"He can have the rest of my chocolate b.u.t.tons."

"I'll get the chocolate b.u.t.tons," said Ray. "You go and find your pajamas and toothbrush and some clean pants for tomorrow, all right?"

"All right." Jacob pottered off upstairs.

Dad had tried to commit suicide. She could think of no other explanation.

Ray said, "Get your stuff together. I'll do me and Jacob."

What else could have happened to him stuck in that bedroom? Pills? Razor blades? Rope? She needed to know, if only to stop the pictures in her head.

Maybe he'd wandered out of the house and been hit by a car.

It was her fault. He'd asked for help and she'd pa.s.sed the buck to Mum, knowing she was totally out of her depth.

s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t.

She grabbed a jumper from the drawer and the little rucksack from the wardrobe.

Was he even alive?

If only she'd talked to him for a bit longer. If only she'd cut work and spent the week with her parents. If only she'd pressed Mum a little harder. Christ, she didn't even know whether he'd been to the doctor. For the last couple of days she hadn't even thought about him. Not once.

It was a little easier in the car. And Ray was right. She'd have rammed someone by now. They struggled northward through the tail end of the rush hour, jam after jam, red light after red light, Ray and Jacob going through several thousand verses of "The Wheels on the Bus."

By the time they reached Peterborough Jacob was asleep.

Ray pulled up outside the house and said, "Stay there," and got out.

She wanted to protest. She wasn't a child. And it was her her father. But she was exhausted, and glad that someone else was making the decisions. father. But she was exhausted, and glad that someone else was making the decisions.

Ray knocked on the door and waited for a long time. There was no answer. He went round the back.

At the end of the street, three kids were taking turns to ride a bike over a little ramp made of a plank and a wooden crate, like she and Juliet used to do when they were nine.

Ray was taking a very long time. She got out of the car and was halfway down the path beside the house when he reappeared.

He held up his hand. "No. Don't go back there."

"Why?"

"There's no one in."

"How do you know?" she asked.

"I broke in through a window at the back." He turned her round and marched her toward the car.

"You what?"

"We'll sort it out later on. I need to ring the hospital."

"Why can't I look inside the house?" asked Katie.

Ray took hold of both her shoulders and looked into her face. "Trust me."

He opened the driver's door, retrieved his mobile from the glove compartment and dialed.

"George Hall," said Ray. "That's right."

They waited.

"Thank you," said Ray into the phone.

"Well?" asked Katie.

"He's at the hospital," said Ray. "Get in."

"And what did they say about him?"

"They didn't."

"Why not?" asked Katie.

"I didn't ask."

"Jesus, Ray."

"They don't tell you anything if you're not family."

"I'm b.l.o.o.d.y family," said Katie.

"I'm sorry," said Ray. "But please, get into the car."

She got into the car and Ray pulled away.

"Why wouldn't you let me see in the house?" asked Katie. "What was in there?"

"There was a lot of blood," said Ray, very quietly.

68.

Shortly after Jean sent Jamie off to find something to eat in the hospital canteen a doctor appeared. He was wearing a dark blue V-neck pullover and no tie, the way doctors did these days. sent Jamie off to find something to eat in the hospital canteen a doctor appeared. He was wearing a dark blue V-neck pullover and no tie, the way doctors did these days.

He said, "Mrs. Hall?"

"Yes?"

"My name is Dr. Parris."

He shook her hand. He was rather good-looking. There was something of the rugby player about him.

He said, "Could we step outside for a moment?" and he said it so politely that it never occurred to her to be worried. They stepped outside.

"So?" she asked.

He paused. "We'd like to keep your husband in overnight."

"OK." It sounded like a very sensible idea.

He said, "We'd like to make a psychiatric a.s.sessment."

She said, "Well, yes, he has been feeling rather down recently." She was impressed by the hospital's thoroughness, but puzzled as to how they knew. Perhaps Dr. Barghoutian had put something in George's medical records. Which was a bit alarming.

Dr. Parris said, "If someone's harmed themselves we like to know why. Whether they've done it before. Whether they're likely to do it again."

Jean said, "He broke his elbow a couple of years ago. Usually, he's very careful about that kind of thing." She really didn't understand what Dr. Parris was getting at. She smiled.

Dr. Parris smiled back, but it was not a proper smile. "And he broke his elbow...?"

"Falling off a stepladder."

"They didn't tell you about the scissors, did they."

"What scissors?" she asked.

So he told her about the scissors.

She wanted to tell Dr. Parris that he'd mixed George up with someone else. But he knew about the blood and the bathroom and the eczema. She felt stupid for believing his ridiculous story about the chisel. And frightened for George.

He was losing his mind.

She wanted to ask Dr. Parris what exactly was wrong with George, whether it would get worse, whether it was something permanent. But these were selfish questions and she didn't want to make a fool of herself for a second time. So she thanked him for talking to her, he went away and she returned to the chair beside George's bed and waited for Dr. Parris to leave the ward and wept a little when no one was watching.

69.

Jamie sat drinking coffee and eating a cheese-and-onion pasty in the Kenco Restaurant ( and eating a cheese-and-onion pasty in the Kenco Restaurant (Chef's Specials, Midweek Carvery, International Cuisine, and much more...!).

He was in major s.h.i.t. Ideally he wanted to sit here until Katie arrived and she and his mother tore a few chunks off each other and came to some kind of truce before he ventured back down to casualty.

He rather liked the Kenco Restaurant. In much the same way that he rather liked motorway service stations and airport lounges. In much the same way that other people rather liked going round cathedrals or walking in the countryside.

The black plastic trays, the fake plants and the little trellises they'd added to give it a garden-center feel...You could think in places like this. No one knew who you were. You weren't going to be accosted by colleagues or friends. You were on your own but you weren't alone.

At teenage parties he was always wandering into the garden, sitting on a bench in the dark, smoking Camel cigarettes, the lit windows behind him and the faint strains of "Hi, Ho, Silver Lining" thumping away, staring up at the constellations and pondering all those big questions about the existence of G.o.d and the nature of evil and the mystery of death, questions which seemed more important than anything else in the world until a few years pa.s.sed and some real questions had been dumped into your lap, like how to earn a living, and why people fell in and out of love, and how long you could carry on smoking and then give up without getting lung cancer.

Maybe the answers weren't important. Maybe it was the asking which mattered. Not taking anything for granted. Maybe that's what stopped you growing old.

And maybe you could put up with anything so long as you got half an hour a day to come somewhere like this and let your mind wander.

An old man with lizardy skin and a square of gauze stuck over his Adam's apple sat down with a mug of tea at the table opposite. The fingers on the man's right hand were so yellow with nicotine they looked varnished.

Jamie glanced at his watch. He'd been away for forty minutes. He felt suddenly rather guilty.

He swigged the last of the gritty coffee, stood up and walked back down the main corridor.

70.

Jean watched George sleeping.

She was thinking about the day they'd visited George's uncle in that dreadful hospital in Nottingham, just before he died. Those sad old men sitting round the television smoking and shuffling down corridors. Was that going to happen to George?

She heard footsteps, and Katie appeared from between the curtains, flushed and panting. She looked wretched.

"How's Dad?"

"Your father's OK. There's no need to worry."

"We were so scared." She was out of breath. "What happened?"

Jean explained. About the accident with the chisel. And now that she knew it wasn't true, it sounded ridiculous and she wondered why she'd fallen for it herself. But Katie seemed too relieved to ask questions.

"Thank G.o.d for that...I thought..." Katie caught herself and lowered her voice in case George could hear what she was saying. "Let's not even talk about it." She rubbed her face.

"Talk about what?" said Jean, quietly.

"I thought he might have...Well, you know," whispered Katie. "He was depressed. He was worried about dying. I couldn't think of any other explanation for you being in such a state."

Suicide. That was what the doctor was talking about, wasn't it. Harming yourself.

Katie touched her shoulder and said, "Are you OK, Mum?"