excerpt
“Lucas, there’s no need for histrionics. You’ve got enough to do without
storming around on the blasted heath like an extra from King Lear . . .”
“I want the keys to the car.” He doesn’t want to know what he ought to be
doing, he just wants to do it.
“You’re crazy—you’re still on L-plates, you don’t expect me—”
“I don’t expect a bloody thing, Mother, I just want the map from the car,
that’s all, nothing else, you don’t have to bother about a damn thing, just the
keys to the map, nothing else. ”
She’s never seen him so wired up. Or so obsessive. For a second, as if under
remote control, from another distant decade, she’s about to open her bag and
surrender the keys to the VW. Then the truth dawns.
“You’re not going to Oakhill. To see him. No way.” She tries to block the
doorway, but he’s elbowing past, eyes glaring through her. Suddenly they’re
stumbling side by side down the overgrown path against the slanting rain, yelling
through gaps in the thunder.
“If you get your father all worked up in some ridiculous confrontation, after
all we’ve been through, I’ll never speak to you again . . . Anyway, you need an
appointment, they’ll never let you in without an appointment, without proper
consultation . . .”
Which triggers sirens in his head. Out it comes, in burning tongues: she’d
falsified whatever was left of Dad, she’d always have some pretext to stop him
visiting the Clinic by himself, she’s full of bullshit lies, typical teacher, he’s sick
of her homegrown demonology, he has to know. He’s hoarse, but she’s still
gripping his sleeve, she won’t let go, she’s trying to steady herself against the
gatepost.
“Please, Lucas, please, you don’t know, you’ve no idea . . .” But it’s too late
now, condition red, she recognises that tautness around the eyes, the hardening
of facial tone, he’s got that flash/flicker radiating from his eyes, you can’t
wash it out of the genes, even in heavy weather. He’s going to go.
Her arm is a limp prosthesis. He’s already walking down the wet gravel
road, hunched against the rain. He shouts something through the storm,
something like forget the bloody map, I’ll make up my own story, there’s no answer
to that and then he’s turning the corner by the old Priory, and he’s gone.
Back in the hallway she’s shivering, but her automatic crisis-management
mode has started operating. Phone Oakhill, ask for Doctor Jago—Sorry to trouble
you,Doctor, but I’m very concerned my son is on his way to the hospital demanding to
see Nicholas he seems very overwrought I don’t want him to cause trouble perhaps you
could—the sentences are forming neatly, as she dials—and re-dials . . .
The earpiece is dead. This damned telephone must have been struck by
lightning. All the lines must be down.Gulping back tears of frustration…
Mayanaam
vequinox
Manolis 