Around them the mizzle worsened, it was that kind that looks to be nothing then you step out into it and you’re soaked in seconds. Who’d speak next and what would they say? But something seemed to have set between them, they might stand there getting wet like this forever. Joseph meanwhile had to decide what to do with the effigy in his hand, this doll with its carved symbols that had something to do with death, that had much to do with death, the only thing was destroy it before Alison returned from her Saturday afternoon shopping. Striding out to his workvan he took from the daily jumble the blowtorch and heat mat, he returned to the rear of the property, in the most inconspicuous and well-shielded corner of the back garden he placed the effigy on the heat mat, this was a private act that he didn’t want the neighbours witnessing, as he went to turn up the blowtorch’s regulator he dropped the thing, it bounced, he jumped, bag of nerves, he picked it up to find a dent in the nozzle though the gas still hissed at his command, the igniter clicked but no flame-roar came, unusual in a Rothenberger, again he tried, again no flame. Edward watched his father’s every move but did nothing to intervene, he didn’t speak, there was to his manner a detachment that had little to do with resignation, again Joseph depressed the igniter, click click click, this time it caught, he trimmed the flame, only with the steady hot blueness burning did he realize how dark the sky had become, only as he caught sight of Edward watching with eyes larger than normal did it occur to him with horror that he might be doing the exact thing that his son wished for, terrible thought, appalling thought, but already the cone of the flame was turned upon the figurine, Alison’s hair was smoking, she need never know about this, the smell of the hair burning made him gag, breathless, needing to breathe, suddenly in another garden under a beating-down sun water exploded into the man Joseph’s mouth, he ripped the hose end from his lips, the vacuum no longer mattered, a little water had got into his lungs, hands on knees, three hefty coughs and up it came leaving a slimy trail, what a way to earn a living. Sweating from knee to scalp too. Dizzy too. Hyperventilating too. When he threw the hose end across the lawn belonging to Amanda Margaret Hollander water burbled joyously from it, through yellowing grass blades the water meandered, watch it a moment, take a moment to recover, fuck, get my breath back, look the ground’s too hard to be receptive to this unexpected soaking, it’s water off a lawn’s back, ha ha that’s good. All the more for the sparrows gathering in the suburban trees round about, what powers of anticipation they had, what tubby confidence. Then he stopped thinking about sparrows or the unEnglish impermeability of the soil for blood was dripping from his hand, that wasn’t soaking into the ground either, in the final stages of the tank-suck the soft pad of his left thumb had been sliced, how had that happened, he hadn’t even felt it, well there it is, look, face the facts, it’s considerably worse than the cut to the middle finger which is only a scratch when all’s said and done. Hurrying inside he took and wadded a piece of paper towel and applied pressure to the cut, a wound must always be staunched before a dressing can be put in place, the wad turned crimson, he took another piece of paper towel and wadded it, that too turned crimson, only after the third wad did the bleeding slow. Christ but he felt dizzy though. Cuts to thumbs were the worst, they hurt out of all proportion to their size, their healing time was the longest of all the digits, longer still if one utilized them constantly as Joseph needed to, rare is the plumber who can do without the use of his thumbs. For the second time that morning he selected one of Alison’s plasters, he peeled away the white backing film, he swathed the cut in sticky flesh-coloured material. Why did it keep happening? You did not expect your body to do this, you expected it to carry you through without damage or complaint until almost the end.

  5

  Upstairs he went, refusing to glance at the clock, time did not feel so friendly now. A nearby window had given permission for a brilliant cube of sunlight to sit itself at the turn of the stairwell and as he passed through on his way to the gloomy bathroom Joseph experienced a pang of regret, for like all Englishmen he’d been taught to feel bad about moving out of the sun. It’s criminal to be indoors on a day like this, make the most of it, soon it’ll be winter, the things we’re told in childhood. Undoubtedly we’re made of very fine stuff in these islands to suffer such angst in connection with this one particular matter when others, our numerous adventures abroad for example, have left so little in the way of embarrassment. In the bathroom Joseph gazed down at the tools scattered across the floor then took up the LED flashlight and shone it into the apex hole where once the hot feed had been, the tank was draining nicely, amazing how much water they held, he could feel it move under his hand, a slight rocking back and forth, encouraging. But milestones other than the siphoning still lay ahead, the emptying of the heating circuit which would entail protracted fiddling with the radiator lying nearest to sea level, the disconnection of the copper coil’s outlet and inlet, the removal of the tank itself, installation of the new, the battle royale with the motorized valve, the great refill, all these were yet to come. Certainly further delays could not be countenanced. Though probably he ought to have a tidy-up first, the tools were everywhere on the floor, nowhere to put his feet, always he’d been a messy worker. Joseph bent down, he gathered this tool, he gathered that tool, archetypal image of the doubled-over workman, he laid aside the big immersion wrench needed for the next immediate task, it is now our sad duty to inform the reader that this was the moment disaster chose definitively to strike. Already with the blood rushing to his head somewhat and the dizziness still loitering there now moved into one side of his field of vision a blur, a wriggling patch like lurid seaweed, in the breadth of his eyesight it was about the size of a pound coin but growing, for good measure his ears began to pound too. What a time for it to happen. He straightened up and waited a moment, what was the blur going to do, maybe he could work through this one, no, when he went to pick up the immersion wrench, large thing that it was, his hand missed, went right by it, he needed to loosen the nuts on the coil’s outlet and inlet, no, what was he thinking, they were still live, black central heating water would gush, something else had to be done first, what, can’t remember, as he looked around the bathroom the solidity of the walls dropped away, he tried chasing down all sharply defined things with his vision, couldn’t, they kept moving, the lurid patch throbbed, to its right black tides of distortion began to lap, in its centre there now formed very distinctly a lightning bolt or electrical-looking discharge, it was tipped on its side, it zigzagged, it flashed, it was present whether he shut his eyes or opened them. Clumsily he got the toolbox shut, snapped the catch into place, big red clunky thing, he sat down on it, good height and sturdiness for that, frightening how fast it had come on, some people called it an aura, like the bleeding at the fingertips this never used to happen. With elbows on knees and head resting in his hands he dug the knuckles of his thumbs into the upper orbits of his eye cavities, on the left thumb he felt greasiness of running blood, things were not going well, they were not going well at all.

  Possibly the tank did have a voice, possibly it had several. And if previously the man Joseph had been unable to hear these voices borne on their sub- or supra-human frequencies now in the grip of the aura-malady which was not a migraine but had been dismissed as one they pricked into audible human sound, or seemed to. Through the twanging that had taken up mighty residence inside Joseph’s head they came, they circled, they assailed, the constituent parts, the castrato pipe of the drain-off cock, I’m ruined, I’m ruined, I never stood a chance, the last breathy words of the hot feed sprawled on the bathroom floor, what a sheltered life it had led, every principle and mechanism of the tank designed with a view to serving it, never had it frozen, never had it corroded, the gratuitous and vicious attack of the cutting wheel had come as an awful shock, I’m dying, it choked, the poor people of this house, who will wash them, who will warm them, who will divert my expertly heated water? Not me, answered the bass resonance of the tank, I’ve been interfered with, somebody’s only ripped my top off, somebody’s only gone and sucked me dry, it’s not like I’m getting my refills either – that bloody imperial valve’s seized up, hasn’t he, what a time for it! We’re all right, declared the coil’s inlet and outlet bullishly, let’s keep things moving now, import, export, we’ve kept open passage to the farthest waterways for years, we won’t stand for this backsliding, if order’s lost we’re all lost, without doubt this stout pair would have won the approval of the child of Bombay from whom, let honesty win the day, we first heard such mechanical voices. Inside Joseph’s skull they droned and rattled, his hands shook, was the disturbance in his vision being accompanied for the first time by auditory hallucinations? Firmly he shut his eyes, he massaged his thumbs along the ridge of his brows, the lightning bolt flashed gold, why not admit that since his breakdown and the events preceding it he had come to live in a frightening world, bad things happened there, they were to be feared, here again was the proof. There was nothing to do but ride it out, so there he sat like Dürer’s angel, surrounded by unused tools but deteriorated several stages beyond melancholia.

  6

  From down below there came a knock. Some little time had passed, we shan’t bother to find out exactly how much. There – again. Not a rap, not a bang, neither a timid tap, just a solid neutral knock that seemed to sound from very far away then nearer when Joseph focused on it. He stood up putting out a hand to break any fall or protect against a stagger, the redistribution of weight onto his legs was not as hazardous as feared, still he remained in a daze, this reaction of his was automatic, someone was at the door, he must answer it, that is what you do when you hear someone knocking. At the top of the stairs he gripped the bannister rail, foretaste of old age, take it slowly, whoever it is can wait. Through the window by the stairwell neighbouring houses were visible, a slight heat haze rising from roof tiles but at least the TV aerials were straight, yes, he held a hand over one eye, tested it, over the other, tested that, the lightning bolt was almost gone, the fibrous tide swamping his vision had stopped coming in, yes the aerials were vertical, it was passing, what a relief. Somewhere between the third and fourth step as he descended a more familiar pain started between his ears, another positive, a regular headache, one always followed the other but with a headache he could live. Down the rest of the stairs he went, never mind the shuffle that might bring to mind an elderly or vulnerable person, nobody’s going to see this, who doesn’t have low points, in private you suffer them, in private you gather yourself, well may it be imagined however that the episode had scarcely bequeathed to Joseph any new treasures of energy or well-being. Once more came the solid neutral summons from the door. Only now did the question occur to Joseph, we must excuse him for his senses have been fuddled, his mind has taken a little time to turn from the general to the specific, Who might this be? Amanda Margaret Hollander of course. But the writhe on the kitchen floor, Oh Joe, Oh Amanda, that was long gone from his thoughts, there’d be no betrayal today, instead as he crossed the hallway to the door beyond which a figure was standing in sunlight, the scalloped double glazing making it impossible to know who, the excuses simmered up, he’d used a lot over the years, no he hadn’t finished the job, unforeseen complications, a particular part needed, water pressure’s too high, water pressure’s too low, something’s blocking it that I can’t get to, whoever touched it last didn’t do the best job if I’m honest, no I wouldn’t call them a cowboy, not a cowboy exactly but, you just can’t get these old fittings any more, they’re banned, they’re bad for the environment, that’s what Brussels says, blaming everything on Brussels worked nine times out of ten. All these and more bubbled to the surface of Joseph’s mind in order to help him explain to Amanda Margaret why he hadn’t completed her job yet or even come close to it. Of course she was a friend but still it was good to have something in the bag just in case. Above all he wished to avoid the truth, he did not want to say, Everything’s gone wrong from the start, the drain-off cock wasn’t working, I have two cuts on my hands, one of them’s actually quite bad, look there’s the blood soaking through now, then I had this – this migraine – but it’s not that, not really – forty minutes ago I could hardly see, I thought I was going to pass out, when earlier on you asked me if I was OK, healthy, Up To The Job, well I can’t in all honesty say that I am, I’m not over it, not fully, the mental collapse’s been made worse by this never-ending parade of new symptoms or that’s how it seems anyway. No, none of this he wanted to say, out of pride, male pride, out of shock, out of a refusal to accept that he had not after all escaped the doomy pull of the breakdown.

  But why would Amanda Margaret knock when this was her house and she had her own set of keys? Probably it was the neighbour instead, the pensioner with grandkids who’d tried to buttonhole him into fixing his broken toilet, fuck, that’d be it, the figure in the scalloped glass was unfemale in shape, why couldn’t people take a hint. Joseph opened the door, despite setbacks he was ready with an answer, his wits were coming back, there on the sunbaked doorstep stood Edward. Hello Dad, a smile, Joseph tried to slam the door shut but already an obstructing foot was inside. For ten or fifteen seconds they then tussled, son pushing one way, father the other. The son could easily have won but unexpectedly he removed his foot, he allowed the door to be closed on him, perhaps these attempts to force an entrance were merely a joke, youthful high spirits, there might still be some of those remaining. Beneath the hot sun Edward continued to stand, the little arched portico that Amanda Margaret had had fitted over her front door, vaguely pastoral in style, offering nothing in the way of shade. So finally it’s here, finally it’s arrived, the unexpected caller, the inciting incident. Joseph’s mind meanwhile had been plunged into a fresh whirl, What are you doing here? he said through the glass, realizing that his son had no intention of departing. Can I come in? No you can’t, tell me what you’re doing here. It’s hard to talk when there’s a door in the way replied Edward, and here he had a point. Against his wishes the man Joseph found himself forced into reconsidering the role he’d adopted, the role of defender, barrer of doors, raiser of drawbridges, for if Edward showed no inclination to leave neither had he demonstrated any proof of aggression, leaving aside the foot in the door and resulting tussle which had really been playground stuff. The automatic, in fact thoughtless, act of slamming the door in his own son’s face had purely been done on behalf of Alison, with her uppermost in his mind – but she wasn’t here. If things could be handled delicately what reason was there for her to know about this? Was there not, when all was said and done, an Edward-sized hole inside him into which drifted with unwelcome, actually sickening, frequency, the good early times, the rides on shoulders, the ice creams, running from waves, the cradle cap, the lisp that had appeared and disappeared, the glowing reports of his first teachers? Could a more terrible thing be imagined than never again speaking to or seeing your first-born, your only-born, who even after everything that had happened was only really starting out on the path of life? This was the thought shoved down for so long. And this, here, now, might be the one chance available to him. There was even a case (Joseph’s mind took a cunning turn), there was even a case for making and establishing contact now in order to more effectively protect Alison in the times to come.

 

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