ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 6 страница

Meg nodded slowly. ‘I’d never thought of it like that. ’

‘Not Mrs Deal though, ’ said Angie brightly – and for her patient’s ears. ‘We love Mrs Deal and hope for the best, don’t we, Mrs Deal? ’

Mrs Deal’s finger tapped mechanically.

Angie touched Meg’s shoulder. ‘Thanks for coming. ’

When she’d gone, Meg sat down again, all bundled up. She took Mrs Deal’s hand and stroked it. It was cold and so she sandwiched it between her own to warm it up a little.

‘I’m so sorry I snapped at you, ’ she said. She sighed and then went on, almost to herself, ‘I’m a bit stressed out at the moment. It’s all Patrick’s fault. He wants me to take pictures of something important. But I only got my camera for Christmas and I’m totally shit at photos. ’

It was true. For every in-focus, in-frame photograph she’d lucked into over Christmas, there were two dozen that required immediate deletion. Two dozen shots of huge white faces, giant thumbs, the backs of heads and her own feet. How she was supposed to take clinically reliable close-ups of mucous membranes, precise enough to indicate whether the wounds might have been made post-or ante-mortem, she had no idea.

‘And I have to take them in secret too, ’ she sighed. ‘In a place where cameras aren’t allowed. If I get caught, I could be expelled and my dad would go effing bonkers. So I’m sorry I was rude. ’

Mrs Deal just lay there, and Meg blushed at the thought of telling the woman her puny problems, before leaving her here in her bed and rushing off to live her life.

She placed the hand gently back on the cover. Immediately the finger started twitching.

‘I’ll see you next week, ’ Meg said, and hurried away.

PATRICK WASN’T SURE what to do with his time now that he had been expelled, so spent much of the following week pedalling slowly around the city. The glasshouse at Roath Park was a warm haven – dripping with tropical fronds – while outside the sunshine tried to break through the cloud cover of a Welsh spring. At the lake, he loaded his bike into a rowing boat and drifted slowly around the islands that were home to swans and ducks and old crisp packets. There were even hardy little red-eared terrapins that had survived being dumped after the Mutant Ninja craze, and which now basked on logs, surprising natives.

When it rained, Patrick went to the bookies. The third time he went, two horses died, but it happened away from the cameras. Patrick wrote them in his book anyway – Starbright and Mighty Acorn – and made the little marks next to their names which denoted that they had not helped his cause. Afterwards he went to the museum and bought a Coke for supper.

When he got home, Lexi was sitting on the couch between Kim and Jackson, even though it was really only big enough for two people. They were watching Deal or No Deal and Lexi was holding the remote control.

Patrick hovered in the doorway.

‘Hi, ’ said Lexi. ‘What happened to you the other day? ’

‘Which day? ’

‘At the house. With Jackie. ’

‘I left, ’ he said.

‘I know that, ’ she said, rolling her eyes at him – something he was used to. ‘But why? ’

‘My ears were hurting. ’

Lexi made a screwed-up face and Kim explained, ‘He doesn’t like loud noises, do you, Patrick? ’

‘No. ’

‘You missed a hell of a fight, ’ said Lexi.

‘Oh, ’ said Patrick. ‘Good. ’

She stood up and dropped the remote in Jackson’s lap. He and Kim leaned gently into the gap where she’d been.

Patrick went upstairs and Lexi followed him.

‘Any luck? ’ she said.

‘With what? ’

‘Finding out who killed my dad. ’

‘No. But Meg’s taking some photos of the throat, where there are wounds that could be ante-mortem. ’

‘What’s ante-mortem? ’

‘Before death. ’

‘Oh, ’ she said. ‘Like post-mortem. ’

‘Yes. But not. ’

She nodded and followed him to the bathroom while he filled his bucket with water, then back to his bedroom. He shifted the bed away from the wall and started to scrub the carpet where it had been.

Lexi sat cross-legged on his bed for a while – then wriggled down inside his sleeping bag and stared at the ceiling, which was a-swirl with Artex.

‘What did you find in my dad? Apart from the peanut, I mean. ’

‘Nothing. ’

‘There can’t have been nothing. ’

‘Nothing you wouldn’t expect to find. ’

The carpet that had been under the bed was dusty as well as dark brown, and the water in the bucket was soon black and hairy.

‘It’s weird to think about you poking around inside his head when he’s dead. I wish I could have done that when he was alive. ’

Patrick sat back on his heels. ‘Dissected his brain? ’

‘Just to find out why he did some of the shit he did after my mum died. I mean, God knows what he was thinking half the time. ’

‘I understand what you mean, ’ he said, with an unexpected chink of empathy.

‘Was your dad an arse too? ’ she said.

‘No, ’ he said. ‘He wasn’t. ’

‘Oh, ’ said Lexi. ‘That’s nice for you. ’ She played absently with the zip of the bag. It was a heavy-duty YKK that Patrick kept running smooth with WD40. He wondered if she might say something about it, but she didn’t.

‘Mine wasn’t always an arse, ’ she said instead. ‘This one Christmas Eve when I was, like, three or four, I was asleep and he and my mum were downstairs with friends. ’

‘How do you know? ’ said Patrick.

‘How do I know what? ’

‘How do you know they were downstairs with friends if you were asleep? ’

Lexi frowned at him and said, ‘They just were, OK? You’re so fucking weird. ’

She looked at the ceiling and Patrick pursed his lips. He didn’t like stories where he didn’t understand all the reasons why things in them happened.

‘So I’m asleep in bed and all of a sudden he grabs me out of bed, so fast I didn’t know what was going on, and he runs downstairs with me in his arms, and he’s so excited he’s kind of shaking, you know? ’

Patrick nodded, even though Lexi wasn’t looking at him. Something about this story made him put his brush in the bucket and give her his full attention.

‘And he takes me through to the front room and all the lights are off, apart from the fairy lights on the Christmas tree, and all the presents are under the tree and my mum and their friends are by the window and the curtains are open—’

‘That’s how you knew, ’ said Patrick. ‘Because the friends were there when you went downstairs. ’

Lexi stared at him blankly, then smiled. ‘Yes, that’s how I knew. ’

‘Go on, ’ said Patrick.

She looked at the ceiling again and went on. ‘So, my dad ran to the window with me. ’

She was quiet for a long moment, and Patrick watched her swallow, even though she wasn’t eating.

She went on, ‘I remember everyone was looking at me, sort of excited, and I didn’t know whether to be scared or excited or what was going on. And he holds me in his arms and points outside and whispers, ‘Look! Look! ’

‘What was outside? ’ said Patrick. He couldn’t help himself.

‘Outside was dark, but sort of light, too, because it had been snowing all day and it was still snowing, and the streetlights made everything orange. ’

‘And what was outside? ’ said Patrick impatiently.

‘And Father Christmas was going past. ’

Patrick frowned. ‘But Father Christmas doesn’t exist. ’

‘Yes, he does, ’ said Lexi dreamily to the ceiling, ‘’cos I saw him. And it was wonderful. He was in a sleigh being pulled by a little white pony you couldn’t even hear because of the snow, so it was totally silent. And he wasn’t stopping or handing out presents; he wasn’t waving and showing off or ho-ho-ho-ing; he wasn’t somebody’s dad or uncle dressed up. It was too real and too quiet and too beautiful. ’

Patrick sat on his heels and watched while a little silver river swelled out of the corner of her eye and trickled across the plain of her cheek.

She turned and looked at him and he didn’t look away.

‘It was like magic, ’ she half whispered. ‘And he woke me up so I could see it. ’ Then she looked back at the ceiling and wiped her eyes.

Patrick didn’t believe in Father Christmas. It didn’t make sense. And he thought that the Father Christmas that Lexi had seen had probably been somebody’s neighbour on his way to hand out presents and to ho-ho-ho at a house further along the street.

But, for some strange reason, he didn’t say any of that. For some strange reason that didn’t make sense either, Patrick said nothing and did nothing, and the silence filled the cramped, chemical-smelling little bedroom with something warm and quite wonderful.

Lexi sighed. ‘I like your room, ’ she told the Artex. ‘It’s very calm. ’

Patrick was not surprised; the ceiling was definitely the best part of his room.

He went to empty the bucket. A cushion of hair and fibres clogged the plughole and he plucked it out like a small, drowned animal and dropped it into the pedal bin. Then he peeled off his bleach-spattered clothes and showered until the hot water ran out.

When he returned to his room, Lexi was asleep. He carefully slid the bed back into place against the wall.

She did not wake up.

MEG STOPPED DEAD just inside the door of the dissection room, so that Scott almost knocked her over. She had to grasp the edge of Table 4 to keep from falling.

The bodies were gone.

Table 4, which had once been home to Rufus, with his curly red chest hair, was now just a clean and shiny stainless-steel surface under her hand, and Rufus’s limbs and entrails had disappeared from the shelf below it.

The room looked completely different. It had changed from white with fleshy orange outcrops, to white – with yet more white reflected in the steel table-tops. Without the cadavers, Meg wasn’t even sure at first which was Table 19. She walked over and touched it, as if she could only then be certain of the absence of a corpse.

The other students seemed to feel the same, and they milled about, apparently disorientated.

‘Where is he? ’ Meg asked Dr Spicer.

‘Who? ’

‘Bill. ’

Dr Spicer turned and waved a vague arm and, for the first time, Meg realized that there was a row of trolleys lined up against the far wall of the room. On each was a white body bag.

‘The final week will just be a recap using prosections, if anyone needs a reminder. ’

‘When will they be taken away? ’

‘What? ’

‘The cadavers. ’

‘As and when funerals are arranged. ’

Meg did a quick count. Already there were only twenty-seven.

‘You OK? ’ said Rob.

She nodded slowly. ‘One day he’s here, the next he’s gone. It just feels weird. ’

‘And that, ’ said Spicer with a sympathetic smile, ‘is why we don’t like students to know too much about their cadavers. ’

‘Now I get it, ’ she said, wishing fervently that she didn’t.

‘Anyway, ’ Spicer added, ‘it’s not all doom and gloom. On Friday night we’ll all have a bit of a get-together at my place to mark the end of dissection. Sort of a wake. ’

‘I’m up for that, ’ said Rob, and Dilip nodded vigorously.

‘Partay, ’ said Scott in the fake American accent he thought made him cooler.

Meg nodded but she didn’t feel like a partay. Half of her was relieved that taking photos of Bill’s throat was now out of the question – she had no idea which bag held his body, or even whether his body was still there. But the other half of her knew it meant that she could no longer hold Patrick to his part of the bargain.

And the thought of reading Ulysses or Moby Dick while Mrs Deal’s restless finger marked erratic time made her feel queasy.

PATRICK’S DAY STARTED badly when he received a Valentine’s card. On the front was a photo of a heart made of seashells pressed into damp sand. Inside was nothing but a question mark. It confused him to the point where he had to seek clarification from Kim, who seemed disproportionately excited.

‘Jackson! ’ she yelled up the stairs, ‘Patrick’s got a Valentine’s card! ’

Once he knew what it was, Patrick hated everything about it – the anonymity, the concept and, most of all, the surprise. Patrick liked to be able to prepare; the unexpected was a threat and changes were bad. If he survived them, it was only because he’d taken the precaution of surrounding himself with enough that was unchanged to see him through the transition. His bicycle. His sleeping bag. His book of names. These were some of the constants that allowed him – with enough preparation and planning – to pick his way through the minefield of life. His mother’s drinking, the death of his father, the move to university. These had been survivable only because of his photos of death and his alphabet plate.

So the unexpected appearance of the card filled Patrick with foreboding about the day ahead.

The doorbell rang. It was Meg.

‘What’s wrong? ’ said Patrick.

‘Nothing! ’ she said. ‘Well, something, but not … y’know. Nothing terrible. Can I come in? ’

While Patrick was thinking about it, Jackson shouldered his way past them both, winding his scarf around his neck and glaring at Patrick.

‘Fucking Valentine’s cards, ’ he hissed.

‘What’s wrong with Valentine’s cards? ’ said Meg cautiously.

‘Everything, ’ said Patrick, and allowed Meg to follow him into the kitchen, where she told him the bodies had gone.

Patrick reeled. Despite all his precautions, life had blown up in his face.

‘Dissection is a twenty-two-week course! ’ he shouted.

‘I know, ’ said Meg.

‘But we’ve only had twenty-one! ’

‘Sssh, ’ she said soothingly. ‘I suppose that they consider a recap week using prosections to be a valid part of the course. ’

‘But it’s not, ’ said Patrick vehemently. Prosections were the chunks of abdomen, the slivers of brain, the disembodied hands. Reeking and grey with age, they were lifted, dripping with preservative, from the big white buckets in the second of the refrigerated rooms, to demonstrate what students should be looking for in the less obvious cadavers. Kidneys with renal vessels trailing like shoelaces, faces sliced like toast on a rack.

‘You have to find Number 19, ’ said Patrick firmly. ‘We made a deal. ’

‘Patrick, how can I? I can’t march over to the body bags in the middle of class and unzip them all until I find him. And then take photos. ’

‘But we made a deal. ’

‘The deal’s off. I’m sorry. Really sorry. ’

Patrick looked lost. ‘How will we get the proof now? ’

‘I’m not sure we can, ’ sighed Meg.

Patrick turned away from her and stared broodingly at the kitchen tap. He could see Meg reflected in the stainless steel, looking at the back of his head. He realized that it was easier to look at her this way – without having to face her. For the first time he studied her without having to avoid catching her eye. The reflection was slightly distorted, but it made him remember his mother’s question at Christmas.

Is she pretty?

Meg had dark eyebrows over brown eyes, pale skin and a curved mouth. He didn’t know if she was pretty because that was not something he’d ever registered in anyone in the fleeting glances that were all he could manage. But her face was even, and calming to look at, even in a tap.

For the first time in his life he wondered what she saw when she looked at him. The curved steel tap stretched his face to a narrow strip, his eyes bugging out at the top like an alien stick insect. He closed them and refocused on the struggle to connect the dots of events and motivations.

The body was no longer available. But the peanut hadn’t been with the body. Therefore the peanut was still there to be found. Somewhere. It wasn’t much, but it would be better than nothing, which was what they had now.

He opened his eyes and glanced at Meg’s shoulder. ‘Where does Scott live? ’ he demanded.

‘I have no idea, ’ she said. ‘Why? ’

‘He could have taken the peanut. ’

‘Why would he have taken it? ’

Patrick didn’t know the answer to that. He was desperate – that was all. At least Scott had threatened to kill him, and had tried to uncover the eyes of the corpse. If it wasn’t Scott, he was lost again.

‘I think you’re clutching at straws, ’ said Meg.

‘I want to speak to him, ’ he said stubbornly.

‘Really? ’ She sighed.

‘Yes, ’ said Patrick. ‘Really. ’

‘In that case, ’ said Meg with a wry little smile, ‘tomorrow night we par-tay. ’

It was the second Thursday. Sarah hadn’t even noticed the first one after she’d received Professor Madoc’s letter; that week had passed in a liquid blur of calling in sick to the card shop, and the smell of her own unwashed sheets.

But this was the second Thursday, and now she sat by the phone all evening, with the cat on her lap, watching the local news. Every bulletin that passed without word of a young man hanged or drowned or found on the railway tracks allowed her to uncap the Vladivar and drink to the fact that Patrick was probably still alive.

Or that he hadn’t come home yet; she wasn’t sure which.

The thought of his return filled her with a slow panic. So much so that she had not called Professor Madoc or the Cardiff police to enquire as to where Patrick might be now that he’d been expelled. Nor had she driven the forty-odd miles to Cardiff and knocked on the door of the little terraced house where she had left him last September.

Not even when she was sober.

There was no reason for her to worry. She had paid Patrick’s rent until the end of the spring term, and he had twenty pounds a week to live on. It wasn’t much, but it was all she’d been able to afford without making applications and supplications, and coming to the attention of who knew what authorities? Easier just to tighten their belts. Luckily Patrick didn’t really care about clothing or food – or how little there was of either.

Sarah Fort eyed the phone warily. It was already gone eleven. It was unlikely to ring now.

The relief was immense and she celebrated by finishing the bottle.

If Patrick came back, he came back, and she would deal with it then. If he did not – then it would release her in more ways than one.

TRACY EVANS WAS fat.

Fat, fat, fat.

She glared at herself in the mirror at the top of the stairs. It wasn’t just her tummy; fat seemed to be laying itself down in rude slabs on her cheeks, her neck, her upper arms.

She’d looked forward to pregnancy. Gone were the days when a pregnant woman had to waddle around wearing a pup tent to cover her bulge. Nowadays young women flaunted their bumps in little black dresses and posed naked in magazines cradling their perfect, smooth bellies.

Nowhere in the celebrity gossip columns did she remember seeing anyone who looked the way she did after a mere five months – like a pumped-up version of herself, with trucker’s arms and increasingly piggy eyes. She’d bought a little black maternity dress, but she’d blown up so fast that she’d never had a chance to show it off, and now it mocked her every time she opened the wardrobe, where Mr Deal – Raymond – had cleared a space at the end of his rail for her. The dress was so narrow she couldn’t imagine getting a leg into it, let alone her entire bulk.

Mr Deal said she looked fine, but he’d stopped touching her in bed. She had failed to interest him even by expanding her range of sexual positions – like unlocking another level in Mario Kart. She still stayed over three nights a week, but now he only kissed her goodnight on the cheek, with his hand on her beefy shoulder.

Tracy watched the corners of her mouth suddenly tug downwards, as if operated by strings. She loved him. She loved him! Shouldn’t that have made it easier to eat for one and a tiny weeny foetus, instead of for six men and a boy?

Apparently not.

She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes and looked at the ceiling, to avoid smudging her mascara. She didn’t have time to fix it; they were going for a Valentine’s Day dinner at the Thai House. Just the name of the restaurant made Tracy’s burgeoning tummy rumble and she was seized by a sudden hostility for the child within her. She imagined a troll: a rubber-faced, sharp-toothed predator, selfish and demanding and always ravenous. Of course, she knew that everything would be different four months from now when she held her in her arms and fell in love for the second time, but until then, her daughter (Jordan or Jamelia, she couldn’t decide) felt like an enemy to be routed from her body at the first possible opportunity.

In the meantime, outside the bedroom Mr Deal was displaying surprising enthusiasm. He had painted the fifth bedroom a happy yellow and she’d come round one day to find all kinds of baby stuff – clothes and toys, and a new crib. Not just new to them, but new to anyone. It wasn’t the crib with the white fairy-tale canopy that she would have chosen, but, whatever, the ticket said it had cost £ 895 from Mothercare, and Tracy had never spent that much on a car!

Raymond’s choice of baby clothes left a lot to be desired, too – all neutrals and whites and yellows, when everyone knew a little girl needed to be smothered in pink.

She thought it a bit strange that they hadn’t gone shopping together but she hid her disappointment. At least he was involved, which was more than she could have expected from most men of her own age, and she told him it was all wonderful.

And Tracy was sure it would be.

Sure because the nursery was her insurance. Where else would the baby live but that bright, sunshiny room? And where else would she live, if not with her baby? Raymond just did things differently from other men, that was all – and it was part of the reason she loved him.

She smiled bravely at herself in the mirror and poked her hair into perfect place.

Not long now. And once Jordan or Jamelia (or possibly Jaden? ) came along, she’d lose the weight, and she’d start going to clubs again, and they would take long, exotic foreign holidays – the kind spent on a fancy lilo, while cute, tanned waiters swam out to serve them cocktails stuffed with pineapple slices and umbrellas.

Her mother had already agreed to have the baby.

PATRICK HADN’T BEEN to a party since he was five years old, when the clamour of twenty over-sugared children in such disorganized proximity had led to a meltdown on a scale rarely witnessed during musical chairs. The very word ‘party’ had the power to trigger in him flashbacks of wailing classmates, overturned furniture, and a big brown dog gulping down spilled jelly.

It all hit him with fresh clarity when Dr Spicer opened the door of his flat. The music alone made him take a nervous step backwards across the corridor.

‘Hi, ’ said Spicer. ‘Come in! ’

Meg did just that, but Patrick stayed where he was. Meg turned and pointed at the bottle of wine she’d insisted that they buy at the corner shop. Apparently it was their entrance ticket. He’d bought a bottle of Coke for himself. It was plastic, not glass, but it was better than nothing.

Patrick handed the wine to Spicer and said, ‘Where’s Scott? ’

Spicer laughed and said thank you, and Meg smiled and let their tutor kiss her cheek.

Spicer looked at him. ‘Come on in, Patrick. It’s nice to see you. ’

He looked very different without his white coat and blue gloves, and Patrick didn’t like it. He hadn’t been prepared for Spicer in jeans and a Cardiff rugby shirt. It made him feel as if he had already lost control of the situation.

‘Is Scott here? ’ he said, without moving.

‘Yeah, he found out about it somehow, ’ said Spicer with a wink that made Meg giggle.

Still Patrick stood rooted to the deep-green carpet of the hallway. ‘Can you get him for me? ’

Spicer smiled and beckoned with the wine. ‘Why don’t you come in and find him? ’

Patrick folded his arms across his chest and took a step backwards. ‘I’ll stay here, ’ he said to Meg. ‘You go and get him. ’

‘Don’t be daft, Patrick, ’ she said. ‘No one’s going to bite you. ’

Patrick looked past her to the people and the lights and the bass that made his stomach vibrate unpleasantly, even from here. He licked his lips, which were suddenly dry.

‘C’mon, ’ said Meg, and took a step towards him. For an awful moment Patrick thought she was going to take his hand. Instead she said quietly, ‘If you don’t, you might never know. ’

Then she turned and walked inside as if she expected him to follow.

Not knowing was not an option. So – after a long, long hesitation – he did.

Everyone was there. What seemed to be dozens of students, all looking impossibly sophisticated, with wine glasses and bottled beer in their hands, without their grubby paper coats. There were also several of the younger tutors – Dr Clarke, Dr Spiller and Dr Tsu – laughing and talking with two women Patrick didn’t recognize, and fitting in with everyone seamlessly. They all seemed to know why they were here. They all looked as if they belonged.

Meg said ‘Hi’ and waved to a slim, dark-haired woman whom Patrick didn’t recognize.

‘Hi, Patrick, ’ said Rob, and Patrick nodded.

‘Nice party, ’ Rob added.

‘Is it? ’ said Patrick.

Rob stared at him for a moment, then shrugged and laughed. ‘I don’t know. ’

‘Oh, ’ said Patrick. ‘OK. ’

‘Want a beer? ’ said Rob, and picked one out of a barrel filled to the brim with ice and bottles.

‘No, ’ he said, and hurried on.

Meg led him through to the kitchen, which was empty, and furthest from the stereo. Even so, by the time they got there, Patrick wanted to sob or scream with itchy repulsion and the pain in his ears. He sat with his back to the wall, then pulled the kitchen table towards him across the fancy quarry tiles so that no one could pass behind him. There was some small relief in having his back covered, even if his face and chest and hands and legs felt hopelessly vulnerable. There were a dozen bottles on the table and Patrick rearranged them into a glass barrier.

Meg found a tumbler in a cupboard. ‘Do you want a drink? ’ she said.

He shook his head. The Coke was cold and tempting in his hands but he didn’t dare open it, because it had become his guardian for the night. Full, it protected him; empty, it lost its power. Opening it would seem like the action of a man who had dropped his guard.

Meg put the tumbler on the table and went over to the counter nearest the sink, where more bottles were waiting for customers.

Patrick noticed that the glass Meg had chosen had a faint smear near the rim. He got up and washed it.

‘Thanks, ’ she said, sitting down and pouring herself some wine. She took a long gulp and smiled at him. ‘So, Patrick, how many Valentine’s cards did you get? ’

‘One. ’

‘Only one? Who was it from? ’

‘I don’t know, ’ he said. ‘You said you were going to find Scott. ’

Meg stared silently into her wine glass for a while, then said, ‘OK then. ’

When she’d gone, Patrick opened the cupboard and examined all the glasses. He ran a bowlful of soapy water and washed them and put them on the rack to dry. Then he opened the cutlery drawer. He emptied the whole lot into the hot water.