Whatre you doing?
Im trying to tie this around my knuckles.
Saleem was holding a book. She put it down on the table and came over. She snatched the tea-towel, wrung it out and tied it on firmly. I winced. Pain and her proximity left me squeamish.
Sit.
She pushed me down on to the chair again. She picked up the book. It had a red cover.
See this? She held the book up to me. It was called Im Not Angry, Im Hurting by Dr John Sledge. Guess what, Phil?
What? I wished the book didnt have a red cover. Not red. Youre not angry, Phil, youre hurting.
I inspected my makeshift bandage. I said, I think Im feeling a little of both, actually.
Saleem ignored this.
I went to a psychiatrist, after the accident, she said, after the museum burned down and I lost my leg. She paused for a moment and then grinned. Fuck all wrong with me, though. But for some reason, that quack gave me this book. Obviously, its all bollocks. Most of it. But theres something in here, Phil, that I think might help us. Kind of like the inside of a nut.
A kernel.
Exactly.
She paged through the book. She pushed the pages flat on Chapter four: How I Feel, How You Feel. She handed me the book. Read.
I closed the book. I said. Ill read it later. I think I should go and see Ray.
Its a quick fix, Saleem said, undaunted, and if youre going to attend that meeting on Friday then were going to need a quick fix, because You know and I know that you wont have the balls to stand up in front of five people and present a good case for our tender without some kind of divine intervention.
It wont come to that.
It might.
She took the book back and opened it again. The main point Sledge makes is this, right. He says, its not what happens in life that screws you up but how you interpret events. See? So sometimes, if youre very sensitive, then often its not like bad things have actually happened, only that they feel bad to you. So its all a question of getting things in proportion, yeah?
I gave my sore knuckle a little squeeze so that the pain would distract me. A kind of anaesthetic.
And right heres how you go about it. Chapter Four. Right here. Cognitive Behaviour Therapy. Something called the three Cs. Cool, calm, confident. Uh. . rhythmic exercises and stuff. Breathing.
I scratched my beard. Did Ray say hed be in The Fox?
Saleem looked up from the book. She suddenly wasnt as affable as shed seemed before.
Youd better listen to me, Phil. Im not bullshitting you. Im taking control of this situation and its going to be a bumpy fucking ride.
Her anger blew in my face like hot air from a hairdryer. Hot. Dry. She looked down at the book again. Youve got to get stuff in proportion. Youve got to do it quickly, thats all Im saying. And it wont be easy.
Cog jumped up on to the table next to her. Hed barely landed before she knocked him off with a vigorous swipe. He skidded as he landed on the tiles.
You and I are going out together, right now, and we are going up on to the High Street, to the chemists, and you are going to walk in there, straight to the counter, and in a clear, loud voice you are going to ask the assistant for a packet of extra-small condoms.
I shook my head. I continued staring down at the tiles.
OK, so it sounds stupid, but theres a reason behind it. .
Im not doing that.
Its therapeutic. Kind of like embarrassing yourself on purpose. Taking it to the limit. Forcing yourself. Taking control of embarrassing situations and so taking the sting out of them.
Sting. Saleem. Cog stood by the kitchen door. I wanted to be where Cog was. I wanted to be Cog. I shook my head. Outside I could hear something. Footsteps, a door opening, a metallic jangle. The engine of Nancys truck bursting into life.
Nancy. I looked up and over towards the window. Saleem was staring at me. I didnt meet her eye. And then I heard her voice whispering under the growl of the truck. Lower than the truck and growlier. She said, And you care about this place, and you care about Nancy, but you dont have the guts to do anything. You wont speak up. You wont even do that. That one small thing. And Id give up my fucking body, and Dougd give up his fucking soul. But you, you wont give anything.
Nancy. I looked up and over towards the window. Saleem was staring at me. I didnt meet her eye. And then I heard her voice whispering under the growl of the truck. Lower than the truck and growlier. She said, And you care about this place, and you care about Nancy, but you dont have the guts to do anything. You wont speak up. You wont even do that. That one small thing. And Id give up my fucking body, and Dougd give up his fucking soul. But you, you wont give anything.
Saleem threw the book down onto my lap, picked up her stick, left me. I heard the front door slam. Outside I heard female voices. And whispering.
RAY WAS ON HIS third pint by the time Id arrived at The Fox. He was perched on a stool by the bar. The pub wasnt too full, although Rays enough of a man to fill any room. His arms are giant leeks, white leeks tipped with two artichoke paws, a full fist of fingers which he wiggles and he waggles to great dramatic effect.
I pulled up a stool for myself. Ray inspected my hand.
Did Nancy do that?
No.
Saleem?
Let me just say something, Ray.
He looked up, surprised by my determined tone. What?
I thought for a moment. I just think wev e got to make a real effort to keep Doug calm. Especially over the next couple of days.
OK.
I smiled. It was so easy with Ray. And I said, I dont think we should involve Saleem too much in the parks affairs either.
Ray suddenly looked uneasy, he fidgeted on his stool. Saleems quite involved, he said, already.
Well she doesnt need to be any more involved, thats all Im saying.
No, Ray took a sip of his beer.
Dougs doing fine.
Ray took another sip. He smacked his lips. Youre right, he said. He ordered me a pint, paid, passed it over. As he passed it I said, almost casually, almost incidentally, And the Chinaman. .
Wu.
You know about him?
Ray knew. He knew. Ray, it turned out, knew more than Id thought. Ray, it turned out, had served as a confidant, a gatherer of scraps, an unobservant observer.
People feel they can trust Ray. They trust his gormlessness, his softness, his delicious, harmless squelchiness.
People mention things to Ray and they know that no judgement will be forthcoming, no private reckoning will take place in the cavern of Rays brain, no stern moral hypothesis will be formulated and delivered. Ray is a sponge. Ray is natural, is, above all other things (and how could it be otherwise, really?), himself.
Something dawned on me. A kind of shame. No one tells me stuff. No one tells me anything. Not of their own accord. My head is so full of other things, of myself, of itself, that no one ever bothers telling me anything else.
No one told me this stuff, Ray, I said at one point, during a conversational hiatus. No one mentioned any of this to me.
Youre lucky, Ray answered blithely. Youve got your own business going on. Youve got, he paused for greater emphasis, youve got a secret life, up there, he tapped his skull.
And you dont?
He grinned, Ive got all the outside stuff. Thats plenty. By Rays fourth pint I wasnt worried any more, not shy to be spoken to, not conscious of his gaze. Rays eyes were watery, wandering; tadpoles in the jelly of his face. You want to know about Wu? he asked. Well, if you want to know about Wu, then first you have to know about Doug and Mercy and the Anniversary Dinner.
I do?
He nodded. You see, I dont understand all this business myself. Its only that Saleem said something and then Doug mentioned something else. Its not like anything fits together in any way. Nothing like that. But I keep picking up this information and slotting it away. .
But Wu. .?
Remember three weeks ago? Before Doug moved in with Saleem? Before all this weird stuff? Doug and Mercys thirtieth wedding anniversary. Thats where it started. .
Mercy and the diarrhoea, Saleem said something. .
Ray nodded. Thats the one. Just listen, he said. You wont hardly believe it.
And slowly, slowly, with commendable precision, Ray rolled open his canvas and covered it with colour. And each stroke was perfect, each touch, each piece of his narrative fitted, each portion, each serving, so neat and geometrical, every element, a balance. Like he was neatly laying squares of turf down for a brand new lawn.
Picture it, Ray said, his eyes sparkling, Friday night, three weeks ago. Italian restaurant. La Bruschetta on Green Lanes. Dougs all dressed up for dinner. Jacket, tie. Mercys wearing a new dress. Dougs been busy all day working on the accounts for the park. Things are tight. The budgets stretching thin. . yeah, well, who cares, because theyre out for a special night together. Thirty years! Thats something worth celebrating.
Now heres the important part, right, pay attention. Doug is perfectly happy. Four words: Doug is perfectly happy. Hes got other things on his mind, naturally, other pressures: work, the park, money, their gas boiler might be on the blink. . yeah, well, but everythings fine, and the waiter comes over to their table and they order their starters.
Mercy has Parma ham. Great. Dougs about to have the same he always follows Mercys lead in culinary matters, thats just the way it is between them and then his eye swerves, he looks down the menu, and his gaze settles on the words prawn cocktail. He thinks: what the hell. Im thirty years married. Time for something new. Prawn cocktail.
Doug looks up at the waiter and he says Prawn cocktail, please. And Mercy stares at him with a strange expression on her face. He stares back at her. Whats up? he says. Doug, what made you choose that prawn cocktail? He gives it some thought. He says, Do I need a reason? She shrugs.
They order the rest of their meal, their drinks, and off the waiter goes. Fine. Except Doug cant help noticing that Mercys expression is a little bit brighter, a little bit tighter.
The starters arrive. Doug digs in. Mercys staring at his prawns. Shes not touched her ham yet. She says, Doug, why did you order that prawn cocktail when you know we never have prawns? Doug puts down his fork. He says, Now what? Whats the big problem with the prawns? Mercy says, Remember our very first date? Doug gives it some thought. He remembers. Mercy says, Well, on that occasion I had prawns. Doug is flummoxed. So what? And he turns his mind back to that very first date.