Fifty-Minute Hour (57 page)

A sudden loud explosion re-echoed from outside. He crouched lower on the toilet seat, head huddled to his knees. They'd been setting off bombs since early evening. Thank God the seminary was solid as a fortress, protected by stout walls, well-defended by outer gates and barricades. And with all his party safely in the chapel, none would risk their life or limbs in the mayhem of the streets tonight. But perhaps he should be down with them. Wouldn't it be safer than cowering all alone here, with no one to instruct him if there were an emergency, a crisis? He shuffled to the door, trousers round his ankles still, opened it a crack, heard a hymn surging from below.

Songs of thankfulness and praise
Jesus, Lord, to thee we raise …

No, he couldn't face it. Their Lord wasn't
his
God. He didn't have a God, didn't have a Mother. Lena had become no longer simple Mrs Payne, but what Father Smithby-Horne called a ‘vehicle' to display God's might and mercy to the faithful. And the ‘vehicle' was revelling in her power. Everyone was pandering to her; ardent Phyllis acting as her handmaid, priests rushing to escort her if she so much as moved a step, special meals and privileges laid on throughout the day. They were even setting up a bronze and marble plaque, to record the details of her miracle, and once engraved, it would become a solid fact – at least to half of Rome.

The whole business quite disturbed him. How could he square miracles with anarchy and chaos, except miracles were chaotic in themselves, broke natural laws, upset normal reason? He'd tried to stick to reason, to explain the cure away as what doctors called a natural remission, or argue, John-Paul-style, that Lena had been healed because she no longer had a need for her affliction; had been enjoying herself for the first time in her life; been cosseted, respected, since she was first wheeled onto the plane. John-Paul had once explained that certain people could aggravate their pain, or even induce it in the first place, to win sympathy, attention, but if they could get this in another way, through esteem or some achievement, their injury or illness might diminish quite dramatically. Now he was less sure. You could no more prove John-Paul's ideas than a miracle itself. And when he thought back to his Mother's life, there were indeed things which truly baffled him. The whole business of John-Paul himself, for instance. How had she discovered that, save through supernatural powers, when he'd done every last thing possible to keep it secret from her? And even minor matters, like the way she always knew when he'd been eating between meals – and not just when, but what. Once, he'd chewed up the whole chocolate wrapper, as well as just the Fruit and Nut, so she'd never find it in his waste-bin; washed out his mouth with Listerine, in case she smelt his breath, yet she'd still remarked acidly at dinner time: ‘Bryan, I don't know why I even bother cooking, when you prefer Cadbury's Fruit and Nut bars to my macaroni cheese.'

Now, she wouldn't notice if he devoured a whole sweet-shop full of chocolate; would probably never cook for him again; maybe never return to Ivy Close at all, but stay in Rome where she'd be famed as a celebrity, surrounded by an entourage of local Catholic fans. He'd lost his home, lost her as his Mother – and it was partly his own fault. He'd
tried
to lose her, hadn't he, almost all his adult life; packed her off to islands or hostile barren wastelands, using double string and cardboard, so he wouldn't hear her screams? Well, this time he'd succeeded. She was indeed as far from him as if she'd been delivered by a postman three hundred thousand miles away.

He pulled his trousers up again, struggled with his belt, stood slumped against the wall, staring dully out through the tiny smeary window. A full moon was very dangerous on a night like New Year's Eve, when passions were already high, and fuelled by alcohol. Even on a normal night, a full moon could drive you mad. He'd read it in the
Mail
– how staff in mental hospitals had twice as many crises on the days around full moon – patients cracking up or running wild. He drew the dirty curtain to try to shut it out, sank back on the seat once more, head drooping, eyes half-closed. ‘God of might and mercy' they were trilling from downstairs. There wasn't any mercy – that at least was clear. His stomach griped, his tongue was furred, his body had stopped working. Impotence. His pale lips mouthed the word. Constipation was just another term for it, another symptom of paralysis, stagnation. Even if he outflanked all his rivals, won Mary for himself, he'd probably prove a laughing-stock, unable to perform. He could see the shameless father of her baby thrusting wildly into her, pistoning and pumping her in every bar in Walton, every bed in Rome. If he ever met that maniac, ever had an inkling who he was, he'd … he'd …

He unclenched his fists, wiped his clammy palms. His own fury terrified him – those jumbled lethal images of cudgels, choppers, hatchets, daggers, guns. They locked up violent psychopaths, strapped them into straitjackets. ‘Go away!' he shouted to the flint-faced psychiatric nurse who had reared up in his head. He must calm down, wash his hands and face, scour his
mind
, for God's sake. Impossible to wash, though. There wasn't any water. And yet he could feel germs crawling over him: germs of jealousy, revenge, germs of fury and confusion. He reached behind the cistern for the bottle of disinfectant – Sainsbury's disinfectant which must have been brought by one of the English to counter Roman squalor. He could sluice his hands with that, perhaps even swab his body, pour some on the cleaning-rag and have an instant sponge-down, sterilise his brain with it, remove those deadly weapons.

Except it was
Mary
who needed sterilising – and in both senses of the word. It was she who'd made him violent, she who'd tainted, taunted him. He closed his eyes a moment, saw her lying naked while he swilled the disinfectant between her open thighs, scouring all the men off her, their fingerprints, their sperm; trying to reach inside her body, so he could fumigate her womb, flush that hated foetus out. He could see her flesh glistening-wet and quivering, as it shrunk from his cruel hands; watched her flinch and tremble as the undiluted fluid smarted on her nipples, stung inside her groin. No – he flung the rag away, couldn't bear to hurt her, even with such flagrant provocation. Inflicting pain on Mary didn't heal his own.

He turned back to the window, bottle in his hands still. It had become a baby's bottle now; Mary's baby swelling from a speck to a Goliath, gobbling down her milk, her breasts, her life. Of course he hadn't managed to abort it – it was growing every moment, expanding as he dwindled. How would he endure the next nine mocking months; how even find the courage to bear the next two hours – that loathsome pilgrims' party planned to start at midnight: the jollity, the singsongs, the charades and childish games. He checked his watch – exactly ten to twelve. Just ten brief minutes left until New Year. Could he face another year, its loneliness, its pain; face another two hundred sessions on John-Paul's fruitless couch; maybe twenty times two hundred if his analyst was right and he was resisting his own treatment, one of those psychotics who needed half a lifetime before they could be cured, or even move from desperate to plain miserable? He could hear John-Paul's impassive voice repeating those grim phrases he'd heard so many times – resistance, negative transference, persecutory anxiety, repetition-compulsion. How could he ever win against such odds?

He tugged back the tattered curtain, gazed out at the night, the callous moon pretending there was some event to celebrate as it poured its tinsel beams on roofs and walls. Even the disinfectant bottle shimmered in its light, like some festive gold liqueur. ‘POISON', read the label. ‘Not to be taken.' He fought a wave of dizziness as the letters blurred and rippled in his head. If he disobeyed the label and drank that potent poison, he could miss the party, miss New Year, miss the birth of Mary's baby, the transfer of his Mother's goods and furniture from Ivy Close to Rome. His body seemed to spring to life as the idea took hold and rooted. He could feel the blood drumming through his arteries, pounding in his head. He was no longer blocked or paralysed, but untrammelled, freed, released. He had actually made a decision for the first time in his life, without agonising, dithering, setting out long lists of pros and cons.

There
were
no cons as far as dying was concerned. Even John-Paul had written a book on
Thanatos
(which at first he'd feared was a new and dire disease, until he discovered from the dust-jacket it was simply the Greek word for death, used by Freud to personify the death-instinct). He'd borrowed the tome from his local public library, struggled through the close-packed text, given up halfway; but still been struck by his doctor's obvious interest in the pull and lure of death – man's longing for oblivion, negation. Oblivion was his now, and oblivion came free – no monthly bills charging him for pain. All he had to do was make sure his death was orderly, time it with precision, not shamble out casually with no strict and tidy plan. He had his plan already. As the first loud stroke of midnight resounded from the courtyard clock, he would tip the bottle up, gulp the first long draught, and as its last chime died away, he would drain the final drop.

He put the bottle down a moment, so he could comb his hair, straighten up his tie, brush any speck or loose thread from his clothes. Thank goodness he was wearing a clean white shirt, a decent formal jacket. It seemed important to be neat, to have his shoes and nails clean. He positioned himself squarely on the seat, feet together, back and shoulders straight, then held the bottle ready, unscrewed its rusted cap. He wasn't even frightened; more elated and amazed that he had cut through all the torment of a lifetime; the vacillation, seesawing, the endless indecision. Just four minutes to go now. He started counting seconds to calm himself, still the frantic judder of his heart.

At last, he heard that sudden throaty in-breath from the courtyard, which always meant the clock was about to strike. He panicked for a second as he confused it with the clock outside John-Paul's Gothic tower – that cracked and strident voice cawing eight o'clock each Monday, Wednesday, Friday of his life; inducing sweet relief as it released him from the couch, yet also deep frustration, since he knew he would be back there morning after morning, as year succeeded year. ‘
No
,' he whispered to himself. ‘I shall stop my clock, run down. Just twelve more chimes, then silence.'

The first chime seemed to vibrate through his body, thunder through his brain. His hands were clenched and sweaty on the bottle, his whole body tensed, prepared. He tipped his head back, raised the heavy bottle to his mouth; his last thoughts not on Mary, but on the triumphant fact he'd escaped John-Paul for ever, outwitted him in death. The bottle grazed his trembling lips, as he closed them round its nipple, closed his eyes as well, let the bitter golden liquor lacerate his tongue.

‘Mary, this noise is quite ridiculous! I was prepared to put up with it at midnight, but it's nearly three a.m. now.'

‘I know, dear. Try and read. It's the only thing to do. The man downstairs told me a lot of youngsters celebrate till dawn.'

‘Celebrate? It sounds more like a war. I'm going to complain.'

‘Oh, don't, James! No one can do anything. And if you go outside yourself, you may get hurt.'

‘I wouldn't dream of going out. I just want a word with that moron of a desk clerk. Maybe he can't control the fireworks and the yobbos, but at least he could restrain the hotel staff. There've been half a dozen porters banging around with luggage for almost a full hour now. I mean, what in God's name's going on? People arriving in the middle of the night, or changing rooms or something? And can't he have a word with that ass in 207? Okay, if he wants a knees-up in his room, that's quite all right with me, but does he have to leave his door open and have half his guests lurching down the corridor and battering on
our
door?'

‘Only one did, darling.'

‘There'll be more – you see. Just as we've nodded off at four or five o'clock, he'll send out for indoor fireworks or start playing the accordion …' James erupted from the room, coat atop his dressing gown, bare feet in bluff black shoes. Mary put her book away, switched on the main light. New Year's Eve hadn't gone too well, starting with the picnic meal which had been mainly cream and sugar – chocolate lions, sickly cake, followed by more lions – which, as James had pointed out, was hardly very healthy for his cholesterol levels. She'd been so elated by the
mago
, so excited by her future, her mind had been on higher things than coleslaw and salami. She had totally forgotten to buy salads and cold meats (or even bread and cheese); had left her bag of apples by the fortuneteller's chair. The boys had been delighted by a meal of mainly sweets, but James kept asking anyone who'd listen how a normal rational female who'd kept house for thirteen years could spend five thousand lire and two hours in a food shop and return with just one gâteau and no change?

Even the fireworks had been something of a let-down – all bang and not much spectacle – and with none of those set-pieces of flowers or shapes or buildings which you got back home in England, and no real show of colour. Just what James described as a ‘God Almighty racket', which had terrified poor Jonathan, and put Lionel in a paddy since it continued well past midnight when he'd been trying to sort out his research notes on Third World artesian wells. And it wasn't just the rockets or raucous fellow guests. James had been complaining about the din from 207, but there had been even more disturbance from her own immediate family. First Simon had come bursting in with stomach-ache, then Oliver with nightmares and Harry with a heart attack (which she re-diagnosed as flatulence and dosed with Pepsidol). And, lastly, Lionel himself, just half an hour or less ago, summoning their help to remove a drunken Lithuanian who had collapsed outside his door.