Recovery and the Return of Ethan Hart (41 page)

But then, a year later, there was the famine in Ethiopia, and the year after that the cyclone and tidal wave which hit the Bay of Bengal and as a result took the number of dead and missing as high as fifteen thousand—and where, again, to bring succour and comfort to those suffering people felt like the most important work anywhere on earth.

In any of these places I could cheerfully have stayed put, but somehow, when news reached me of the next famine or natural disaster—or even, once, of the next war—the urge to move on was always so strong as to prove irresistible. Lee Marvin's
wand'ring star
seemed nothing as compared to mine.

I'd meant to return to England in 1990, not simply to recharge my batteries but to learn about Geneviève and Gordon and to see my children, but was stopped by a further earthquake, this time in Iran, where apart from the thirty-six thousand dead there were a hundred thousand injured; and then in '91 there was the famine in the Sudan. I had flown back very briefly in 1987 when Gwen had written to say that my mother was in hospital, and thank God she did, for Mum died just two days after I'd got there. She had been lucid, for the most part—and loving—and cantankerous—and had seen Geneviève fairly often, it appeared, though Geneviève had just then been in Italy, spending practically a year in Rome and Florence as part of her degree course in European Studies. (“Happy? I suppose so. But I never liked
him
that much—not even when he was a boy. Too glib, too plausible, too jolly pleased with himself. Not a patch on Johnny.” But she hadn't spoken like that on the day I'd gone to her from Knightsbridge, so I wondered what, if anything, this change of view might indicate. Paradoxically, though, it made me remember chiefly how generous he had been: when finally we had sold our weights, for instance, he'd insisted I take half the proceeds. It had been good to have him as a friend.) I had returned to Guatemala City immediately after the funeral. In early 1992 I knew Somalia was going to be the place I should go to next, either there or Bosnia and Herzegovina, where the situation seemed so grave some said it could be hatching an apocalypse, but I wanted—no, not wanted, somehow felt compelled—to be in England for my birthday. Not just in England, either; Nottingham. I believed this part of my life had to be sloughed off
officially
, and that my birthday—or, more properly, the second day that followed it—would be the time when this would happen. After that I would be…well, mortal again. No longer the bearer of a charmed existence. Did such a thought please me, or perturb me, or neither? During the past nine years I had been totally absorbed in what I did and knew that I had been of use. Which, of course, was happiness…of a kind. But I wasn't sure when I'd last been happy, I mean
happy
-happy. Possibly not since my arrival back in Newcastle on the day of Philip's death; certainly not since my arrival back in Newcastle on the day of Geneviève's departure.

Not
happy
-happy.

My return, then, to Nottingham was one I felt I had no option over—I was being led there hypnotically—despite the freedom of choice which I'd experienced in every other way. I thought it was intended I should meet Brian Douglas. This second encounter, second because I didn't count our occasional nods to one another on the stairs, this second encounter would undoubtedly mark my final break with the past, the bit of ceremony which I believed to be required.

I no longer feared I might be asked to drown him again.

Or, rather, I no longer feared that anything could have the power to make me agree to it.

Somehow I would save him.

24

So…Monday 30
^th
March 1992…and naturally it was raining. Steadily. I got to the office at about ten. Even now, even towards the end of the phenomenon, I was still surprised at how things remained just as I remembered them. Yet perversely I was more surprised when they didn't: small details present I'd forgotten, small details absent I must either have imagined or transposed.

I'd have liked to see the name on my own door. But here—from the reception area—it wasn't quite possible.

Iris finished putting through a call to Mr Walters.

She looked up at me with her usual friendly smile. “May I help?”

Although I'd stood and watched for a few minutes in the sixties while this office block was being erected, it was ridiculous to think I hadn't actually set foot inside it or exchanged pleasantries with any of these four young women for well over half a century. It felt more as if I'd been on just my annual break.

“I'm here to see Brian Douglas.”

“Mr Douglas? Oh—do you have an appointment, sir?”

“No. But I believe he'll want to see me; may even be expecting me. My name is Hart. Ethan Hart.”

“I don't think he's come in yet.”

“You mean, he's sick?”

“Well, it's not like him to be late, so—yes—he may be. I'll check with his secretary.”

“No, I was wondering in general. Does he have…does he have problems with his health?”

She laughed. “Not unless you count the odd hangover!” That laugh, so well remembered. “Oh, Debbie, there's a Mr Ethan Hart in reception asking for Brian… What? Yes, I thought I hadn't seen him. No, he hasn't called in… Just a tick.” She looked back at me. “Is it something that his secretary can deal with?”

“No, thanks. That's all right. I know where he lives.”

I'd have liked to stop and chat. But after I had passed comment on the weather I couldn't think what else to chat about. It suddenly struck me it was a long time since I'd tried to savour my surroundings. I felt regretful as I said goodbye. A bit melancholy.

I travelled to Sneinton by bus. The bus was crowded. I sat beside a young woman with a baby on her lap and a wet umbrella she couldn't decide what to do with. I took charge of the umbrella and was sorry when she finally got up. Hearing about her life with Jason, and even about the continuing disapproval of her parents, was preferable to merely sitting and becoming nervous; although otherwise I would have tried to pray. After she and Jason had gone, my prayer in fact began with them but then widened to include everybody on the bus. I nearly overshot my stop.

In the street where Brian lived there weren't any women talking on the corner, nor was there any young lad pumping up his tyres. I guessed I was a little earlier than before. The rain hadn't yet turned to a drizzle.

But the door was opened just as quickly. I hadn't been looking forward to this moment: to seeing a face I had last seen when it was under water, to meeting eyes I had last met when they were either insentient and blank, or filled with such emotions as I might variously ascribe to them. For fifty-five years Brian Douglas had lived with me both day and night—become in a sense my most intimate companion. I'd wondered if out of all the people I had ever encountered in this life, always excepting Zack, Brian might be the one person who was going to recognize me. Despite the change in my appearance.

There was a change in his own appearance. It wasn't simply that he wore a suit this time, a suit which I might—or might not—have seen at the office. His body underneath it looked more solid.

And, above all, I felt relief. It reminded me of what had happened once (or indeed twice) when I was young. I'd been standing by the graveside at my grandmother's funeral—Granny's not Nana's—and then I'd been awoken by a tap on the door, and she had brought me in my breakfast.

The sheer joy I had experienced was something I'd never forgotten. Even though she had actually died less than a year later, I'd felt those nine-and-a-half months had come to me, on both occasions, as a treasured gift.

“Ethan Hart?”

“Yes.”

“Come in, sir, I was expecting you.”

He didn't sound the same, either. This wasn't a man who was dying or who was wanting to die. This wasn't a man who was going to require any saving. My relief and my gratitude—if possible—intensified.

After he'd taken my umbrella and hung up my overcoat he led me into his living room. That certainly remained as I had first seen it. No emptied drawers or overset furniture.

I turned and faced him. “I don't know why I'm here. Will you fill me in?”

“No, I'm sorry, sir. I'm not the person who can best do that.” He glanced at his watch. “But you won't have long to wait. And in the meantime, Mr Hart, may I offer my congratulations?”

“I'd rather you didn't call me sir. Nor Mr Hart. My name is Ethan. Congratulations on what?”

“On coming through.”

“You may do so with pleasure. But it seems to me I had no choice. Being invulnerable.”

“On coming through, I mean, with such distinction.”

I pulled a face and shook my head. “But, anyway, thank you.” I gave him my hand and thought about the last time we had shaken hands: barely a minute before he had stepped into the bath.

I said: “I'm sorry I was forced to—no, I'm sorry that I chose to—”

He waited. I finished very lamely.

“I'm sorry for what I did.”

“And what was that?” He smiled. “But first things first. May I get you some coffee?”

“Good God!” I said. “You don't remember?”

“Then obviously we
have
met before? I wondered.”

“Most certainly we have.” Though, unsurprisingly, I balked at revealing under precisely what circumstances. “You spoke about a certain dream you'd had.”

“Well, that doesn't surprise me, not in the slightest! I know the dream you're referring to. Old Chaos?”

“You didn't use that phrase, but it was clearly what you had in mind.”

Old Chaos. The bottomless pit towards which—in theory—all of civilization was now being irresistibly drawn. Well,
almost
irresistibly drawn.

“Yes, I was obsessed by it!” And then he gave an exclamation. “In fact—hang on a tick—I think I
am
remembering! I said that if ever I had a son…? But now that sounds so incredibly presumptuous! Why should any son of
mine
…?”

He broke off; looked uncomfortable.

“And talking of presumption,” he added, “when I spoke of the Once and Future King I believe you mentioned Glastonbury. Is that right? And I have an idea I may have asked…”

“Go on.”

“Whether you thought that Arthur would simply leap onto his trusty steed and tear off down the motorway? No! Please tell me that I didn't!”

“Well, if you did, I certainly don't recall it.”

It must have been the first time in my life—in this second portion of my life—that I had ever, consciously, told a lie.

“Thank God for small mercies,” he sighed.

“But, in any case, why would it have been presumptuous?”

“Perhaps I used the wrong word. Discourteous? Disrespectful? Appallingly so. I know this can't be seen as an excuse but plainly at the time I didn't appreciate…” He stopped again.

“Yes?”

“About the dream.”

“What didn't you appreciate?”

“That you were the one whom it involved.”

“You mean, because I tried so woefully to take it over? I only feel ashamed I couldn't make it work.”

He stared at me.

“But didn't you realize, sir?”

I waited.

“There was no question of your taking it over.”

“I'm afraid I'm not following you,” I said.

“At no stage did its focus even slightly shift.”

“I think I'm still being slow.”

“From first to last that dream was about
you
!”

He wasn't to blame, of course. It could hardly have been his own fault if they hadn't clued him in.

And only a second later I would have realized this.

But in the meantime I had snapped at him.

“Oh, for God's sake, man! Talk sense! Do talk sense!”

He looked surprised. As clearly he had every right to. I struggled to retrieve my calm—and pretty soon apologized. “But you had just come out with something so
monstrous
! Worse than monstrous! Blasphemous if you but knew.”

“Blasphemous?” His expression had lost its air of startled hurt, yet he still appeared bewildered. “But why?”

“Oh, God! Have I really got to tell you?”

Despite the oath, however, I was speaking more calmly. More deliberately. Partly, this could have been because at the same time I was having to fight back an urge to vomit.

The shock had come too fast. How long had I known? Thirty seconds? Forty? Hardly more. It was the sheer immensity of his mistake—or, at least, what I had seen as his mistake—which had broken through the barrier. Had briefly unleashed my innate, if generally controlled, fierceness of temper.

“That dream,” he'd said, “was about you!”

But then, suddenly, it was as if I'd always known. Not always, no, but virtually from the moment I had opened my book to begin that troublesome essay for Mr Hawk-Genn; from the moment I had poured out that hugely awful first paragraph.

Now I swallowed, and cleared my throat, yet still couldn't get my voice to sound quite natural.

“You talk of crisis and disruption,” I said. “You talk of the return of Arthur. And you talk about these things—”

At first I couldn't even say it. I forced myself to say it.

“And you talk about these things to the benighted oaf who struck the Saviour on his way to execution.”

Brian Douglas didn't flinch. He only said: “And who five centuries later found his way to Britain.”

“Oh, yes.” My laugh was bitter, brutal, full of self-loathing. “Didn't you always know that Arthur was a Jew? Not just a Jew. A disgrace to every decent Jew who ever lived?”

He shrugged. “Well, to be honest,” he smiled, “I never heard it mentioned, one way or the other.”

25