It took half an hour for various statements to be made, for Psychobitch to list the missing goods, for Darren to mumble a few words. When he’d gone, escorted by the policemen, I wrote a cheque for Mrs Harpy — ‘Let’s say five hundred, shall we?’ — and how could I argue? She took it from me, delicately, gently, and in her eyes her small triumph registered. Jimmy was getting the team back on-task and I could see their arms swinging, backs bent as they returned to their sawing and planing. I’d restored order, re-established the routines that enabled others to live their lives as my own life de-railed.
What had my father thought as he packed his cases and left? What had he thought when he saw my picture in the papers after the bomb? They chose a photograph from my first year in grammar school - tie crooked, my blazer bunched on my shoulders, grinning at Nicky Tate, who was gurning behind the photographer. Merboy’s only formal portrait. Of course, the newspaper pictures were black-and-white but he would have known that my eyes were bright blue and my hair jet-black. At least Darren Whiteside knew his own son.
‘You OK?’ Ian signed, coming up the steps from the garden.
I shrugged. ‘Not really. I don’t want to do any more today.’
‘Don’t blame you.’
‘I’m hungry - d’you want to go for something to eat?’
‘Sure.’
‘Let’s pick up Sonja and go out somewhere.’
Ian looked at me and frowned. ‘Have you talked to her yet?’
‘No, but I’m going to. I promise you, I’m going to. This is all driving me fucking crazy.’
‘OK, but don’t bring it up now, while I’m there. I’ve had enough for one day.’
As Ian drove the truck to the deli I thought of the one-breasted bowsprit maiden looking out over sluggish river water, hoping she was faring better than I seemed to be. It appeared I was destined to stand on dry decks for ever, designing and building other people’s dreams. And yet … and yet, soon I might be able to hear, distinguish sound from silence. I might even be able to swim. And would that make me Special again? Or would it make me Merboy? All I knew was that I didn’t want to be what I was, I didn’t want to live as I was. I wanted to surf Big Wednesday and yell and hear it. I wanted to pick up my father by the lapels and slam him against a wall and say, ‘I’m OK. See? I’m OK. I may not be special but, then, neither are you.’ I wanted to sprawl on hot grass in the garden at Noss Mayo, look up and see my mother’s lazy, perfect smile. I wanted to snatch Sonja from her other life. I wanted to be burgundy wine again.
Ian double-parked the truck at a bus stop and I clambered out as the omnipresent, peripatetic traffic warden walked towards us. Behind him I could see Sonja standing in the doorway of the deli, her arms crossed, her face smiling easily as she talked to a blond man holding a dog’s harness. For the second time in days I broke into a run, roaring, and Sonja — ‘You’re too damn big to lose your temper’ — looked over and paled. The Blind Man was moving his head, trying to tune into the source of what must have been a surprising sound, as Sonja grabbed him and bundled him into the shop.