Donor, The (14 page)

Will arrived in North Queensferry at 10.15 a.m. His parents’ routine had always been military – wake at 7, breakfast at 7.30, walk at 8.30, housework/
newspapers
(mother/father) at 9.30. He wondered if he should wait until his mother had finished mopping the floors (10.30) and decided not to.

‘William! What a lovely surprise,’ his mother said, her face contradicting her statement. She held the mop in her hand, did not want to let it go. ‘Come in! Mind and don’t walk on the kitchen floor. I’m halfway through.’

His father put his paper down and stood to shake his hand. ‘Well well! How nice. Do you want a coffee? Margaret, can you put on some coffee?’

Will’s mother quickly cleaned the rest of the floor and went over it with a special drying mop. Cleaning apparatus neatly stored, she set to with the coffee machine.

He filled them in as quickly as possible – I found Cynthia … She can’t help us … Kay’s deteriorating quickly … Waiting list is now even longer … ‘My only option now is to purchase one from a living donor and that’s why I’m here.’ There, he’d blurted it out.

His mother dropped the milk. ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘Now look what I’ve gone and done.’

The following hour felt exactly the same as when Will had told them he was doing Visual Arts …

… which was simply wrong for a clever person.

‘The NHS is the best system in the world, son,’ his father said. ‘You should have faith. How long have you waited? It’s not long, William.’

‘But don’t you understand we might lose one or both of them? Wouldn’t you do anything to stop that happening?’

‘Of course we will … We were tested, weren’t we? We would have risked our lives.’ God, these guys were exactly the same as Cynthia. They’d do anything if it involved doing nothing at all. ‘We’ll do everything we can to help you,’ his mother said.

‘Then help me now. You said you were selling the flats in Spain.’

‘We’re trying to do that, but no one’s biting and no one’s renting.’ His father actually looked stressed
talking
about it. ‘We’ve lost a lot of money, William. Even if we decided to, I’m not sure if we could.’

His mother came to the table with a tray of coffees. Her lips were tightly clenched – a bad sign. She
distributed
the cups and sat down. ‘We’ve read everything there is to read about the issue,’ she said. This was her post-church voice. Every Sunday, after the minister had given his football-laden homily, she’d go over it at home afterwards, using these lips and this voice.

‘The right way is the right way. You have to wait. Do you know how many people die in Third World countries selling their organs?’

‘No, do you?’

Neither parent answered. There were no reliable
statistics
on this subject.

‘The truth is, I find it morally repugnant,’ Will’s mother said. ‘Those poor people – we’d be feeding on human misery. Is this really your solution? How could we live with ourselves? It’s unscrupulous. It shows no respect for human life.’

‘How can you say that? This is about the lives of your granddaughters.’

‘It’s like buying coffee from the Third World. Do you know how much the farmers are paid over in Guatemala? These people and their families are living in extreme poverty while the big companies are
making
a killing. It’s the middle man who wins.’

Will took a sip from his cup. ‘So where’d these beans come from, Mum?’

‘That’s enough, William,’ his father said. ‘You have your answer.’

* * *

Will arrived at the bank at 3 p.m. By 3.50 he was sitting with a young man of around nineteen. He was an
impeccably
dressed chatterbox whose enthusiasm surely meant he was fresh to the job. (Come on in and how are you today and take that chair it’s the comfy one and these computers are so slow today and so I believe you would like to remortgage your house?)

‘That’s right’

‘And what would that be for?’

‘I’d like to buy a kidney from the Philippines.’

The young man gasped. ‘A kidney from the Philippines? Wait on … Ah, it’s a joke! Oh, ha-ha! You really had me going there. A kidney from the Philippines. Filipino Kidney. Like Filipina bride, but kidney. So … is it renovations? An extension?’

‘Yes,’ Will said, deciding the truth was obviously not the best way forward.

‘Which one?’

‘Which what?’

‘Renovations or an extension?’

‘Oh … um attic conversion.’

‘Excellent. Always a good way to add value,
particularly
in your area. And what is the house in Newpark Road worth just now?’

‘Three hundred and fifty thousand,’ Will said. ‘Maybe more if I fix a few things. It was four hundred a year back, but it’s gone down with the economy and all that.’

‘And your current mortgage?’

‘A hundred and twenty thousand. I remortgaged a while back to fix the roof and rewire.’

‘And your monthly outgoings?’

‘Um … mortgage is eight hundred. Bills and car and insurance I suppose four hundred. Food and other things six hundred.’

‘So, eighteen hundred a month gets you by?’

‘Yes.’

‘And your income?’

Will paused. How should he put this? ‘I’m looking for work at the moment.’

Less than one minute later, the boy banker closed his office door politely, leaving Will to wander back to his car in despair.

*

Will had a few other options – moneylender, Linda, robbery – but, to be honest, his parents had hit a nerve. As he drove home from the bank he recalled the boys on One Kidney Island, holding their shirts up to show where they had been mutilated. It was morally
repugnant
. It was feeding on other people’s misery. Could he really do that? Probably. God, who wouldn’t, to save their child? Would his own parents really have ignored the option if he was going to die, when people were willing to save him, not forced, but willing?

On the other hand, his parents were right – the girls had only just started dialysis, the NHS was one of the best health care systems in the world.

Perhaps he should have faith in it.

Perhaps he should put that stupid notebook in his filing cabinet. Under S for stupid.

He should get a job. Pay the bills. Take care of the small things.

Wait. 

From the bank, Will went straight to Linda’s. He had planned to ask her for the money if his first two ideas failed. But now, he just wanted her to hit him. He’d never craved physical pain before, but now he ached for it. Would she please smash him over the head with a wooden spoon? He deserved it. And would it help him forget everything for one night? Just one night. Would pain make it possible?

Would Linda’s husband still be there?

‘Will! How are you?’ Linda’s husband Harry said when he answered the door. He was standing on two feet, so the kneeling situation must have come to an end. ‘Come away in!’

The evening did not go to plan. Will ended up
listening
to Harry go on about his job, which made Will’s employment history seem positively fascinating. As far as Will could tell, Harry cut newspaper clippings out of all the major UK newspapers and put them in files.

‘So you’re like a scrapbook maker?’ Will said, praying now that the man would go away or that Linda would change the subject. (Why was Linda just sitting there? Saying yes and ah and adding bits here and there as if she actually cared about her husband and his
brain-dead
bloody job.)

‘No! Look, here’s my card. I’m a Senior PR Consultant for J. M. Breweries.’

‘Do you get free booze?’

‘Of course.’

‘Can I have some?’

Will was determined to get a moment alone with Linda. He would stay until the dick went to bed, or at least to another room. He had a strategy to make this happen.

‘So, how’s Archie doing with his history?’ he asked Linda.

Linda never noticed the transformation in people when she spoke about her children. When anyone made the foolish error of enquiring about them, she would start at the beginning (in this case, with the particular aspect of the Reformation which interested Archie most, which was being taught very badly) …

And heads would nod ever so slightly … uh huh, uh huh.

She would end the beginning very slowly (in this case, with how she confronted said bad teacher about bad teaching methods) …

And shoulders would slump somewhat.

She would begin the middle animatedly (in this case, with how – against all odds – her genius non-diseased still-at-school son had ‘just gotten on with it’ by
sourcing
extra reading material in the library and consulting students from other schools) …

And films of fluid would glaze eyes.

She would never get to the end.

But at least half of her audience would have left towards the middle of the non-end.

Which is what happened in this case. Harry,
unable
to get a word in and almost unable to move with boredom, stood, yawned, made an I’m-going-to-bed gesture – using prayer hands against a sideways head – and left the kitchen.

He was gone one second when Will said. ‘I need you to hurt me.’

He thought it might work, at first, being assaulted in the garage with Harry in bed in the house. Will was looking forward to a slap or two – ‘On the face, if that’s okay,’ he suggested as she moved her mouth back up towards his.

‘You think you can make requests?’ she said.
Exorcist
Linda had entered the room.

Before Will knew it, she had tied his arms to an unused roof rack using two bits of clothing line that she cut using scissors and then gnawing teeth. She then began to slap him on the dick. He really didn’t like this. He asked her to stop. She said no because he’d been a naughty boy. He said no I haven’t. I’m a good guy, remember? She said oh no, you’ve been having an affair. And he said well but so has him upstairs, who – by the way – might hear it when I scream.

And she said shut up and do as you’re told.

Doing as he was told meant not screaming when she bit into his scrotum. He found this very difficult.

It meant not yelling when she placed metal clamps on his nipples, which wasn’t too hard, but not too pleasant either.

It meant not yelling ‘Fucking let me go!’ when she held his (not surprisingly not erect) penis and twisted it around like wet washing.

He didn’t manage this. ‘Fucking let me go!’ Will yelled.

Linda responded by looking out of the garage window. (Harry must have heard. He turned on the bedroom light.) She grabbed her clothes, ran out of the garage, shut the door behind her, locked the back door, and disappeared into the house.

*

As hard as he tried, Will could not untie himself from the roof rack. She had secured his hands so tightly that the washing line wouldn’t budge no matter how
imaginatively
he jiggled his arms and hands. The Jesus pose she had forced on him meant he couldn’t reach his hands with his mouth. He was completely naked. And had no choice but to get out of the garage in this state.

When the girls were testing their adolescence, Will always knew exactly what they were getting up to. The terraced area was densely populated with busybodies who had nothing better to do than talk to each other about what so-and-so had done last night. For
example
:

I probably shouldn’t pass this on, but Kay was kissing a boy on the pitch.

Would you want to know if Georgie was drinking, Will? Would you? She is, you know. Martha’s dad from Second Avenue told Martha’s mum and she told Belle next door here. She had a litre of cider down the park last night. Threw up right in front of the new deli.

So, as Will walked out of Linda’s garage, somehow managing to open the back gate with two fingers, and entered the lane behind her house to begin the
200-metre
walk home, he knew that the locals would either a) witness this first-hand or b) be told about it (perhaps even shown a photo of it) the following day.

He met one person on the way home. A dog walker whose daughter had gone to Brownies with Kay. She was a typical Brownie mum. Very organised, diligent with her children’s uniforms, homework, activities and behaviour. A church elder at only forty-three. And a dog lover. She saw the naked man walking down the street, arms stretched out, attached to some kind of metal contraption, wrists tied to either end. She stared at him as he approached.

‘Evening,’ Will said.

‘Evening,’ she replied.

‘Long story,’ he said.

‘Of course.’ The woman had decided to be kind. She pretended that her dog needed a poo. With Will clambering past her, she moved into the gutter, turned her back to him as he clunked onwards, and said
nothing
more.

Ah, but she would have SO much to say about it in the morning.

*

Whenever Georgie got angry, she stormed out of the house and left the door open. As Will approached home, he realised that she had done this some time
tonight
. The front door was ajar at least ten inches. He’d usually panic and get angry – Had they been burgled? How much expensive heat had escaped? Did they live in a tent? – but not this time. This time he was
overjoyed
that Georgie was obviously out and that he could actually get inside. Will manoeuvred himself through the door and sideways into the kitchen, where he spent an hour retrieving a knife with his mouth, wedging it in the cutlery drawer, which he held firm with his hip, and slicing at the ties on his hands.

After he’d finished tending to the wounds on his penis, nipples and hands, he laughed. One thing about Linda: she certainly took his mind off things.

But the pain hadn’t helped. There were no
diversions
from this terrible situation. Kay was asleep in bed. Georgie was nowhere to be seen. What had she done after dialysis? Where had she gone? And why had she walked out of the house without shutting the door this time?