Jean came back at four. Her extended lunch with Ursula had worked its usual magic. The Jamie debacle was forgotten and George was grateful for a supper of Irish stew over which they were able to commiserate amiably with each other about the forthcoming union. at four. Her extended lunch with Ursula had worked its usual magic. The Jamie debacle was forgotten and George was grateful for a supper of Irish stew over which they were able to commiserate amiably with each other about the forthcoming union.

"Does anyone like their children's spouses?" He ran a triangle of crust around the bowl to mop up the remaining liquid.

"Jane Riley's husband seemed nice."

Jane Riley? George was repeatedly amazed by the ability of women to remember people. They walked into a crowded room and drank it down. Names. Faces. Children. Jobs.

"John and Marilyn's party," said Jean. "The tall chap who'd lost his finger in some kind of machine."

"Oh yes." It came fuzzily back. Perhaps it was the retrieval system men were missing. "The accountant."

"Surveyor."

After doing the washing up he retired to the living room with Sharpe's Enemy Sharpe's Enemy and read the last twenty pages ("Two bodies marked this winter. The one whose hair had been spread on the snows of the Gateway of G.o.d, and now this one. Obadiah Hakeswill, being lifted into his coffin, dead..."). He was tempted to start another of his still-unread Christmas presents. But you had to let the atmosphere of one novel seep away before launching into the next, so he turned the television on and found himself midway through a medical doc.u.mentary about the last year in the life of a man dying from some kind of abdominal cancer. and read the last twenty pages ("Two bodies marked this winter. The one whose hair had been spread on the snows of the Gateway of G.o.d, and now this one. Obadiah Hakeswill, being lifted into his coffin, dead..."). He was tempted to start another of his still-unread Christmas presents. But you had to let the atmosphere of one novel seep away before launching into the next, so he turned the television on and found himself midway through a medical doc.u.mentary about the last year in the life of a man dying from some kind of abdominal cancer.

Jean made some caustic comment about his ghoulish taste and retired elsewhere to write letters.

He might have chosen a different program if one were available. But a doc.u.mentary left you edified at least. And anything was better than some tawdry melodrama in a hair salon.

On-screen the chap pottered round his garden, smoked cigarettes and spent a great deal of time under a tartan rug on the sofa wired up to various tubes. If anything, it was slightly tedious. A rather rea.s.suring message if one thought about it.

The chap went outside and had some trouble bending down to feed his chickens.

Jean was squeamish, that was the truth of the matter. How We Die How We Die might not be everyone's choice of bedtime reading. But Jean read books by people who had been kidnapped in Beirut or survived for eight weeks on a life raft. And whilst everyone died sooner or later very few people needed to know how to repel sharks. might not be everyone's choice of bedtime reading. But Jean read books by people who had been kidnapped in Beirut or survived for eight weeks on a life raft. And whilst everyone died sooner or later very few people needed to know how to repel sharks.

Most men of George's age thought they were going to live forever. The way Bob had driven, it was clear that he had had no concept of what might happen in five seconds' time, let alone five years.

The chap on television was taken to the seaside. He sat on the shingle in a deck chair until he got too cold and had to return to the camper van.

Obviously it would be nice to go quietly in one's sleep. But going quietly in one's sleep was an idea cooked up by parents to make the deaths of grandparents and hamsters less traumatic. And doubtless some people did go quietly in their sleep but most did so only after many wounding rounds with the Grim Reaper.

His own preferred exits were rapid and decisive. Others might want time to bury the hatchet with estranged children and tell their wives where the stopc.o.c.k was. Personally, he wanted the lights to go out with no warning and the minimum attendant mess. Dying was bad enough without having to make it easier for everyone else.

He popped to the kitchen during the ad break and returned with a cup of coffee to find the chap entering his last couple of weeks, marooned almost permanently on his sofa and weeping a little in the small hours. And if George had turned the television off at this point the evening might have continued in a pleasantly uneventful manner.

But he did not turn the television off, and when the man's cat climbed onto the tartan rug in his lap to be stroked someone unscrewed a panel in the side of George's head, reached in and tore out a handful of very important wiring.

He felt violently ill. Sweat was pouring from beneath his hair and from the backs of his hands.

He was going to die.

Maybe not this month. Maybe not this year. But somehow, at some time, in a manner and at a speed very much not of his choosing.

The floor seemed to have vanished to reveal a vast open shaft beneath the living room.

With blinding clarity he realized that everyone was frolicking in a summer meadow surrounded by a dark and impenetrable forest, waiting for that grim day on which they were dragged into the dark beyond the trees and individually butchered.

How in G.o.d's name had he not noticed this before? And how did others not notice? Why did one not find them curled on the pavement howling? How did they saunter through their days unaware of this indigestible fact? And how, once the truth dawned, was it possible to forget?

Unaccountably he was now on all fours between the armchair and the television, rocking back and forth, attempting to comfort himself by making the sound of a cow.

He considered grasping the nettle and lifting his shirt and undoing his trousers to examine the lesion. A part of his mind knew that it would be rea.s.suringly unchanged. Another part of his mind knew with equal certainty that it would be broiling like a fist of live bait. And a third part of his mind knew that the precise nature of what he would find was irrelevant to this new problem which was bigger and considerably less soluble than the health of his skin.

He was not used to having his mind occupied by three entirely separate voices. There was so much pressure inside his head it seemed possible that his eyes might burst.

He tried moving back to the armchair, for propriety's sake if nothing else, but he couldn't do it, as if the terrifying thoughts now haunting him were borne on some ferocious wind which was partly blocked by the furniture.

He continued to rock back and forth and resigned himself to keeping the mooing at as low a volume as possible.

24.

Jamie parked round the corner from Katie's house and composed himself. the corner from Katie's house and composed himself.

You never did escape, of course.

School might have been s.h.i.t, but at least it was simple. If you could remember your nine times table, steer clear of Greg Pattershall and draw cartoons of Mrs. c.o.x with fangs and bat wings you pretty much had it sorted.

None of which got you very far at thirty-three.

What they failed to teach you at school was that the whole business of being human just got messier and more complicated as you got older.

You could tell the truth, be polite, take everyone's feelings into consideration and still have to deal with other people's s.h.i.t. At nine or ninety.

He met Daniel at college. And at first it was a relief to find someone who wasn't s.h.a.gging everything in sight now they were away from home. Then, when the thrill of having a steady boyfriend faded, he realized he was living with a bird-watching Black Sabbath fan and the horrifying thought occurred to him that he might be cut from the same cloth, that even being a s.e.xual pariah in the eyes of the good burghers of Peterborough had failed to make him interesting or cool.

He'd tried celibacy. The only problem was the lack of s.e.x. After a couple of months you'd settle for anything and find yourself being sucked off behind a large shrub at the top of the heath, which was fine until you came, and the fairy dust evaporated and you realized Prince Charming had a lisp and a weird mole on his ear. And there were Sunday evenings when reading a book was like pulling teeth, so you ate a tin of sweetened condensed milk with a spoon in front of French and Saunders French and Saunders and something toxic seeped under the sash windows and you began to wonder what in G.o.d's name the point of it all was. and something toxic seeped under the sash windows and you began to wonder what in G.o.d's name the point of it all was.

He didn't want much. Companionship. Shared interests. A bit of s.p.a.ce.

The problem was that no one else knew what they wanted.

He'd managed three half-decent relationships since Daniel. But something always changed after six months, after a year. They wanted more. Or less. Nicholas thought they should spice up their love life by sleeping with other people. Steven thought he should move in. With his cats. And Olly slid into a deep depression after his father died so that Jamie turned from a partner into some kind of social worker.

Fast-forward six years and he and Shona were in the pub after work when she said that she was going to try and fix him up with a cute builder who was decorating the Prince's Avenue flats. But she was drunk and Jamie couldn't imagine how Shona, of all people, had correctly ascertained the s.e.xual orientation of a working-cla.s.s person. So he forgot about the conversation completely until they were over in Muswell Hill, and Jamie was doing a walk-through, zapping the interior measurements and having a vague s.e.xual fantasy about the guy painting the kitchen when Shona came in and said, "Tony, this is Jamie. Jamie, this is Tony," and Tony turned round and smiled and Jamie realized that Shona was, in truth, a wiser old bird than he'd given her credit for.

She slipped away and he and Tony talked about property development and cycling and Tunisia, with a glancing reference to the ponds on the heath to make absolutely sure they were singing from the same hymn sheet and Tony pulled a printed business card from his back pocket and said, "If you ever need anything..." which Jamie did, very much.

He waited a couple of nights so as not to seem desperate, then met him for a drink in Highgate. Tony told a story about bathing naked with friends off Studland and how they had to empty wastebins and turn the black bags into rudimentary kilts to hitch back to Poole after their clothes were nicked. And Jamie explained how he reread The Lord of the Rings The Lord of the Rings every year. But it felt right. The difference. Like two interlocking pieces of jigsaw. every year. But it felt right. The difference. Like two interlocking pieces of jigsaw.

After an Indian meal they went back to Jamie's flat and Tony did at least two things to him on the sofa that no one had ever done to him before then came back and did them again the following evening, and suddenly life became very good indeed.

It made him uncomfortable, being dragged along to Chelsea matches. It made him uncomfortable, ringing in sick so they could fly to Edinburgh for a long weekend. But Jamie needed someone who made him uncomfortable. Because getting too comfortable was the thin end of a wedge whose thick end involved him turning into his father.

And, of course, if a banister broke or the kitchen needed a new coat of paint, well, that made up for the Clash at high volume and work boots in the sink.

They had arguments. You couldn't spend a day in Tony's company without an argument. But Tony thought they were all part of the fun of human relationships. Tony also liked s.e.x as a way of making up afterward. In fact, Jamie sometimes wondered whether Tony only started arguments so they could make up afterward. But the s.e.x was too good to complain.

And now they were at one another's throats over a wedding. A wedding that had b.u.g.g.e.r all to do with Tony and, to be honest, not a lot to do with Jamie.

There was a crick in his neck.

He lifted his head and realized that he'd been leaning his forehead on the steering wheel for the last five minutes.

He got out of the car. Tony was right. He couldn't make Katie change her mind. It was guilt, really. Not having been there to listen.

There was no use worrying about that now. He had to make amends. Then he could stop feeling guilty.

f.u.c.k. He should have bought cake.

It didn't matter. Cake wasn't really the point.

Half past two. They'd have the rest of the afternoon before Ray got home. Tea. Chat. Piggybacks and airplanes for Jacob. If they were lucky he'd take a nap and they could have a decent talk.

He walked up the path and rang the bell.

The door opened and he found the hallway blocked by Ray wearing paint-spattered overalls and holding some kind of electric drill.

"So, that's two of us taking the day off," said Ray. "Gas leak at the office." He held up the drill and pressed the b.u.t.ton so that it whizzed a bit. "You heard the news, then."

"I did." Jamie nodded. "Congratulations."

Congratulations?

Ray extended a beefy paw and Jamie found his own hand sucked into its gravitational field.

"That's a relief," said Ray. "Thought you might've come to punch my lights out."

Jamie managed a laugh. "It wouldn't be much of a fight, would it."

"No." Ray's laughter was louder and more relaxed. "You coming in?"

"Sure. Is Katie around?"

"Sainsbury's. With Jacob. I'm fixing stuff. Should be back in half an hour."

Before Jamie could think of an appointment he might have been en route to Ray closed the door behind him. "Have a cup of coffee while I stick the door back on this cupboard."

"I'd prefer tea, if that's OK," said Jamie. The word tea tea did not sound manly. did not sound manly.

"I reckon we can do tea."

Jamie sat himself down at the kitchen table feeling not unlike he had felt in the back of that Cessna before the ill-fated parachute jump.

"Glad you came." Ray put the drill down and washed his hands. "Something I wanted to ask you."

A horrifying image came to mind of Ray patiently soaking up the hate waves over the past eight months, waiting for the moment when he and Jamie were finally alone together.

He put the kettle on, leant against the sink, pushed his hands deep into his trouser pockets and stared at the floor. "Do you reckon I should marry Katie?"

Jamie wasn't sure he'd heard this correctly. And there were certain questions you just didn't answer in case you'd got the wrong end of a very big stick (Neil Turley in the showers after football that summer, for example).

"You know her better than me." Ray had the look on his face that Katie had at eight when she was trying to bend spoons with mind power. "Do you...? I mean, this is going to sound b.l.o.o.d.y stupid, but do you think she actually loves me?"

This question Jamie heard with horrible clarity. He was now sitting at the door of the Cessna with four thousand feet of nothing between his feet and Hertfordshire. In five seconds he'd be dropping like a stone, pa.s.sing out and filling his helmet with sick.

Ray looked up. There was a silence in the kitchen like the silence in an isolated barn in a horror film.

Deep breath. Tell the truth. Be polite. Take Ray's feelings into consideration. Deal with the s.h.i.t. "I don't know. I really don't. Katie and I haven't talked that much over the last year. I've been busy, she's been spending time with you..." He trailed off.

Ray seemed to have shrunk to the size of an entirely normal human being. "She gets so b.l.o.o.d.y angry."

Jamie badly wanted the tea, if only for something to hold.

"I mean, I get angry," said Ray. He put tea bags into two mugs and poured the water. "Tell me about it. But Katie..."

"I know," said Jamie.

Was Ray listening? It was hard to tell. Perhaps he just needed someone to aim the words at.

"It's like this black cloud," said Ray.

How did Ray do it? One moment he was dominating a room the way a lorry would. Next minute he was down a hole and asking you for help. Why couldn't he suffer in a way they could all enjoy from a safe distance?

"It's not you," said Jamie.

Ray looked up. "Really?"

"Well, maybe it is you." Jamie paused. "But she gets angry with us, too."

"Right." Ray bent down and slid Rawlplugs into four holes he'd drilled inside the cupboard. "Right." He stood and removed the tea bags. The atmosphere slackened a little and Jamie began looking forward to a conversation about football or loft insulation. But when Ray placed the tea in front of Jamie he said, "So, what about you and Tony?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, what about you and Tony?"

"I'm not sure I understand," said Jamie.

"You love him, right?"

Jesus H. Christ. If Ray made a habit of asking questions like this, no wonder Katie got angry.

Ray slid some more Rawlplugs into the door of the cupboard. "I mean, Katie said you were lonely. Then you met this chap and...you know...Bingo."