Man of Ruin Read online

  “It’s no problem. And can I take your name, sir? And your relation to the injured party?”

  “Er, I don’t know him. Just found him out here screaming his head off.”

  “I see. And your name please?”

  Quickly thinking things through, I put the phone down.

  The crowd was looking at me questioningly. Many seemed to have lowered their suspicions after having heard my explanation on the phone. One old lady in particular stepped forwards and put a hand on my arm, a sympathetic expression on her face.

  “It’s alright, dear. You’ve done what you could.”

  I sighed and nodded, not wanting to look her in the eye.

  “Sometimes these things happen, but don’t worry, poppet. Whatever will be will be.”

  “Yes,” I said in a low voice.

  “What kind of acid is it on the ground there?” some bloke said, sounding not too convinced.

  I considered this. Then I politely took the old dear’s hand off my arm, turned and ran.

  CHAPTER 8

  TRUTH BE TOLD, I’m not very good at running. Firstly, I hate it. Getting so out of breath you can barely fill your lungs doesn’t appeal to me. Plus, and I’m just going to be as honest as a plank of wood here, I’m a big fat slob. My body weight and lack of fitness make running probably the least suitable activity for me physically. Even just a brisk walk and my legs ache like the creaking wheels of a rusty bicycle. Also, with my belly getting in the way, making it next to impossible for me to achieve anything resembling proper stretching, there’s very little I can do to remedy such pain. Mentally, too, I just don’t feel it. Not a jot. I’d much rather be slouched on the sofa, binging Breaking Bad with a bottle of Coke and a big bag of Doritos or slaying endless foes in whatever the latest first-person shoot-em-up on PS4 happens to be.

  So I didn’t get very far. Running is very out of character for me, and I only reserve it for special occasions. In actual fact, I can’t recall the last time I ran when not forced to by the whistle of a teacher. But what with the crowd watching, I’d felt trapped like an animal. The poor homeless bastard lying there, probably dying (I dreaded to think), the ambulance on its way, and what with it being my fault and everything. And so, without thinking things through, purely on instinct, I legged it.

  I managed a block and a half before giving up in a haze of sweat, mangled shins and failing lung power. Catching my breath, I leaned over onto my thighs.

  I took a quick peek behind me. Thankfully, no one seemed to be following.

  I stood up, still breathing heavily, looking up at the grey-white blanket of the cloud-covered sky. I wiped the sweat from my forehead, tasting the meal and the Guinness on my breath and generally feeling completely unsuited to life. In fact, I was rapidly getting more and more out of breath, one of those brief, horrible moments when everything seems to spin that little too much, when everything you look at seems to clap and shudder in echoes of itself and your body threatens you with vomit or collapse or both. Please don’t faint, I thought. Please no puking.

  I stood and just breathed, waiting it out, watching a seagull flap blissfully on the wind up high.

  Just as I felt some small smidgen of control over the levels of air reaching my bloodstream, the loud wailing of a siren burst from the near distance. I watched as an ambulance with flashing lights turned onto the street at the next intersection and sped past in a dazzle of green and yellow paint and lights and deafening sirens.

  Unbearable guilt roared inside me.

  I took a deep breath and walked in the opposite direction.

  *****

  Continuing to walk through the suburbs, I passed countless parked cars and semi-detached houses, all of which I knew to be occupied by uncountably similar people, all of whom bore strong resemblance to my parents.

  I reached the intersection at Brighton Road and waited patiently at the crossing for the lights to go green. Cars hummed past. A woman with a baby in a pram arrived at the crossing and waited with me. On the other side were two boys with bicycles, chatting with smiles. Normal people. Happy people. I felt about as dark and shitty as a public loo in the night-time. Self-hating, depressed even. This was not the normal me. But how could I stop this rot? My predicament seemed insurmountable.

  The light turned green, signalling us to cross. I passed the two bicycle boys and they paid me no mind. As I arrived on the other side of the road, my phone started ringing.

  I groaned. Perhaps I should just dump the phone, empty my bank account and take the next train to London. Or better still, up north, to the countryside. The Yorkshire Dales, maybe? Somewhere I could pee wherever I wanted. Disappear, become invisible.

  I wasn’t quite ready for such a drastic step yet though.

  I took out my phone and saw it was Martin calling.

  “Hi, Martin,” I said, welcoming a chat with someone who knew me, who understood me and knew something of the madness that had been going on. “How’s it going, mate?”

  “This isn’t Martin,” a stern-sounding voice answered. “This is his mother.”

  I felt a ripple of shock.

  “Would you please come to the hospital now?” she said. “Martin is asking for you and we need to know what happened.”

  I didn’t know how to respond. If Martin wanted to see me, why didn’t he make the call himself? I felt a deep sense of foreboding.

  “Hello?” she said, the hostility clear in her voice. “Dave, I know you’re there.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said meekly and put the phone down.

  I looked around me, paranoid for some reason. I was sweating again, anxious, my palms wet. At every turn, things appeared to be turning to muck. I was a doomed man. A man of ruin.

  Numb, I put the phone back in my pocket. The town centre loomed ahead. Without any clue of where I was going or what I would do, I walked towards it.

  Alright, Dave, I said to myself, putting my hands in my pockets. You’ve got to man up. This is happening. It’s real and it’s happening to you. So it’s up to you. You’ve got to deal with it. The ball’s in your court.

  *****

  The phone rang again a minute later. It was Martin again—or rather his mother. I swiped it away, hoping she would give up.

  A few seconds after that, it rang a third time. Her again. I swiped it away, just as before.

  I stopped there, standing on the street, staring at the phone, willing her to give up.

  Please, Mrs Martin’s Mum, I said to myself. I know I am your son’s best friend and that your son is now in hospital and I am partly responsible for him being there, but please, I didn’t mean any harm. I took care of him the best I could, and I had to leave him there for a very good reason. If you talk to him, you will understand. Assuming he can talk . . . But he’s in good hands now and there’s nothing I can do. So please, please just leave me alone. I’m having an absolute bastard of a day. Please don’t add to it.

  I waited a full minute, imagining her debating with her husband, optimistically picturing Martin’s father talking her down. “Just leave it now, love,” he’d be saying. “There’s no point.”

  The phone rang again. My finger was poised to swipe, but the number was different this time. It wasn’t Martin ringing.

  I hesitated. I didn’t recognise this number. Could it be the police? I felt a sudden wave of horror at the thought. If it were the police, I had to answer, but what would I say? And perhaps it wasn’t the police. Who else would be calling and why? Just answer it, Dave, I told myself. If it is the police, how would it look if I didn’t answer?

  I picked up the call and held the phone reluctantly to my ear.

  “Hello?” I said hesitantly.

  “David?” said a female voice I vaguely recognised but couldn’t quite place.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Dr York.”

  I felt a wave of relief, not so much because it was her, but just because it wasn’t anyone else.

  “Are you okay?”

 
; “Not especially,” I said, wanting to say more, wanting to level with someone, yet still not quite trusting her.

  “Well, that’s to be expected,” she said. “Look, I’m sorry about earlier. I should never have let you go like that.”

  “No,” I said. “That’s alright. It was me that left.”

  “Well,” she said, sounding a bit nervous, “I’ve been thinking. Since there is no obvious institution to care for you at this moment, I wanted to invite you to my house. I can keep an eye on you there, monitor your condition, and there won’t be any problems in terms of you using the . . .” She searched for the word. “The little boys’ room. I have a big garden with lots of unkempt space which you can have free rein of. I’ll provide dinner and there’s a spare room you can sleep in, if you want. I know you must be struggling a bit, what with everything. Please don’t think anything of it. It’s the least I can do.”

  I was lost for words, almost in tears to be honest. She had seemed like such a hard old crank at first, not sympathetic at all. But I guess the whole thing had been just as much of a shock to her as it had been to me.

  “Thank you,” I said, not meaning to but sounding rather formal. “That would be great.”

  “Wonderful,” she said. “So where are you now? I’ll come and pick you up.”

  I considered the possibility it might be a trick but put that thought straight out of mind. I needed a break, needed help, and she was offering it. It was nothing to be sniffed at.

  “I’m in town.” I looked around me. “I can be on the High Street in a few minutes.”

  “Alright, wait for me at Asda.”

  “Okay, Doc,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “That’s alright—”

  “No,” I said. “I mean it. Thank you. A big fat thank you. If you hadn’t called, I don’t know what I would’ve done. Seriously.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said. “I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

  So I headed to Asda, feeling a huge sense of relief. At least I could stop worrying about where to take my next pee.

  Still, some doubts crept in. Perhaps she’d force me to call the police. Or maybe she’d drop me off at the local psychiatric institute? I wasn’t sure I could stomach informing her of the latest incident with the wheelie bin. But no, at that moment in time, I needed her. She had sounded trustworthy. And what choice did I have? Still, she was an older woman, a doctor, a highly educated person with a big house and a garden and money and all of that gubbins. A snooty husband too, most likely, and probably a bunch of spoiled kids roughly my own age. I hardly knew her, and she had no idea what sort of silly lad I was. Staying with her would be awkward, to say the least.

  Christ, why did everything have to be so complicated?

  CHAPTER 9

  THE DOCTOR PICKED ME UP in one of those giant plush cars, a big silvery thing with hulking over-sized wheels and everything three times bigger than it needed to be. Clambering up the step to get in, I found it somewhat awkward to reach out and swing the door shut. Once safely inside, I sank down into the lovely big leather seat.

  “Thanks, Doc,” I said, looking at my shoes.

  “That’s okay, David,” she said rather cordially, then drove off.

  What with the utter chaos and despair of the day, and my almost embarrassing relief at the doc’s offer, I was feeling completely zonked. The doc, too, was acting very reserved. Technically, there was plenty to talk about, but the last thing I wanted to do was mention that poor tramp.

  As we drove through the busy streets of Crawley, my nerves jangled. It wasn’t just the overwhelming strange turn of events; the car itself was a beast. With us sat high-up on our thrones several feet above most other vehicles, it was like driving along a road filled with toy cars. Every time we came close by one, I worried the doc would fail to notice it and we would drive over its bonnet and leave it a crushed mess.

  Eventually, she turned on the radio, tuning into some classical music station. With violins and cellos and whatnot twittering from the speakers, the chit-chatter did not flow.

  I dozed off.

  When I woke up, we were arriving at her house, evidently some way out of town, out in the Sussex countryside on one of those quiet lanes all on its lonesome.

  “Here we are, David,” she said, parking in the huge driveway.

  “Wow.”

  I had been right about her living in a big house. It was a whopper, a new-looking building with two floors of clean brickwork and lots of large, shiny windows. A mansion, in my book.

  The doctor stepped up to the front steps, her heels clippety-clopping on the marble. Immediately, I heard the barking of dogs from within. She fished out the keys from her handbag and opened the door. Two great golden retrievers came rushing out, their tales wagging excitedly as she patted them on the head.

  “Dog lover, eh?” I said.

  Unfortunately, I hated the mutts myself, the smell mostly, though I decided to play nice since she was being so hospitable and all.

  “I grew up with dogs,” she said, crouching down and putting a hand under the chin of one of them while the other rubbed its muzzle on her leg. “Wouldn’t know how to live without them. How about you?”

  “I don’t mind a dog,” I lied. “I can take it or leave it.”

  “Well, this is Ian, and this is Botham,” she said.

  I laughed. “What? Like the cricketer?”

  She flashed me a look. “Yes. My husband named them, and it wasn’t worth arguing over. I like the sound of the names.”

  “Right . . .” I said.

  She stood up and went inside the house. The dogs followed her in, and so did I. I guess I’d always been a bit of a dog myself.

  That was all good too. From now on I’d be peeing in the garden with ’em.

  *****

  I was a little apprehensive at the prospect of meeting this husband—or in fact coming into contact with anyone, really—since any encounter would inevitably involve some explanation for my presence. I had noticed that there were no other cars parked out front, though there was certainly space, and to my relief, the house was empty, apart from the doctor and her dogs.

  “Make yourself at home,” said the doctor as she raised the blinds that had been lowered over the series of huge French doors at one end of the large open-plan living room-cum-kitchen-cum-dining room.

  “Thanks,” I said, sitting awkwardly on one of the many sofas.

  “Can I get you anything? Cup of tea?” she asked.

  “Yeah, some tea would be nice,” I said, staring out through the French doors to the huge garden beyond.

  It certainly didn’t seem “unkempt” to me. There was a wide, well-mowed lawn surrounded by flower beds, and a table and chairs were set out on a patio to one side where the house extended in an L-shape. In the distance, at least a hundred feet, I reckoned, the lawn came to an end and there were what looked like bushes. I couldn’t see further than that, although there were some windswept-looking hills in the far beyond.

  “So, David,” she said, making the tea.

  “Yes?” I said, only just managing to stop myself from referring to her as “Doctor.”

  “Would you like milk and sugar?”

  “Oh,” I said. “Yes, please. Four large sugars please.”

  “Did you say four?” she said with a look of disbelief.

  “Yup,” I said. “I’m not sweet enough.”

  She nodded slowly and put in the sugars.

  “Here you go.” She handed me a steaming-hot mug.

  She went back to the kitchen area, picked up a mug she had made for herself, came back over to the living area and sat on another of the sofas.

  “Thanks,” I said, raising my mug to her.

  “You’re welcome,” she said, holding hers between her hands and blowing on it.

  She was sitting very upright, her legs crossed neatly, while I slouched back into the sofa. For some reason, I therefore felt compelled to sit up straight too. It was a bit of an
effort, but I managed it.

  There then followed an awkward few minutes where both of us sat, silently sipping our tea. She seemed a little on edge, and that was exactly how I felt. I was struggling to think of her as a person who made tea and chilled out rather than as a doctor. It was as if this house was merely an extension of her office and at any minute she would start prodding me and asking personal health questions. Conversation was not forthcoming. At first this pleased me. I was happy not to contemplate the fate of that acid-mauled destitute, his ghastly screaming still ringing in my ears, or the future that lay ahead of me like a wasteland. But the more we sat there in silence, the more it made me uncomfortable. There was something a little unhappy about this woman, the way she sat and stared so plainly, a hand brushing casually over Ian or Botham, whichever one was sat at her feet.

  “I’m sorry, David,” she said eventually, then started blabbing like there was no tomorrow. “I’m just a little overwhelmed at everything that’s happened, if I’m honest. What you’re going through, this . . . change . . . I just . . . I wish there was more I could do. Some tests I could run, at least. My mind keeps running around in circles with it all, but I just don’t see how. Containment is the biggest problem, you see. It’s impossible to test anything if you are not able to contain it. And from what I’ve seen, that just isn’t possible in your case. Not at the moment anyway. At least you’re here now, I suppose, not out all on your—”

  “Doc,” I said, overwhelmed by her sudden burst of talk. “It’s fine. I get it. I’m just really grateful you’re letting me stay. This is a life-saver, to be fair.”

  “Well . . .” She gave me a sickly smile. “Thank you for saying that, David.”

  She sat, frowning, putting a finger on her temple.

  “I’ve something of a headache,” she said. “I could do with a nap, actually. Would you mind terribly if I excuse myself? I’ll make some dinner later.”

  “Sure thing. No worries,” I said.

  She stood up and placed her mug on a table next to the sofa.

  “If you need the toilet, as I said, you can use the garden,” she said, walking to the French doors.