springing out. He examines the buckles and twists of the damaged skin across his palms, the deep split running diagonally across the left palm. He peers at each of his fingertips in turn, at the marbled smoothness of them, each round tip polished and anonymous.
He stands in his bathroom with the door locked, holding his hands over the sink, looking at his hands. The hot tap is running, the water careering into the basin, steam is billowing up around his face, and he is not crying.
There is a knock at the door, a quiet knocking low on the panelled wood, and his daughter’s voice saying daddy I’m hungry now daddy can I have something? Soon okay please the man says, his voice heavy and slow, please ten minutes and I will get food okay? He waits, and he hears that she has not gone away. Please lovey he says, ten minutes okay? and he hears small steps taking her back to her room, and hecloses his eyes for a moment but he does not cry. He turns off the tap and watches the water swirl and still, watches the steam skidding across the surface. He hears boys playing in the street, he hears a mother call a child’s name. He takes a bottle from the open cabinet above the sink and drips iodine into the water, the drops falling like bombs beneath the surface, the inky stings spreading and staining the water, and then he lowers his cupped hands, holding his breath, pushing them beneath the surface, like the sinking of two upturned boats. And the sharp hurt of it makes him clench his teeth, curl his toes, it makes the breath from his nose hiss like the stutters from a steam-engine pressure valve but he keeps his hands there. He keeps his hands there until the clawing pain settles to a throb and he can breathe again and unclench his teeth again and he can begin to stroke the skin of his left hand with the fingers of his right, the skin of his right hand with the fingers of his left.
Outside, the sound of a tennis ball bouncing in the road, a cricket bat banging against the tarmac, boys shouting, music passing in a car with a heartbeat thump.
He follows the contours of each scar under the water, pressing lightly, pressing as hard as he can bear, trying to soften and ease the skin, trying to massage the flesh back into shape. He watches the colour changing as the heat of the water soaks through, flushing and fading under the pressure of his printless fingers, the blood struggling to follow his touch.
He lifts his hands up into the air, the inky water dripping off them into the sink, and his hands are clean but they are not healed. They are still ruined and useless. He pats them against a towel, careful not to rub the roughness against his skin, waves them through the air until they are dry, reaches up to put the bottle of iodine back into the cabinet. As he closes the cabinet door, a mirror swings into sight and flingshim an unwanted glimpse of his face, the sagging mask of it, the familiar wrinkles and twists which mark the face that is not his face. And he looks away, and he opens the bathroom door, and his daughter stands there looking at him.
She says daddy does it hurt?
He says yes my love, it does hurt but it is okay, and he smiles, a small hard crack of a smile, and his voice is thick with it. He touches her on the head, carefully, and he says some food now okay? and she says yay and clatters down the stairs ahead of him.
In the bathroom sink the water sits undrained, cooling, ripples echoing and fading across the surface. A trickle of water weaves its way down the hanging towel, falling away from broken blue handprints, falling softly to the floor.
Chapter 15
It was at my grandmother’s funeral.
She’d been ill for a long time, and so when she died I wasn’t much upset and I wasn’t worried about going up for the service.
I took the time off work, I bought a black dress and I booked the train up to Aberdeen.
And on the way up I wasn’t thinking about my grandmother, about sadness or loss or any of those things, I
He stands in his bathroom with the door locked, holding his hands over the sink, looking at his hands. The hot tap is running, the water careering into the basin, steam is billowing up around his face, and he is not crying.
There is a knock at the door, a quiet knocking low on the panelled wood, and his daughter’s voice saying daddy I’m hungry now daddy can I have something? Soon okay please the man says, his voice heavy and slow, please ten minutes and I will get food okay? He waits, and he hears that she has not gone away. Please lovey he says, ten minutes okay? and he hears small steps taking her back to her room, and hecloses his eyes for a moment but he does not cry. He turns off the tap and watches the water swirl and still, watches the steam skidding across the surface. He hears boys playing in the street, he hears a mother call a child’s name. He takes a bottle from the open cabinet above the sink and drips iodine into the water, the drops falling like bombs beneath the surface, the inky stings spreading and staining the water, and then he lowers his cupped hands, holding his breath, pushing them beneath the surface, like the sinking of two upturned boats. And the sharp hurt of it makes him clench his teeth, curl his toes, it makes the breath from his nose hiss like the stutters from a steam-engine pressure valve but he keeps his hands there. He keeps his hands there until the clawing pain settles to a throb and he can breathe again and unclench his teeth again and he can begin to stroke the skin of his left hand with the fingers of his right, the skin of his right hand with the fingers of his left.
Outside, the sound of a tennis ball bouncing in the road, a cricket bat banging against the tarmac, boys shouting, music passing in a car with a heartbeat thump.
He follows the contours of each scar under the water, pressing lightly, pressing as hard as he can bear, trying to soften and ease the skin, trying to massage the flesh back into shape. He watches the colour changing as the heat of the water soaks through, flushing and fading under the pressure of his printless fingers, the blood struggling to follow his touch.
He lifts his hands up into the air, the inky water dripping off them into the sink, and his hands are clean but they are not healed. They are still ruined and useless. He pats them against a towel, careful not to rub the roughness against his skin, waves them through the air until they are dry, reaches up to put the bottle of iodine back into the cabinet. As he closes the cabinet door, a mirror swings into sight and flingshim an unwanted glimpse of his face, the sagging mask of it, the familiar wrinkles and twists which mark the face that is not his face. And he looks away, and he opens the bathroom door, and his daughter stands there looking at him.
She says daddy does it hurt?
He says yes my love, it does hurt but it is okay, and he smiles, a small hard crack of a smile, and his voice is thick with it. He touches her on the head, carefully, and he says some food now okay? and she says yay and clatters down the stairs ahead of him.
In the bathroom sink the water sits undrained, cooling, ripples echoing and fading across the surface. A trickle of water weaves its way down the hanging towel, falling away from broken blue handprints, falling softly to the floor.
Chapter 15
It was at my grandmother’s funeral.
She’d been ill for a long time, and so when she died I wasn’t much upset and I wasn’t worried about going up for the service.
I took the time off work, I bought a black dress and I booked the train up to Aberdeen.
And on the way up I wasn’t thinking about my grandmother, about sadness or loss or any of those things, I
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