The One Safe Place (47 page)

"Let go." Marshall tried to pull his wrists free, but the bony grip was tightening spasmodically. "Let go or I won't be able to help."

The old man relinquished one of his wrists so as to grasp the other with both hands. "What are you going to do for me, lad?"

"Can you make it to the bathroom? I mean, can you walk?"

"Do I look as if I can, the way they've treated me?"

"Then where's the bedpan the nurse brings you? Do you know where it is?"

"Not the foggiest."

"I'll look for it. It can't be far. Try and hold on. Not to me. I'll find it if you just let go."

Maybe the old man didn't realise he was digging his long cracked nails into Marshall's wrist. He stared into Marshall's eyes and gave vent to a breath not unrelated to the smell of the bed. "Swear you'll come back?"

"Sure, if you want me to. I swear. I'm your friend."

"Let's see how much you are," the old man declared, digging in his nails so hard that Marshall almost cried out. That was apparently his way of ensuring that Marshall returned, because then he let go. Marshall rubbed his wrist and went down on his knees by the bed, a move which provoked the old man to emit a squeal of what sounded like anticipation. The boy ducked to peer into the clutter of objects blurred by dust under the bed. Directly in front of him was a tin pot, full almost to the brim.

He turned his face aside and breathed hard before taking hold of the icy handle to inch the pot to him. Was the surface of its contents coated with dust? He raised one creaking knee and carefully stood up, cupping his free hand under the tin bottom. As he lifted the pot higher than the bed, the old man's penis started to droop.

It looked like a large worm crawling back into a tuft of dead grass. Marshall saw it wriggling at the edge of his vision as he paced toward the door, where he had to lower the pot to the carpet in order to let himself out of the room. The old man kept repeating a sound between a snarl and a groan while Marshall raised the pot as quickly as he dared and walked with small quick steps to the bathroom. The carpet tiles which presumably had once been arranged so as to cover the floor of the room seemed intent on tripping him up, but he succeeded in reaching the toilet without spilling his burden. He used his foot to align the broken plastic seat with the pan, almost dislodging the lone screw, and as he tipped up the pot he felt as relieved as though he was using the toilet himself. He shook the pot over the bowl and hurried back to the old man, whose penis was draped across one peeling thigh. Marshall placed the pot close to it on the bed and turned away. "Quick, give us a hand, lad," the old man wailed. "Can't do it by meself."

He was attempting to lever himself above the pot with one hand clamped on the edge of the mattress. Marshall leaned awkwardly across the pillow and grabbed his shoulders to swing him toward the receptacle, only just in time. While the stream resounded on the enamel the old man accompanied it with a series of groans and sighs and growls through his teeth. As soon as he'd finished he slumped against the headboard, nearly trapping Marshall's hands. Marshall saved the pot from toppling off the bed and returned to the bathroom to empty it, averting his gaze from the face of the walking doll he had glimpsed in the mirror. A question was trying to drag his mind out of shape. How long had the old man been confined to his room to grow as white as that? If he never left his room—Marshall darted into it, the pot dangling from his fist, and faltered at the sight of the old man wagging his penis with both hands. He still had to ask the question. He dropped the pot with a clang that made the old man clutch at his ears and show his gums and half a dozen teeth the color and texture of wet sand. "Where did you know me from?" Marshall said.

The old man pulled one ear forward by its lobe while his other hand strayed down his body. "Eh?"

"Where did you recognise me from?"

"You're Phil's lad's pal, aren't you? Listen, are you listening? You stick with him. He needs someone like you to help him get away from all the muck he's living in."

The answer was confusing Marshall more than the question had, wiping out the very little sense of himself he had left, and he began to shiver. "Aye, it's parky," the old man said. "Don't hang about till we both catch pneumonia. Climb in and cover us both up."

"I won't, thanks. Thanks, though."

The old man pressed his shoulders against the headboard, which let fly an explosive creak, and jerked his thighs off the mattress, a movement which brandished his penis at Marshall. His hands flew toward it and past it to yank his trousers up. He covered most of his crotch with the discoloured flaps, then began to fumble in search of the button and its hole. "I'm lonely, lad. I've had nobody to warm me up in bed since Phil's mam died."

Marshall thought of his own mother lying alone in bed. At least once he'd heard her trying not to let him hear her weeping. He was overcome by a rush of grief which included the old man. He stooped to untie his laces and pull off his trainers before he got into the bed.

Why had he tied the knots so tightly? There seemed not to be a single weak point where he could insert a fingernail. "Just getting these off," he explained as the old man commenced emitting short harsh urgent breaths. If he couldn't unravel the knots, he would just have to wrench the shoes off. He sat on the edge of the bed to do so, and as a bony hand settled on his shoulder and dug its fingers in, a wave of the stench which his sitting had driven out of the mattress reached him.

He hadn't enough pity in him to be able to cope with that. He ducked his shoulder, disengaging himself as gently as he could, and stood up to pull the quilt over the old man. Wasn't there more he could do to stop him looking so disappointed and abandoned? Stepping back, he caught sight of a tray on the floor beyond the bed, biscuit wrappers on a dirty plate beside an overturned chipped mug. "Can I bring you anything to eat?" he suggested.

"Like what, lad? What do you want to stick in my gob?"

"Shall I see what I can find?"

"I've had my rations," the old man said, and tweaked his jacket shut over his bruised chest. "Don't go giving her an excuse."

Marshall was bewildered, but more afraid that the smell of the room was about to make him retch. "I'll be downstairs if you need me, then."

The old man gave a wink that sent a drop of liquid zigzagging down his cheek. "I'll be thinking about you."

"Just call if you need anything," Marshall said, trying not to seem in too much of a hurry to quit the room. He sidled around the door and closed it behind him, and ran down all the stairs he could before having to renew his breath, which was still tinged with the smell of the old man's room. He wasn't sure whether or not he was hungry after the talk of food; his uncertainty dismayed him. He hurried into the kitchen and pulled open the refrigerator, which danced from one foot to the other in its eagerness to please him. He slammed it shut at once, trapping the smell of moldering milk, and retreated to the front room.

He would have left the door ajar to hear if the old man called him, except that the smell of the bedroom seemed to be creeping through the house. He would hear if he was needed, he vowed, but he still felt guilty, both for having left the old man on his own and for indulging even the faintest suspicion of him. The old man had been exposing himself because he was unable to care for himself, that was all. Any other notions were the fault of the video Marshall had watched—of the images he had perhaps only imagined he'd seen. If he could just see what was actually there, surely that would drive them and the shame and self-loathing out of him.

As he squatted to rewind the tape, he felt his groin bulge. He fell back into the chair and watched the digits on the player racing toward zero. Counters wired to bombs did that, and when the digits turned into a line of glowing green holes it took him a while to move; he was afraid of what he might set off.

It appeared that he needn't have worried. Once it settled into visibility, the movie looked so familiar it was comforting. He was growing used to it, and to how much the woman with the dog resembled his mother.

The digits were increasing—counting toward the moment when his mother's face would grow unquestionably recognisable. He watched the melting orange face advance toward that transformation, straining itself into shape. Everything about the movie was reaching for that moment, and he found it hard to breathe. His mother's face came clear at last, weeping for everything she'd had to go through in order to appear to him. Then he was there beside her, but before he could feel that he was, the newsreader did away with them by calling the police and the screen turned nervously blank.

If it had left Marshall and his mother visible for just a moment longer, Marshall was sure he would have felt safe. He crouched in front of the player to rewind the tape no further than the sight of them, but the sound the cassette made scared him into rewinding it entirely. He watched it through again and darted forward to pause it as his mother appeared, but an outburst of noise lines beheaded her, and he released the pause for fear of damaging the tape. He rewound it and watched it again, rested his eyes for as long as he could bear the nightmares which closing them awoke inside and outside him, replayed the tape once more. Each time the orange face turned into hers, he felt a little closer to her. Maybe his watching would bring her to him.

When the colours on the screen began to fade, he thought he'd worn out the tape until he saw that daylight was seeping into the room. It made his surroundings and his situation seem less real. He ran the tape to regain some hold on its reality, and kept replaying it as the light threatened to blot it from the screen and all sense of his mother from his mind. He'd lost count of the times the newsreader had appeared, just too soon for the sight of Marshall's mother to have lasted long enough, when he heard a key at the front door.

The screen became a grey blank disturbed by meaningless flickering, and so did Marshall's mind. Suppose the enemy was here? He'd seen how they'd tortured the old man, and was afraid to think what they might do to him. Footsteps came marching along the hall, away from the slam of the door, and he saw that Darren had left the gun under the chair with the bullets in case Marshall needed to protect himself. Before he could make a grab for the revolver, the door of the room was thrown open. Beyond it was only the nurse.

As soon as she saw him she swung around, her overcoat flapping, and dealt the banisters a thump which set all the uprights rattling. "Darren," she yelled. "Are you in, you little shit? Don't you be hiding from me, you pansy. Come here to me right now."

Marshall heard the old man groaning in protest above him, and was about to draw her attention to that when a door banged open upstairs. "What's up with you?" Darren demanded. "I've got a headache now. I was asleep."

"You'll have worse than a headache if I get hold of you. I told you what to do before I went out. You're worse than useless, you. I should have got rid of you before you were bom." She flung herself away from the shaking banisters, and Marshall was afraid she was going to attack his friend, but she stayed in the hall. "You had your chance to fix what you did," she said, so quietly she seemed not to care whether Darren or anyone else could hear. "Now I'll get someone who'll do what needs doing."

The car swung off the road between two No Entry signs, twin crimson discs which the sunlight turned raw. As the vehicle coasted along the sidewalk, pedestrians stared at Susanne in the back. She saw that some of them assumed she'd been arrested, but she didn't care what anyone thought; nothing mattered except that she wasn't being led to a false hope. The policemen's heads confronted her with two bulbs of hair cut short above shaved necks, and their silence made her head ache with thoughts. "Where are we meeting him?" she said, to say something.

The large blue eyes of the policeman whom she'd misidentified as Askew found her in the mirror. "He's on duty, Mrs. Travis."

"Oh, right." That was all she could think of to say, and felt rather stupid for having spoken. She gazed between the two policemen while the car crept behind pedestrians who eventually moved aside. She grabbed her purse from beside her on the seat immediately the car showed signs of halting. She had to wait until Askew, whom she'd thought was called Angel, manoeuvred the car between a baked-potato stall and a handful of protesters outside a leather store, and then until he switched off the engine and tipped his seat forward so that she could climb out. She unbent on the sidewalk and flexed her shoulders, which were stiff with tension, and met the eyes of spectators as the policemen joined her. She jerked one hand at the nearest entrance to the covered portion of the Arndale Centre. "In here?"

"That'll do as well as any, Mrs. Travis," round-faced watchful Angel said.

He and his colleague had to catch up with her as she strode at the doors, one of which slid aside hastily as though sensing her determination. A soft mass composed of dozens of blurred voices and of more than one piece of music which seemed reluctant to identify itself closed around her. At the top of an escalator climbing between two levels of shops she saw a guard in a mostly black uniform. "Is that him?"

It was apparently Askew's turn to answer. "We'll find out right now, Mrs. Travis."

Susanne was on the escalator by the time he finished speaking. She clattered up the moving stairs, because the guard was strolling away into the mall. "Hold on," she cried, clutching at the crawling rubber handrail. "Security. Security."

She subsided once he turned and saw the police, and she let them precede her once they were off the escalator; she didn't want to take over the questioning—she knew she was with them in case the witness said anything that would mean more to her than it did to them. Nevertheless she willed them to be quick as they waited for the guard to approach. "Trevor Tubb?" Angel, not too belatedly if she was going to be fair to him, said.

"I'll get him." The guard planted his feet wide apart and, as Susanne wondered why he wasn't doing as he'd said, reached for his radio. "Trev, they're here for you."