Suspect (2 page)

“You know how people always say, ‘It’l be fine. Everything is going to be OK’? They say that because they can’t think of anything else. I don’t know what to say either, Malcolm. I don’t even know what questions to ask.

“Most people don’t know how to handle someone else’s disease. Unfortunately, there’s no book of etiquette or list of dos and don’ts. You either get the watery-eyed, I-can’t-bear-it-I’m-going-to-cry look or forced jokiness and buck-up speeches. The other option is complete denial.”

Malcolm hasn’t responded. He’s staring across the rooftops as if looking out of a tiny window high up in the gray sky. His pajamas are thin and white with blue stitching around the cuffs and col ar.

Between my knees I can see three fire engines, two ambulances and half a dozen police cars. One of the fire engines has an extension ladder on a turntable. I haven’t taken much notice of it until now, but I see it slowly turning and begin to slide upward. Why would they be doing that? At the same moment, Malcolm braces his back against the sloping roof and lifts himself. He squats on the edge, with his toes hanging over the gutter, like a bird perched on a branch.

I can hear someone screaming and then I realize that it’s me. I’m yel ing the place down. I’m wildly gesticulating for them to get the ladder away. I look like the suicidal jumper and Malcolm looks total y calm.

I fumble for the earpiece and hear pandemonium inside. The critical incident team is shouting at the chief fire officer, who is shouting at his second-in-command, who is shouting at someone else.

“Don’t do it, Malcolm! Wait!” I sound desperate. “Look at the ladder. It’s going down. See? It’s going down.” Blood is pounding in my ears. He stays perched on the edge, curling and uncurling his toes. In profile I can see his long dark lashes blinking slowly. His heart is beating like a bird’s within his narrow chest.

“You see that fireman down there with the red helmet?” I say, trying to break into his thoughts. “The one with al the brass buttons on his shoulders. What do you think my chances are of spitting on his helmet from here?”

For the briefest of moments, Malcolm glances down. It’s the first time he’s acknowledged anything I’ve said or done. The door has opened a crack.

“Some people like to spit watermelon seeds or cherry pits. In Africa they spit dung, which is pretty gross. I read somewhere that the world record for spitting Kudu dung is about thirty feet. I think Kudu is a kind of antelope but don’t quote me on that. I prefer good old-fashioned saliva and it’s not about distance; it’s about accuracy.” He’s looking at me now. With a snap of my head I send a foaming white bal arcing downward. It gets picked up by the breeze and drifts to the right, hitting the windshield of a police car.

In silence I contemplate the shot, trying to work out where I went wrong.

“You didn’t al ow for the wind,” Malcolm says.

I nod sagely, barely acknowledging him, but inside I have a warm glow in a part of me that isn’t yet frozen.

“You’re right. These buildings create a bit of a wind tunnel.”

“You’re making excuses.”

“I haven’t seen you try.”

He looks down, considering this. He’s hugging his knees as if trying to stay warm. It’s a good sign.

A moment later a globule of spit curves outward and fal s. Together we watch it descend, almost wil ing it to stay on course. It hits a TV reporter squarely between the eyes and Malcolm and I groan in harmony.

My next shot lands harmlessly on the front steps. Malcolm asks if he can change the target. He wants to hit the TV reporter again.

“Shame we don’t have any water bombs,” he says, resting his chin on one knee.

“If you could drop a water bomb on anyone in the world, who would it be?”

“My parents.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to have chemo again. I’ve had enough.” He doesn’t elaborate. It isn’t necessary. There aren’t many treatments with worse side effects than chemotherapy. The vomiting, nausea, constipation, anemia and overwhelming fatigue can be intolerable.

“What does your oncologist say?”

“He says the tumor is shrinking.”

“That’s good.”

He laughs wryly. “They said that last time. The truth is they’re just chasing cancer al around my body. It doesn’t go away. It just finds somewhere else to hide. They never talk about a cure; they talk about remission. Sometimes they don’t talk to me at al . They just whisper to my parents.” He bites his bottom lip and a carmine mark appears where the blood rushes to the indentation.

“Mum and Dad think I’m scared of dying, but I’m not scared. You should see some of the kids in this place. At least I’ve had a life. Another fifty years would be nice, but like I said, I’m not scared.”

“How many more chemo sessions?”

“Six. Then we wait and see. I don’t mind losing my hair. A lot of footbal ers shave their hair off. Look at David Beckham; he’s a wanker, but he’s a wicked player. Having no eyebrows is a bit of a blow.”

“I hear Beckham gets his plucked.”

“By Posh?”

“Yeah.”

It almost raises a smile. In the silence I can hear Malcolm’s teeth chattering.

“If the chemo doesn’t work my parents are going to tel the doctors to keep trying. They’l never let me go.”

“You’re old enough to make your own decisions.”

“Try tel ing
them
that.”

“I wil if you want me to.”

He shakes his head and I see the tears starting to form. He tries to stop them, but they squeeze out from under his long lashes in fat drops that he wipes away with his forearm.

“Is there someone you can talk to?”

“I like one of the nurses. She’s been real y nice to me.”

“Is she your girlfriend?”

He blushes. The paleness of his skin makes it look as though his head is fil ing with blood.

“Why don’t you come inside and we’l talk some more? I can’t raise another spit unless I get something to drink.” He doesn’t answer, but I see his shoulders sag. He’s listening to that internal dialogue again.

“I have a daughter cal ed Charlie who is eight years old,” I say, trying to hold him. “I remember when she was about four, we were in the park and I was pushing her on a swing. She said to me, ‘Daddy, do you know that if you close your eyes real y tightly, so you see white stars, when you open them again it’s a brand-new world?’ It’s a nice thought, isn’t it?”

“But it’s not true.”

“It can be.”

“Only if you pretend.”

“Why not? What’s stopping you? People think it’s easy to be cynical and pessimistic, but it’s incredibly hard work. It’s much easier to be hopeful.”

“I have an inoperable brain tumor,” he says incredulously.

“Yes, I know.”

I wonder if my words sound as hol ow to Malcolm as they do to me. I used to believe al this stuff. A lot can change in ten days.

Malcolm interrupts me. “Are you a doctor?”

“A psychologist.”

“Tel me again why should I come down?”

“Because it’s cold and it’s dangerous and I’ve seen what people look like when they fal from buildings. Come inside. Let’s get warm.” He glances below at the carnival of ambulances, fire engines, police cars and media vans. “I won the spitting contest.”

“Yes you did.”

“You’l talk to Mum and Dad?”

“Absolutely.”

He tries to stand, but his legs are cold and stiff. The paralysis down his left side makes his arm next to useless. He needs two arms to get up.

“Just stay there. I’l get them to send up the ladder.”

“No!” he says urgently. I see the look on his face. He doesn’t want to be brought down in the blaze of TV lights, with reporters asking questions.

“OK. I’l come to you.” I’m amazed at how brave that sounds. I start to slide sideways in a bum shuffle— too frightened to stand. I haven’t forgotten about the safety harness, but I’m stil convinced that nobody has bothered to tie it off.

As I edge along the gutter, my head fil s with images of what could go wrong. If this were a Hol ywood movie Malcolm would slip at the last moment and I’d dive and pluck him out of midair. Either that or I’d fal and he’d rescue me.

On the other hand— because this is real life— we might both perish, or Malcolm could live and I’d be the plucky rescuer who plunges to his death.

Although he hasn’t moved, I can see a new emotion in his eyes. A few minutes ago he was ready to step off the roof without a moment’s hesitation. Now he wants to live and the void beneath his feet has become an abyss.

The American philosopher Wil iam James (a closet phobic) wrote an article in 1884 pondering the nature of fear. He used an example of a person encountering a bear. Does he run because he feels afraid, or does he feel afraid after he has already started running? In other words, does a person have time to think something is frightening, or does the reaction precede the thought?

Ever since then scientists and psychologists have been locked in a kind of chicken-and-egg debate. What comes first— the conscious awareness of fear or the pounding heart and surging adrenaline that motivates us to fight or flight?

I know the answer now, but I’m so frightened I’ve forgotten the question.

I’m only a few feet away from Malcolm. His cheeks are tinged with blue and he’s stopped shivering. Pressing my back against the wal , I push one leg beneath me and lever my body upward until I’m standing.

Malcolm looks at my outstretched hand for a moment and then reaches slowly toward me. I grab him by the wrist and pul him upward until my arm slips around his thin waist. His skin feels like ice.

The front of the safety harness unclasps and I can lengthen the straps. I pass them around his waist and back through the buckle, until the two of us are tethered together. His woolen hat feels rough against my cheek.

“What do you want me to do?” he asks, in a croaky voice.

“You can pray the other end of this is tied on to something.”

2

I was probably safer on the roof of the Marsden than at home with Julianne. I can’t remember exactly what she cal ed me, but I seem to recal her using words like irresponsible, negligent, careless, immature and unfit to be a parent. This was after she hit me with a copy of
Marie Claire
and made me promise never to do anything so stupid again.

Charlie, on the other hand, won’t leave me alone. She keeps bouncing on the bed in her pajamas, asking me questions about how high up it was, whether I was scared and did the firemen have a big net ready to catch me.

“At last I have something exciting to tel for news,” she says, punching me on the arm. I’m glad Julianne doesn’t hear her.

Each morning when I drag myself out of bed I go through a little ritual. When I lean down to tie my shoes I get a good idea of what sort of day I’m going to have. If it’s early in the week and I’m rested, I wil have just a little trouble getting the fingers of my left hand to cooperate. Buttons wil find buttonholes, belts wil find belt loops and I can even tie a Windsor knot. On my bad days, such as this one, it is a different story. The man I see in the mirror wil need two hands to shave and wil arrive at the breakfast table with bits of toilet paper stuck to his neck and chin. On these mornings Julianne wil say to me, “You have a brand-new electric shaver in the bathroom.”

“I don’t like electric shavers.”

“Why not?”

“Because I like lather.”

“What is there to
like
about lather?”

“It’s a lovely sounding word, don’t you think? It’s quite sexy—
lather
. It’s decadent.”

She’s giggling now, but trying to look annoyed.

“People
lather
their bodies with soap; they
lather
their bodies with shower gel. I think we should
lather
our scones with jam and cream. And we could
lather
on suntan lotion in the summer… if we ever have one.”

“You are sil y, Daddy,” says Charlie, looking up from her cereal.

“Thank you my turtledove.”

“A comic genius,” says Julianne as she picks toilet paper from my face.

Sitting down at the table, I put a spoonful of sugar in my coffee and begin to stir. Julianne is watching me. The spoon stal s in my cup. I concentrate and tel my left hand to start moving, but no amount of wil power is going to budge it. Smoothly I switch the spoon to my right hand.

“When are you seeing Jock?” she asks.

“On Friday.”
Please don’t ask me anything else
.

“Is he going to have the test results?”

“He’l tel me what we already know.”

“But I thought— ”

“He didn’t say!” I hate the sharpness in my voice.

Julianne doesn’t even blink. “I’ve made you mad. I like you better sil y.”

“I am sil y. Everyone knows that.”

I see right through her. She thinks I’m doing the macho thing of hiding my feelings or trying to be relentlessly positive, while I’m real y fal ing apart. My mother is the same— she’s become a bloody armchair psychologist. Why don’t they leave it to the experts to get it wrong?

Julianne has turned her back. She’s breaking up stale bread to leave outside for the birds. Compassion is her hobby.