The Patrick Melrose Novels (28 page)

‘I know, darling, I'm sorry.'

‘Plus, I've taken a huge quantity of coke.'

‘Was that a good idea?'

‘Of course it wasn't a good idea,' yelped Patrick indignantly.

‘Do you think your father's death will make you less like him?' Debbie sighed again.

‘I'll have the work of two to do now.'

‘God, are you sure you wouldn't rather forget the whole thing?'

‘Of course I'd rather forget the whole thing,' snapped Patrick, ‘but that's not an option.'

‘Well, everyone has their cross to bear.'

‘Really? What's yours?'

‘You,' laughed Debbie.

‘Well, be careful or somebody might steal it from you.'

‘They'll have to fight for it,' said Debbie affectionately.

‘Sweet,' cooed Patrick, wedging the phone between his shoulder and his ear and sitting on the edge of the bed.

‘Oh, darling, why do we always argue?' asked Debbie.

‘Because we're so in love,' said Patrick haphazardly, as he opened the packet of heroin over the bedside table. He dipped his little finger in the powder, put it to one of his nostrils and inhaled quietly.

‘That would seem a strange explanation from anybody else.'

‘Well, I hope you're not getting it from anybody else,' said Patrick babyishly, dipping and sniffing several more times.

‘Nobody else would dare give it, if they behaved like you,' laughed Debbie.

‘It's just that I need you so much,' whispered Patrick, reclining again on the pillows. ‘It's frightening if you're addicted to independence like I am.'

‘Oh, that's what you're addicted to, is it?'

‘Yes. All the other things are illusions.'

‘Am I an illusion?'

‘No! That's why we argue so much. Do you see?' It sounded good to him.

‘Because I'm a
real
obstacle to your independence?'

‘To my foolish and misguided desire for independence,' Patrick corrected her gallantly.

‘Well, you certainly know how to pay a girl a compliment,' laughed Debbie.

‘I wish you were here,' croaked Patrick, dabbing his finger in the white powder again.

‘So do I, you must be having a horrible time. Why don't you go and see Marianne? She'll look after you.'

‘What a good idea. I'll give her a ring later on.'

‘I'd better go now,' sighed Debbie. ‘I've got to be interviewed by some silly magazine.'

‘What for?'

‘Oh, about people who go to lots of parties. I don't know why I agreed to it.'

‘Because you're so kind and helpful,' said Patrick.

‘Mm … I'll call you later. I think you're being very brave and I love you.'

‘I love you too.'

‘Bye, darling.'

‘Bye now.'

Patrick hung up the phone and glanced at the clock. Six thirty-five. He ordered Canadian bacon, fried eggs, toast, porridge, stewed fruit, orange juice, coffee, and tea.

‘Is that breakfast for two?' asked the cheerful sounding woman taking the order.

‘No, just for one.'

‘Wooh, you're sure having a hearty breakfast, honey,' she giggled.

‘It's the best way to start the day, don't you find?'

‘Sure is!' she agreed.

 

9

THE SMELL OF DECAYING
food had filled the room surprisingly quickly. Patrick's breakfast was devastated without being eaten. A dent in the grey paste of the porridge contained a half-eaten stewed pear; rashers of bacon hung on the edge of a plate smeared with egg yolk, and in the flooded saucer two cigarette butts lay sodden with coffee. A triangle of abandoned toast bore the semicircular imprint of his teeth, and spilled sugar glistened everywhere on the tablecloth. Only the orange juice and the tea were completely finished.

On the television, the Wile E. Coyote, astride an accelerating rocket, crashed explosively into the side of a mountain, while the Road Runner disappeared into a tunnel, emerged at the other side, and receded in a cloud of dust. Watching the Road Runner and the stylized rotundity of the dust in his wake, Patrick was reminded of the early, innocent days of his drug taking, when he had thought that LSD would reveal to him something other than the tyranny of its own effects on his consciousness.

Thanks to his loathing of air conditioning the room was becoming increasingly muggy. Patrick longed to wheel the trolley outside, but the danger of meeting someone in the corridor made him resigned to the growing stench. He had already overheard a conversation about himself between two maids, and although he accepted, theoretically, that it was a hallucination, his strength of mind would not allow him to test this vein of detachment to the extent of opening the door. After all, had one maid not said to the other, ‘I told him, “You gonna die, boy, if you go on takin' that shit.”' And hadn't the other one replied, “You gotta call the police for your own protection, can't go on livin' like that.”'

Wandering into the bathroom, he rolled his right shoulder to ease the pain that was lodged under the shoulder blade. Sceptically but irresistibly, he approached the mirror and noticed that one of his eyelids was drooping much lower than the other, drooping over an inflamed and watering eye. Pulling the skin down he saw the familiar dark yellow of his eyeballs. His tongue was also yellow and thickly coated. Only the purple trenches under his eyes relieved the deadly whiteness of his complexion.

Thank God his father had died. Without a dead parent there was really no excuse for looking so awful. He thought of one of the guiding mottoes of his father's life: ‘Never apologize, never explain.'

‘What the fuck else is there to do?' muttered Patrick, turning on the taps of his bath and tearing open one of the sachets with his teeth. As he poured the glutinous green liquid into the swirling water he heard, or thought he heard, the ringing of the telephone. Was it the management warning him that the police were on their way up? Whoever it was, the outside world was crashing into his atmosphere, and it filled him with dread. He turned off the taps and listened to the naked ringing of the phone. Why answer? And yet he couldn't bear not to; maybe he was going to be saved.

Sitting on the loo seat, not trusting his own voice, Patrick picked up the phone and said, ‘Hello?'

‘Patrick, my dear,' drawled a voice from the other end.

‘George!'

‘Is this a bad time to call?'

‘Not at all.'

‘I was wondering if you'd like to have lunch with me. It may be the last thing you want to do, of course. You must be feeling perfectly ghastly. It's a terrible shock, you know, Patrick, we all feel that.'

‘I do feel a bit wonky, but I'd love to have lunch.'

‘I must warn you, I've asked some other people. Charming people, naturally, the nicest sort of Americans. One or two of them have met your father and liked him very much.'

‘It sounds perfect,' said Patrick, raising his eyes to the ceiling and grimacing.

‘I'm meeting them at the Key Club. Do you know it?'

‘No.'

‘I think you'll find it amusing in its way. One comes in from the noise and the pollution of New York, and it's quite suddenly like an English country house of a certain sort. God knows whose family they are – I suppose some of the members must have lent them – but the walls are covered in portraits, and the effect is really quite charming. There are all the usual things one would expect to find, like Gentleman's Relish for instance, and strangely enough some things that are nowadays very hard to find in England, like a good Bullshot. Your father and I agreed that we hadn't had such a good Bullshot in years.'

‘It sounds heaven.'

‘I've asked Ballantine Morgan. I don't know if you've met him. I'm afraid I'm not sure he isn't the most frightful bore, but Sarah has taken to him in a big way and one gets so used to his popping up everywhere that I've asked him to lunch. Oddly enough, I knew someone called Morgan Ballantine once, perfectly charming man; they must be related in some way, but I've never really got to the bottom of it,' said George wistfully.

‘Perhaps we'll find out today,' said Patrick.

‘Well, I'm not sure I can ask Ballantine again. I have a feeling I must have asked him before, but it's very hard to be sure because one has such trouble listening to his answers.'

‘What time shall we meet?'

‘About quarter to one in the bar.'

‘Perfect.'

‘Well, goodbye, my dear.'

‘Bye now. See you at quarter to one.' Patrick's voice trailed off.

He turned his bath back on and wandered into the bedroom to pour himself a glass of bourbon. A bath without a drink was like – was like a bath without a drink. Was there any need to elaborate or compare?

A voice on the television spoke excitedly about a complete set of prestigious carving knives, accompanied by an incredible wok, a beautiful set of salad bowls, a book of mouth-watering recipes and, as if this wasn't enough, a machine for cutting vegetables into different shapes. Patrick glazed over as he stared at carrots being sliced, diced, shredded, and cubed.

The mound of shaved ice in which his orange juice had arrived turned out to be completely melted and Patrick, suddenly frustrated, kicked the breakfast trolley and sent it thudding into the wall. He was overwhelmed with despair at the prospect of having no ice in his drink. What was the point of going on? Everything was wrong, everything was hopelessly fucked up. He sat down, defenceless and defeated, on the edge of the bed, the bottle of bourbon held loosely in one hand. He had imagined an icy glass of bourbon resting steamily on the side of the bath, had wagered all his hope on it, but finding that the plan was compromised, nothing stood between him and utter bankruptcy. He drank a gulp straight from the bottle and put it down on the bedside table. It stung his throat and made him shudder.

The clock showed eleven twenty. He must get into action and prepare himself for the business of the day. Now was the time for speed and alcohol. He must leave the coke behind, or he would spend the whole of lunch shooting up in the loo, as usual.

He got up from the bed and suddenly punched the lampshade, sending the lamp crashing to the carpet. With the bottle of bourbon in his hand, he walked back into the bathroom, where he found the water gently overflowing from the side of the bath and flooding the floor. Refusing to panic or show any surprise, he slowly turned off the water and pushed the sodden bathmat around with his foot, spreading the water into the corners it had not yet reached. He undressed, getting his trousers wet, and tossed his clothes through the open door.

The bath was absurdly hot and Patrick had to pull the plug out and run the cold water before he could climb in. Once he was lying in it, it seemed too cold again. He reached for the bottle of bourbon he had put on the floor beside the bath, and for no reason that he could make out he poured the bourbon from the air and sucked it in as it splashed and trickled over his face.

The bottle was soon empty and he held it under the water, watching the bubbles run out of the neck and then moving it around the bottom of the bath like a submarine stalking enemy ships.

Looking down, he caught sight of his arms and drew in his breath sharply and involuntarily. Among the fading yellow bruises, and the pink threads of old scars, a fresh set of purple wounds clustered around his main veins and at odd points along his arm. At the centre of this unhealthy canvas was the black bulge produced by the missed shot of the night before. The thought that this was his own arm ambushed Patrick quite suddenly, and made him want to cry. He closed his eyes and sank under the surface of the water, breathing out violently from his nose. It didn't bear thinking about.

As he surged out of the water, flicking his head from side to side, Patrick was surprised to hear the phone ring again.

He got out of the bath, and picked up the phone beside the loo. These bathroom phones were really quite useful – perhaps it was China asking him to dinner, begging him to reconsider.

‘Yes?' he drawled.

‘Hey, Patrick?' said an unmistakable voice on the other end.

‘Marianne! How sweet of you to ring.'

‘I'm so
sorry
to hear about your father,' said Marianne in a voice that was hesitating but deeply self-assured, whispering but husky. It seemed not to be projected from her body into the world, but to draw the world inside her body; she did not speak so much as swallow articulately. Anyone who listened to her was forced to imagine her long smooth throat, and the elegant S of her body, exaggerated by the extraordinary curve of her spine that made her breasts swell further forward and her bottom further back.

Why had he never been to bed with her? The fact that she had never shown any signs of desire for him had played an unhelpful role, but that might be attributed to her friendship with Debbie. How could she resist him after all, thought Patrick, glancing in the mirror.

Fucking hell. He was going to have to rely on her pity.

‘Well, you know how it is,' he drawled sarcastically. ‘Death, where is thy sting?'

‘Of all the evils in the world which are reproached with an evil character, death is the most innocent of its accusation.'

‘Bang on in this case,' said Patrick. ‘Who said that anyhow?'

‘Bishop Taylor in
The Correct Rules for Holy Dying
,' Marianne disclosed.

‘Your favourite book?'

‘It's
so
great,' she gasped hoarsely; ‘I swear to God, it's the most beautiful prose I've ever read.'

She was clever too. It was really intolerable; he had to have her.

‘Will you have dinner with me?' Patrick asked.

‘Oh, God, I wish…' gasped Marianne, ‘but I've got to have dinner with my parents. Do you want to come along?'