The Immaculate by Mark Morris

strongly, felt beads of sweat spring out on his forehead, his body turn clumsy with urgency. He fumbled with the door handle, his hand like something he had to manipulate from afar with a delicate remote control.
    â€œI’ll get it!” he yelled, and wrenched the door open. The air outside the bathroom now seemed freezing cold and raised instant goose bumps on his damp flesh. Clutching his towel to his stomach and groin, he ran into his study, his thigh colliding painfully with the jutting edge of a bookcase. He snatched up the telephone receiver, juggled it for a moment in his sweating hand, and then gasped, “Hello?”
    There was silence that reeked of surprise. Then a tentative, though imperious, old woman’s voice said, “Is that you, Jack?”
    â€œEr . . . yes,” he said, thrown. He knew this voice, but couldn’t place it. “Who . . . who is this?” he stammered.
    He was not sure whether the person on the other end was amused or hurt by his question. “Can’t you tell?”
    Suddenly, as if his mind had taken pity on him, her name rose to his lips. “Aunt Georgina?”
    â€œOf course it’s me. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it, Jack? Too long—though you can hardly be blamed for that, I suppose.”
    Five minutes later, when he re-entered the bedroom, Gail was still snoozing. However, she came awake immediately as if she’d been jabbed with a sharp stick, took one look at him and said, “Jack, what’s the matter?”
    He stood in the doorway, face neutral, looking at her. “My father’s dead,” he said flatly.
    There was a brief shocked silence, then Gail said, “Oh, Jack, I’m so sorry. What . . . what happened?”
    He shrugged. “Heart attack, they think.” He crossed the room and sat on the bed, facing away from her. Barking a mirthless laugh, he said, “At least it wasn’t lung cancer.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Private joke.”
    â€œWho was that on the phone?”
    â€œMy Aunt Georgina. She looked after me for a while when I was a child. She’s my mum’s sister. I haven’t spoken to her for about three years. She found my dad’s body in his living room this morning.”
    Gail put her arms around him and hugged him. “Oh, Jack, I’m so sorry,” she repeated.
    â€œThanks,” he said vaguely. “And it’s okay . . . about my father, I mean. We never got on. I haven’t spoken to him for about twelve years. I haven’t even sent him a Christmas card for about eight.” He swivelled to face her and there was a pained look on his face. “It’s just . . . she wants me to go back to Beckford . . . my Aunt Georgina, I mean. She says it’s my duty to sort out my father’s affairs.”
    Gail kissed his nose and said tenderly, “Well, I suppose it is really, isn’t it?”
    â€œYeah, I suppose so, but . . .” His voice tailed off into a sigh, his shoulders slumped.
    â€œWhat is it, Jack?” Gail said. “What’s wrong?”
    He sighed, pulled a face. “It’s just . . . I don’t want to go back there. It’s a bad place. For me, I mean. A really bad place.”
    He disentangled himself from her embrace, stood up and walked across to the window. Tugging back the curtain, he peered out, sunshine sidling over him and into the room.
    Tentatively, Gail said, “Do you want to talk about it?”
    Jack let the curtain fall back into place, turned to face her. “Yeah,” he said bleakly. “I think I’m ready now.”

5
T HE U NRAVELLING K NOT
    â€œI’m not sure how old I was when I first began to realise that my father hated me. Maybe two or three. Or maybe I knew from the moment I was born.”
    Jack broke a piece of poppadum from the pile on the plate between them and crunched it. When he spoke it