4 I Am a Friend of Giles
There's a pulley thing attached to Giles's leg. The leg itself is cased in plaster and hoisted into position. It doesn't look like part of a living body. Giles, in a hospital gown, lies flat on his back with his eyes shut. The hospital smell reminds Simon of when Paul was born, and Simon was allowed in at the visiting hour to see a strangely unfamiliar Lily, with a burst blood vessel in her right eye. They brought in the baby, wrapped up like a caterpillar in a cocoon. He can still see that baby, as clear as clear, quite separate from his son asleep at home. As if somewhere, if he opened the right door, he could find them again. Lily would smile and say in a voice that had a crack in it: Simon.
Giles is asleep, snoring lightly. His face is slack and his mouth open. He won't like Simon seeing him like this. The nurse is outside, visible through a glass panel, at her desk, writing under a shaded lamp. There's a bell by Giles's left hand. Tubes run from his right. Simon glances at the bag of blood, suspended on its own scaffolding. The blood crawls down the tube and into Giles. There are dressings on Giles's forehead. The hospital gown has a number stamped just below the neck. Giles wouldn't like that either. The numerals are so blurred with washing that you can't read them.
The hospital smell catches in Simon's throat. An animal instinct sweeps over him. He's got to get away. Back out on tiptoe so there's no chance of rousing Giles, turn to race along the corridors and then take the stone stairs two at a time, faster and faster, chasing the echo of his own footsteps. He wants to burst out into the night, and run all the way to the Tube, head back, legs pumping, even though there's no one after him. Later, he'll remember that instinct.
'Giles?' he says tentatively. He has absolutely no idea whether he's talking at normal volume or not. This place is far too quiet. Giles snores more deeply, as if he's heard Simon's voice but is determined to take no notice. Bugger this for a game of soldiers, thinks Simon in sudden annoyance. He should be at home, reading Paul's magazine so that the two of them can talk about it over breakfast. He should be listening to the play with Lily. Giles, with his telephone call, has put a stop to all that. Now that he's dragged Simon out, Giles can bloody well wake up.
He leans over the pillow and says loudly, 'Giles, it's Simon. I'm here.'
Slowly the eyelids unglue themselves. Giles's gaze, perfectly blank, is revealed. Even more slowly, he focuses. Simon sees the big darkness of his pupils contract: whoosh.
'What are you doing here?' asks Giles hoarsely. 'Stuck a bloody tube down me.' He clears his throat loudly. His eyes glint with the old conspiracy.
'You rang me up and asked me to come,' says Simon. Yet again, in Giles's company, he experiences the sheer hopelessness of trying to impress on Giles that he, Simon, has an entirely separate life that is worthy of not being interrupted. Giles always knows where to put his hand on Simon, reclaiming him. Or trying to: Simon is stronger than Giles now, not because the other man is lying in a hospital bed, injured, but because he, Simon, has moved on to his own territory. He has Lily. He has the children. The past is the past. 'You telephoned. Don't you remember?'
'So I did,' says Giles. His voice is stronger now. He blinks, wrinkling up his face, and starts to cough. As the spasm develops, Simon grabs the glass of water from the locker and holds it to Giles's lips. He bats it away, spilling water on the bed. His skin darkens, dusky red and soon purple. Just as Simon's about to ring for the nurse, the tide of colour starts to ebb. The coughing fit is over. Giles wipes his mouth with his free hand. 'It's that damned gas they give you. I was sick as a cat when I woke up.'
'What kind of operation was it?'
'Surgical repair of a comminuted fracture of the right tibia and fibula,' says Giles, with a flicker of pride. 'Bloody nuisance, but as long as I keep my leg elevated the sawbones says I'll be as good as new. Or, to translate, with any luck my leg won't drop off.'
'That's good. What happened? How did you do it?'
Weariness curtains Giles's eyes. 'Lost my balance going downstairs.'
'Did you have to wait ages before anyone came? No, I suppose not, there are always people coming and going in those flats.'
Simon assumes that he must have fallen on the common stairway. 'No,' says Giles, 'I was in my flat.' He can't be bothered with explaining. Sleep, that's the thing. Tides of it washing over him. But first, Simon… He gathers himself. 'I've left a file at home, like an idiot.'
'You said. What file?'
'Julian asked me to go through it. You know he's in Venice. Shouldn't have taken it home, I know, but I'm up to my eyes at the moment. Left the wretched thing in my study. Oh, you don't know my study, do you? There's a staircase up to it, off the bedroom corridor. Door looks like a cupboard.' The gaff is blown. The study is already a thing of the past. It will never be used again. Move on. 'I'll give you the keys.'
'You want me to bring you the file?'
'Not here,' says Giles, with the old impatience, as if only a halfwit could ever have thought this. 'Take it to Brenda in the morning. She'll deal with it.'
Please, Simon nearly says aloud, so used is he to drumming manners into the children, and as if Giles has heard his thought, he wrenches out one of the old charming smiles and says:
'I'd be most awfully grateful, Simon. My name will be mud if that file isn't in place first thing.'
What the hell do you mean, I don't know your study? I never knew you had a staircase in your flat. You haven't mentioned it in all these years.
What the hell do I think I'm up to? Is that what you want to know? Go on then, ask me.
They are both silent, bristling. Another door opens in Simon's mind, on to a grey January day years ago. He was in his digs, lying on the bed, huddled up, all the blankets piled on him and his winter coat on top of that. He was freezing cold, shaking with it. He'd got the flu, like everybody else. The night before he'd been so hot he'd chucked all the bedclothes on to the floor, even the sheet. There was a sick, sour smell around him and he ached all over. He was thirsty, but the glass by his bed was empty.
There was a knock at the door. Simon turned his head. The door opened and Giles stepped into the room. Simon wanted him to go away. He didn't want Giles to see him like that. But Giles put his hand on Simon's forehead and said, 'You need aspirin. I'll go and buy some.'
There was more muddled time, with Simon not sure if he was asleep or awake. Later, when it was dark, he woke up for sure. The gas fire was on, and Giles was sitting under the lamp, reading. He looked up and said, 'You've got a touch of flu, dear boy.' He lifted Simon's head and helped him to drink the lemon barley water that had appeared from somewhere. Two more aspirin. 'You'll be as right as rain tomorrow. I'll sleep in the chair.'
Simon wanted to protest, but said nothing. He was glad to have Giles there. The shadows seemed to be staying in their right places now, instead of reaching out for him. Later, Giles brought a bowl with soapy water and a flannel, and washed Simon's face and hands. Imperial Leather, not the cheap white soap that Simon's landlady supplied. He unbuttoned Simon's pyjama jacket, sponged his chest, and dried him carefully with the threadbare towel. Simon closed his eyes and went down deep, dark, into a sleep that lasted until it was light. Giles helped him to the lavatory and supported him while he peed a thin dark stream into the bowl. He was so weak that Giles had to half carry him back to bed.
'That was a bad idea,' said Giles. 'I'll ask your Mrs Thing for a chamber pot.'
Simon lay with his eyes shut, exhausted. There were voices on the stairs, and then footsteps. He felt Giles come back into the room.
'I've told her to look in on you. Your meter's fed as high as it'll go and there's a pile of shillings beside it. Don't play the fool and overdo it. You'll be as weak as a cat for a day or so. See you next Saturday.' He stroked the hair back from Simon's face then, and smiled at him.
The door to the past closes. Here is Giles, lying hooked up to the pulley. Poor old Giles, it really was a rotten thing to happen. He'll be laid up for weeks, if not months. He's not asking for much. It's a perfectly simple matter to fetch the file and get it back to Brenda.
'Bloody careless of me. I'm sorry, dear boy, I really am most frightfully tired.'
He looks it. Drawn, yellowish, all the purple drained to the lees. He looks as if he might be going to die, Simon thinks, and then doesn't know what to do with this thought, or the slight but pungent relief that it brings. What kind of a selfish bastard am I? I'll have to say yes, even though it's probably just Giles flapping. The file can't be all that important, or it would never have left Julian's office.
'All right. I'll go in the morning.'
Giles lifts his head, winces, drops back on to his pillow with closed eyes and mutters, 'Tomorrow's no good. You might as well not go at all.'
'You mean you want me to go now?'
'You were the first person I thought of,' says Giles.
Simon has the keys to the flat in his hand when the nurse comes in, frowning, to take Giles's temperature and pulse. 'I think you'd better go now,' she says to Simon, rather severely, 'Mr Holloway needs to be kept quiet.'
Chastened, furious, Simon says, 'Goodbye, then, Giles.' There's no response. Perhaps Giles is already asleep, or unconscious, or, now that he's got what he wants, he has switched himself off.
Simon knows the flat well, but tonight it's strange to him. Everything is extremely tidy, and there is a strong smell of disinfectant. He switches on the hall light and advances past the sitting room, past the kitchen and the dark, narrow little dining room that Giles never uses, into the bedroom corridor. There's the door, just like a cupboard door, as Giles said. He's either not noticed it before, or assumed it was the linen cupboard. The key fits. How on earth did Giles manage to lock it, with his leg in that state? He might have asked the ambulance men to do it, Simon supposes. Inside the attic stairwell, the smell of whisky is strong. There are dark splotches on the drugget. The stairs are steep and narrow. Servants' stairs. Why have a study up here? It was an accident waiting to happen. Giles must have been half-cut to fall like that. He usually was, any time after six o'clock.
The single bulb on the landing is unshaded and gives out a sallow light. The study door is open. Simon feels like a burglar, going in without Giles here.
The attic is cold, and stuffy. It smells of whisky in here, too, and the fug of trapped cigarette smoke. The ceiling is yellow with nicotine. He might open the window for a minute, to clear the air…
How extraordinary: the bottom of the window-frame is nailed to the sill. Giles is such a fresh-air fiend. He must be worried about cat burglars, coming over the roofs. You'd have to be a bloody good climber to get up here, thinks Simon, looking at the wet, steep tiles.
There's the file, on the desk. He picks it up, turns it over, holds it as if weighing what it contains, and then opens it. He is still. His son Paul would recognise the look of extreme concentration on Simon's face. It's how he looked when he tried to mend the broken piston on Paul's steam train.
His breath hisses through his teeth. What an oceangoing idiot, to leave this kind of stuff lying about. What the hell was Giles doing taking it home? Up to his eyes… Yes, in whisky. He's in a bad way. Worse than anyone knew. Losing his grip completely.
Suddenly, Simon's memory flashes back to a crowded pub years ago. He's sitting with Giles, crammed into a corner table. He's talking too loudly, and heads are turning. Giles is trying to shut him up: Get a grip, Simon.
Giles is the one who has lost his grip; or who simply doesn't care any more. No wonder he was so keen for Simon to get the file safely back. He must be getting slack, not keeping up with things, taking files home…
The explanations circle in Simon's head, going faster and faster, tightening like a band. He sees the stiff hospital gown with the number stamped on to it. Giles's face, discoloured against the white hospital linen. He looked shrunken – reduced. Giles would hate Simon to pity him.
Better get on with it. The file ought never to have left Julian Clowde's desk, except to be locked away. He'll get the bloody thing back to Brenda and that'll be the end of it. Never to be spoken of again, or even acknowledged between them, like so much else.
He can't go on the Tube with something like this tucked under his arm. Better find a bag. Or better still…
Beside the desk there are two briefcases. One, he knows: Giles's familiar dark-brown leather. The other is a dusty, battered pigskin, not at all Giles's style. It looks like the kind of thing a father might give to a son. He'll put the file in there, get it back to the office and then he can return the case to Giles later on.
Simon looks around for something to wipe off the dust, but the room is bare. No curtains, no rug. Just a small picture on the wall. Never mind. He takes out his own handkerchief, but then sees that the area around the fastenings isn't dusty. He opens the case, which is empty. In goes the file.
At that instant, he is sure that there's someone else in the flat. Did a door shut downstairs? Another sound comes, muffled, indistinct but closer. Simon is on the balls of his feet, skin prickling. Probably it's the cleaner, come to take a last look round. She's devoted to Giles, apparently.
Simon knows that's a nonsense. What cleaner would come at this hour of night? He scans the room for something heavy. Nothing. Downstairs, another creak as if an internal door is being opened, quite softly-
In a rush, briefcase in hand, Simon swarms down the stairs and through the cupboard door, barking, 'Hello? Who's there?' Burglars are damned cowards, he knows that. All they want is to get away.
But it's not a burglar who appears at the door of Giles's bedroom. It's a heavy-set man with a curiously blank face, dressed in a suit. Frightful cut, thinks Simon automatically.
'Hello!' he says sharply. 'Are you a friend of Peter's?'
'Peter? No, I don't know any Peter,' says the man. 'I am a friend of Giles.'
Are you? thinks Simon. I rather wonder about that. You don't look in the least Giles's type. However, the man clearly knows whose flat this is. 'Just checking,' he says. 'One can never be too careful.'
The man is looking at him intently, frowning. 'Giles asked me to bring some personal possessions to him at the hospital.'
'Oh, I see.'
'He has perhaps also asked you to bring something for him?'
'Not exactly.' Simon feels a sudden flush of annoyance. Who does this character think he is? 'Have you got keys?'
In answer the man lifts his right hand and opens it, revealing a set of keys. They look the same as the ones Giles gave to Simon. How many spare sets has Giles got, for God's sake? He seems to scatter them about like confetti.
'I'm going now,' says Simon. 'Lock up after yourself, won't you? We don't want any burglaries.'
'You are going to see him now?'
'As a matter of fact, I'm going home.' The unspoken words If it's any of your business hang in the air between them. He doesn't want to leave this man in possession of Giles's flat, but short of marching him out of the door, he's going to have to. The man seems at ease; not at all furtive. But then, Giles has always had some pretty odd friends, although most of them are a lot younger.
'Goodnight,' says Simon. The man looks down, very deliberately, at the briefcase Simon's carrying, but Simon is damned if he's going to offer any more explanations. Let him think what he likes.
How good the air tastes. Fresh and damp. Rain glistens on the pavement, but none is falling. He swings the briefcase in his right hand.
Walking has always been the way Simon makes sense of things. He beats his way on up the empty pavement, and it all takes shape inside him. He thinks of the man at the flat, with his own set of keys, quietly going through things. Making sure. Had he even seemed surprised to see Simon? He was a bit of a brute. Giles had poor taste, true, but usually the poor taste was a lot younger.
Simon lopes up Whitehall. Lily will be asleep by the time he gets back. No point in worrying her. She's never liked Giles. Maybe, if he met Giles now, for the first time, he wouldn't like him either. That bloody file. How could anybody be such an idiot?
He says the word over and over to himself, as if that will make it true. Giles is an idiot, and he drinks too much. He doesn't know what the hell he's doing, half the time. That's why he rang his old friend Simon.
Bloody careless of me. You were the first person I thought of.
Charing Cross. Simon accelerates along the tiled corridor, thinking he hears the whoosh of air that means an approaching train, but there's nothing. There are one or two others on the platform. Now he can hear a train. The briefcase swings. If he turned, like this, and just before the train came, chucked the case on to the rails-
But the train is here. The doors open, and the briefcase is still in his hand.
