A Spot of Bother - Mark Haddon [77]
But, shit, those were real things. Even the money. Christ, you could love someone who was poor and incompetent and share a life that staggered from one disaster to the next. But that wasn’t love, that was masochism. Like Trish. Go down that road and you ended up living in a shed in Snowdonia while Mr. Vibrational Healing carved dragons out of logs.
She didn’t give a damn about the books and the films. She didn’t care what her family thought.
So why did she find it so hard to say she loved him?
Maybe because he’d marched into that café like Clint Eastwood and hurled a wastebin down the street.
In fact, now that she came to think about it, he had a bloody nerve. He disappeared for three days. Didn’t even let her know he was alive. Then he pitched up, said sorry a few times, told her the wedding was off and expected her to say that she loved him.
Three days. Jesus.
You wanted to be a father, you had to show a damn sight more responsibility than that.
Maybe they shouldn’t get married. Maybe it was a ridiculous idea, but if he was going to try and blame it on her…
God. That felt better. That felt a lot better.
She put down her mug and marched upstairs to wake him up and read him the riot act.
60
George decided to do it on Wednesday.
Jean was taking a long-planned trip to see her sister. She had made vague noises about canceling if George needed company but he was insistent that she should go.
When she finally rang from Northampton to say that she had arrived safely and to check that George was OK, he gathered the equipment. He would not have a great deal of energy or time once he had begun, so everything had to be in place.
He washed two codeine down with a large tumbler of whiskey. He stacked three elderly blue towels in the bathroom. He put the cordless phone on the kitchen table, filled the tray of the washing machine with powder and left the door open.
He took an empty, two-liter ice-cream carton from the back of the larder, made sure the lid fitted, then carried it upstairs with a couple of bin liners. He laid the bin liners on the floor and balanced the ice-cream tub on the bath taps. He opened the first-aid kit and placed it on the bathroom shelf.
The whiskey and codeine were beginning to take effect.
He went back downstairs, got the scissors out of the drawer and sharpened them with the little gray whetstone they used for the carving knife. For good measure he sharpened the carving knife too, and took both implements upstairs, laying them on the end of the bath opposite the taps.
He was scared, naturally. But the chemicals were beginning to dull the fear, and the knowledge that his problems would soon be over spurred him on.
He closed the curtains in the bathroom and the doors in the hallway. He turned off all the lights and waited for his eyes to become accustomed to the darkness. He removed his clothes, folded them and left them in a neat pile at the head of the stairs.
He was going into the bathroom when he realized that he did not want to be found unconscious on the floor of his own bathroom wearing no clothes. He put his underpants back on.
He turned the shower to warm, pointed the spray at the far wall and slid the plastic shuttering across.
The bath mat was thick and furry. Could it be washed? He was not entirely sure. He moved it to the far side of the room for safety’s sake.
He placed his foot onto the base of the bath to test the temperature of the water. Perfect. He stepped in.
This was it. Once he had started there would be no turning back.
He made a final check that everything was in place. The scissors, the ice-cream tub, the bin liners…
The first part, he knew, would be the hardest. But it would not last for long. He took a deep breath.
He picked up the scissors in his right hand, then ran the fingers of his left hand over his hip, looking for the lesion. He gripped the flesh around it, and the queasy prickle that spread from his fingers and up his