Lanark_ a life in 4 books - Alasdair Gray [151]
“Will he not?” said Thaw sullenly. “The only God I can imagine is too like Stalin to be comforting.”
“I don’t condone Stalin’s methods, of course, but I firmly believe anyone else ruling Russia in the thirties would have had to behave like him.”
The new pills stopped working and the doctor prescribed others which didn’t work either. On the worst nights Mr. Thaw sat by the bed wiping trickles of sweat from Thaw’s face with a towel and holding out a basin to take the thick yellow phlegm. Thaw was wholly occupied by the disease now. He felt it in him like civil war sabotaging his breathing and allowing only enough oxygen to feel pain, helplessness and self-disgust. Once after midnight he said, “Doctor thinks … this illness … mental.”
“Aye, son. He’s hinted at it.”
“Fill bath.”
“What?”
“Fill bath. Cold water.”
With difficulty he explained that maybe (like a land forgetting inner differences when attacked by another) the clenched air tubes might relax if his whole skin was insulted by cold water.
Mr. Thaw reluctantly filled the bath and helped Thaw to the edge. Thaw dropped his pyjamas, placed one foot in the water and stood, breathing heavily. After a while he brought in the other foot and with a spasmodic effort knelt on one knee.
“Hurry up, Duncan. Put yourself under!” said Mr. Thaw and moved to thrust him down.
“No!” screamed Thaw, and five minutes later managed to lie on his back with nose and lips above the surface. Breathing was as hard as ever. Mr. Thaw dried him and helped him back to bed. “You should have lain down at once, Duncan. If shock treatment can work, it has to come as a shock.”
Thaw sat for a while, then said, “You’re right. Hit me.”
“What?”
“Hit me. On face.”
“Duncan! … I cannae.”
After more minutes of sore breathing, Thaw cried, “Please!”
“But Duncan—”
“Can’t stand … more this. Can’t stand.”
Mr. Thaw struck his face with his open palm.
“No good. Could hit … myself … harder. Again!”
Mr. Thaw struck harder. Thaw reeled, recovered, compared the painful cheek to the pain in his chest and muttered, “No bloody good,”
Mr. Thaw bowed his head and wept. He was sitting on the edge of the bed and Thaw embraced him, saying, “Sorry, Dad. Sorry.”
He felt his father’s body shake with the sobs erupting inside. It did not feel a large body, and looking down at the thin white hair strands on the freckled scalp he sensed it was an ageing body, and was puzzled to find his own, for a moment, the stronger.
“Go to bed, Dad,” he said. “I’m better now.”
The tension in his chest had eased.
“My God, Duncan, if I could take your damned illness myself I would! I would!”
“What good would that do? Who would support us then? No, this is the best arrangement.”
Mr. Thaw went to bed and the breathing worsened again. When he tried to ignore it by staring at things in the surrounding room they became unstable, as if walls, furniture and ornaments were pieces of a destructive force gripped into shape by a hostile force which could only just hold them. A glazed jug before the window seemed about to explode. Its shiny green hardness threatened him across the room. Everything he saw seemed made of panic. He stared at the ceiling and gathered his thoughts into an intense, silent cry: ‘You exist. I surrender. I believe. Help me please.’
The asthma worsened. He gave a fearful moan, then controlled himself enough to make