing for a few seconds over each image until he became a little nauseous.
He opened the Ackroyd, but reading seemed an onerous task at this point in the evening, so he went next door and began running a bath.
He was getting undressed when he remembered that there were parts of his body he did not want to see. He turned the bathroom lights off and stripped to his vest and underpants, intending to remove these just prior to climbing into the bath.
But as he was sitting on the edge of the bed removing his socks he saw, on his left bicep, a constellation of tiny red dots. Six or seven, maybe. He rubbed at them, thinking they might be some kind of stain or clothing fluff, but they were neither. Nor were they tiny scabs. And rubbing did not remove them.
As the floor gave way over a wide, yawning shaft in the now-familiar manner he briefly consoled himself with the thought that he would not be thinking about Jean and David for a while.
The cancer was spreading. Either that or some new variety of cancer had taken root now that the first had weakened his immune system.
He had no idea how long the spots had been there. He had no memory of having ever examined his biceps in detail before. There was a voice in his head telling him that they had probably been there for years. There was another voice in his head saying that this meant they were symptoms of a process which had already done its deadly work below the surface.
The crouching was making him uncomfortably aware of the sandwich, the banana, the orange and, in particular, the Mars bar. He did not want to throw up again, and in a hotel to boot. So, keeping his eyes closed, he forced himself to his feet and strode back and forth between the window and the door, hoping to repeat the calming effect of the afternoon’s walk. By the time he had done this two hundred times the rhythm was going some way to alleviating the panic.
This, however, was the point at which he heard water lapping on a tiled floor. It took him several seconds to work out what might be making the sound of water lapping on a tile floor. When he did so he opened his eyes and sprinted toward the bathroom, tripping on the corner of the bed and smacking his head against the door frame.
He got to his feet and stumbled into the darkness of the bathroom, slowing down to prevent himself slipping again on the flooded floor. He turned the taps off, threw all the available towels onto the ground, gently removed the plug then knelt beside the toilet to get his breath back.
The pain in his head was considerable, but it brought some relief, being a more everyday kind of pain that peaked and ebbed in a predictable fashion.
He put his hand to his forehead. It was warm and wet. He really did not want to open his eyes to find out whether this was due to blood or bathwater.
He flipped the door closed behind him with