A Spot of Bother - Mark Haddon [73]
There was another bad noise from the toilet.
He loved Tony. It was suddenly and painfully clear. Their stupid arguments. Over the wedding. Over the binoculars. Over the ketchup. They meant nothing.
He was going round to Tony’s flat. Right after he’d sorted all this out. No matter what the time was. Say sorry. Tell him everything.
They were going to the wedding together. No. Better than that. He’d take Tony up to Peterborough next weekend.
Except that Dad was having some kind of breakdown. He ought to make a few inquiries about that first.
Whatever. He’d take Tony up to Peterborough as soon as possible.
He went up to the bathroom and knocked quietly.
“You OK?”
“Not terribly,” said Mike.
Even through the door the smell was not good. He asked Mike if he needed any help with some trepidation, and heard Mike say “No” with considerable relief.
“Imodium,” said Jamie. “I’ve got some Imodium in the bedroom.”
Mike said nothing.
Several minutes later Jamie was sitting at the kitchen table with a selection of over-the-counter pharmaceuticals spread out in front of him, like a native trader waiting for the men from the big boat.
Imodium. Antacid tablets. Paracetamol. Ibuprofen. Aspirin. Antihistamines. (Were antihistamines intended for that kind of allergic reaction? He wasn’t sure.)
He put the kettle on and checked that he had all the requisite teas and coffees to hand. There was a good half liter of semi-skimmed in the fridge. There was no drinking chocolate but there was an unopened tin of cocoa from an abortive baking project.
He was fully equipped.
After ten or so minutes he heard the ker-snick of the bathroom door being unlocked, then Mike’s feet on the stairs. He was clearly descending with some care.
A hand appeared on the door frame and Mike maneuvered himself into view. He did not look healthy.
Jamie was about to ask what he could offer in terms of medication and hot drinks when Mike said, “I’m so sorry,” and headed down the hall toward the front door.
By the time Jamie had got to his feet Mike had closed the front door behind him. Jamie paused. Being good meant looking after people. It didn’t mean keeping them prisoner. And obviously Mike could see now. Or he wouldn’t have left.
Would he?
Jamie went to the window and lifted the edge of the curtain to glance up and down the street. It was empty. He was fairly certain that blind people didn’t move at that kind of speed.
He went upstairs. The bathroom was spotless.
He was still too drunk to drive. He grabbed his keys and jacket and went out the front door, locking it behind him.
He could have rung for a taxi but he didn’t want to wait. It would take half an hour to walk to Tony’s flat, but he needed the fresh air. And if he woke Tony up, well, this was more important than sleep.
He set off down Wood Vale Gardens and over Park Road in front of the hospital. The rain had stopped and most house lights were off by now. The streets were full of a dirty orange glow and the shadows under cars were thick and black.
Tony was right. He’d been selfish. You had to make compromises if you wanted to share your life with another person.
He crossed Priory Road.
He’d ring Katie tomorrow. She was probably getting everything out of proportion. Which was understandable if she and Ray were having a rough patch. His father going crazy? His mother leaving? He didn’t know which was harder to imagine.
A drunken cyclist zigzagged past.
His father worrying too much and his mother saying she couldn’t take much more. That he could imagine. That was pretty much situation normal.
It would be all right. It would have to be all right. He