Lanark_ a life in 4 books - Alasdair Gray [96]
“Mm. I suppose you know that your kind of asthma is partly a psychological illness.”
“Yes.”
“You do a lot of reading, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you abuse yourself?”
“Certainly, if I’ve been stupid in public.”
“No no. I mean, do you masturbate?”
Thaw’s face went red. He stared down at the quilt.
“Yes.”
“How often?”
“Four or five times a week.”
“Mm. That’s quite often. It’s not widely agreed upon yet, but there is evidence that nervous diseases are aggravated by masturbation. The inmates of lunatic asylums, for instance, masturbate very often indeed. I would try to cut it out if I were you.”
“Yes. Yes, I will.”
“Here’s a bottle of isoprenaline tablets. If you get bad again, break one in two and let half dissolve under your tongue. I think you’ll find it’ll help.”
Thaw was left feeling faintly worried, but fell asleep almost at once.
He woke late at night and worse than ever. The isoprenaline tablets had no effect and the image of June Haig occurred to him, potent and burning like a hot poker in the blood of his stomach. He thought, ‘If only I think things about her it will be all right. I don’t need to masturbate.’ He thought things about her and masturbated ten minutes later. The beast of suffocation pounced at once. He clenched his fists against his chest and dragged breath into it with a gargling sound. Fear became panic and broke his mind into a string of gibbering half-thoughts that would not form: I can’t you are I won’t it does it will drowning no no no no drowning in no no no no air I can’t you are it does….
A thundering hum filled his brain. He was about to faint when a sudden thought formed complete—If I deserve this it is good—and around the thought his mind began exultingly to reassemble. He grinned into the bulb of the bedside lamp. He was in pain, but not afraid. Breathing hoarsely, he took a notebook and pen from the bedside table and wrote in big shapeless words:
Lord God you exist you exist my punishment proves it. My punishment is not more than I can bear what I suffer is just already the pain is less because I know it is just I won ‘t ever do that thing again, it will be a hard fight but with your help I am able for it I won’t ever do that thing again.
Next day he did it three times. Miss Maclaglan sent a telegram to his mother, who came north by bus the day after. She stood by the bed and smiled sadly down at him. “So you’re not too well, son.”
He smiled back.
“Ach,” she said, “You’re a poor auld man. Get a bit better and I’ll stay on with you awhile. It’ll be an excuse for me to have a holiday too.”
He was moved to a big low-ceilinged room with two beds in it. One was his, and Ruth and his mother shared the other.
That night when the lights were out Ruth said, “Sing to us, Mummy. It’s a long time since you sang to us.”
Mrs. Thaw sang some lullabies and sentimental lowland songs: Ca ‘the Yowes, Hush-a-baw Birdie, This is No’ My Plaid. She had once won certificates at musical festivals with her singing, but now she only managed the high notes by singing them very softly, almost in a whisper. She tried to sing Bonnie George Campbell, which starts with a loud wild lamenting note, but her voice cracked and went tuneless and she stopped and laughed: “Ach, it’s beyond me now. I’m getting an auld woman.”
“No! you’re not!” Thaw and Ruth shouted together. Her words alarmed them. She said, “I think we should try to sleep.” He lay against his pillows breathing heavily. When he coughed Mrs. Thaw said hopefully, “That’s right son, bring it up,” and afterward, “There now, that’s better, isn’t it?”
But he had brought up hardly anything, and nothing was better, and the sense of her lying awake attending to the pains in his chest made them harder to bear. He tried to be as still as possible, keeping the small lumps in his gullet until the silence from the other bed made