Fifty Fifty (28 page)

‘I need another coffee,’ said Dad, sitting down heavily at the table.

‘I think you need to tell us what’s going on first,’ said Mum, not moving.

‘Well, I told them my suspicions,’ said Dad calmly.

Gil felt the room begin to disintegrate. He wanted to be sick.

‘And your suspicions are . . .?’ asked Mum. Her fingers dug into Gil’s shoulder.

‘That this is likely to be the work of that animal rights activist who confronted me in town a couple of weeks ago. And I’ve told them that Gil —’

The pause was so long it sounded like a scream in Gil’s head.

‘That Gil may have passed on some crucial information without realising the damage it could cause.’

‘You mean he did it unintentionally,’ said Mum. For a moment Gil had no idea if this was a good thing or a bad thing. He had totally lost his bearings.

‘Yes,’ said Dad slowly. He reached out and began to fiddle with the handle of Mum’s empty teacup. ‘You know, it’s very odd. There are a number of things that
don’t quite add up.’

‘Such as?’

‘Well, the policeman told me the raiders didn’t manage to take all the animals. By some extraordinary quirk of fate, it looks as if all the mice from my project are still there. Just
my animals, nobody else’s.’

‘But that’s
amazing!
’ said Mum. ‘That means you won’t have to start your research again from scratch!’

‘Yes, it’s amazing,’ said Dad. ‘Although not quite so amazing for my colleagues who’ve lost everything. Here’s the next odd thing. The police are convinced
that someone deliberately set off the fire alarms in the building. The burglar alarms had been deactivated – it’s not clear when that was done. But the fire alarm in the room where I
keep my mice had been smashed. It doesn’t look like an accident. They found a lot of blood on the floor, and blood on the glass of the alarm too, as if someone had cut themselves rather badly
when they broke it . . .’

Gil’s hands were hidden under the table. He instinctively went to touch the place where he’d gashed himself, and winced with pain again.

Dad breathed deeply and glanced around the room, not quite managing to look directly at Gil. ‘Look, Rachel,’ he said, ‘could I possibly have another coffee?’

In the interval while Mum made coffee, Gil stared at the table and furiously tried to fathom exactly what Dad knew and what game he was playing. Dad knew his mice were safe. But if he thought
Gil had anything to do with it he wouldn’t be talking about it now, would he? Had Dad really told the police that Gil was only involved accidentally? How much more than that did he know or
suspect? How much longer could Gil sit here and pretend to know nothing about what had happened at the labs?

‘Right,’ said Mum at last, placing the coffee in front of Dad. ‘Go on.’ She pulled a chair up to sit next to Gil.

‘The police are baffled as to why anyone would have set off the fire alarm,’ said Dad. ‘It suggests there was someone there who wanted to stop the raid. That’s the only
explanation that makes any sense. And then – whoever it was – they seem to have made their escape from my office by climbing down twenty metres of fire escape ladder. In the dark.
Alone, perhaps. With the sirens going off around them, and the police on their way, and an injury that caused a fair amount of bleeding.’

He’s talking about me, thought Gil. He can’t know it was me, can he? In his mind’s eye he watched his painful descent of the ladder, rung by rung, as if it were a scene in a
film. He began to feel giddy.

‘How strange,’ said Mum thoughtfully.

‘Yes,’ said Dad. ‘It’s a mystery.’

Gil felt the kitchen spinning quietly around him. Eventually he could bear it no longer.

‘I’ve hurt my hand,’ he said, much too loudly. ‘Look.’

He pulled his right hand from under the table and turned it palm upwards so that the wound was visible. A dark stain was beginning to show through the big square plaster. Dad reached across and
took hold of Gil’s wrist.

‘That doesn’t look so good,’ he said. He started to peel back the plaster. As it came away it pulled sharply at the wound and Gil yelped in pain. Dad’s eyes widened and
Mum gave a little gasp. The gash was oozing blood again and the edges of the hole gaped open. It looked huge.

‘What did you do, Gil?’ asked Dad.

‘I cut it on some glass,’ said Gil.

‘When?’

‘Last night.’

‘Last night?’

‘Yes, when I was —’

Gil stopped and swayed forwards as if he was teetering on the edge of a cliff. His hand hurt so much he thought he was going to faint.

‘When I was —’ he tried again.

‘Oh, dear God, no,’ said Mum suddenly.

‘On some glass,’ Gil repeated dizzily. ‘On the glass of the . . . Dad, I need to tell you . . .’ He reached for the rest of the sentence in his head but it swam away from
him.

‘No,’ said Mum. ‘
No.
’ She was not shouting, but the words were like gunshots. Gil looked up in surprise to see where they had come from.

‘What do you mean, no?’ said Dad. ‘I want to hear what Gil’s got to say.’

‘No,’ said Mum. ‘You do not. I forbid you. I forbid you both.’ She jumped up and grabbed some kitchen roll and held it gently against the wound in Gil’s hand.

‘Forbid me? I don’t understand.’

‘Listen to me,’ said Mum. She spoke rapidly and with agitation. ‘Over the last few weeks we have almost destroyed ourselves as a family. We have kept secrets from each other
– all of us have. We are all responsible for this, and we are almost at the point of no return. If we stop now – if we turn back and deal with the awful things that happened yesterday
– we have a chance. But this is a revelation too far. If we go on – if you insist, Matt, on hearing what Gil wants to tell you, and if you insist, Gil, on telling him, then I’m
not sure there is any way out of this mess. At this precise moment I at least know very little about what happened last night. Can I beg you both that we keep it that way?’

Through his pain and guilt and confusion, slowly Gil began to understand. If he confessed, Mum and Dad would have to tell the police. Gil had no clear idea of what would happen then, but images
from television police dramas filled his head – locked rooms with steel doors and no windows, a big policeman yelling right into his face, a courtroom with Mum and Dad miles above him in the
gallery as he sat looking up from inside a cubicle of bullet-proof glass. And then prison – would they send him to prison? How serious was it, exactly, to take secret film of the labs and
steal Dad’s keys and crack the code for the burglar alarm to enable Jude to break in and liberate the animals? Did they send thirteen-year-olds to prison for that?

‘But we need to know the truth,’ Dad said.

‘We know more than enough,’ said Mum. ‘And if you’re going to start talking about justice being done and facing up to the consequences of your actions and accepting the
punishment you deserve, then I think we’ve all experienced enough of that in the last couple of days to last us a lifetime.’

Nobody said anything for a long time. Then Gil made a decision.

‘Picture glass,’ he said, lifting his injured hand off the table. ‘I smashed a picture last night with my fist when I was upset. That’s how I cut it. Sorry,’ he
added.

He saw Mum and Dad look at each other. After a while Dad sighed deeply and ran a hand through his hair.

‘You’re going to need a couple of stitches in it,’ he said.

‘Good,’ said Mum brightly. ‘I’ll run you up to casualty when you’re dressed.’

‘I think I just want to go back to bed for a bit,’ said Gil.

‘Me too,’ said Dad. He looked exhausted.

‘In a minute,’ said Mum. ‘There’s something else I want to say first.’

In the short space before she spoke again Gil imagined all sorts of ridiculous soap-opera announcements.
I’m leaving. I’m pregnant. You’re not my son, Gil. I’m in love
with Jude.
What she actually said did not come completely out of the blue, although it was still a shock to hear it.

‘I want to have the test for Huntington’s Disease.’

‘What? But Rachel —’

‘Don’t you think it’s time?’ said Mum. ‘Don’t you think it would be better for all of us now if we knew, instead of waiting in limbo for something that may or
may not happen? At least then I can get on with my life. It’s not done any of us any good to have me drifting about the house like a ghost.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Dad. ‘I really don’t know. Are you sure you want to find out?’

Gil was suddenly aware of the pain in Dad’s voice. There was no smugness, no certainty, just pain. For the first time Gil thought what it might be like to be Dad, to have lived all these
years in the knowledge that his wife might die from a disease that he had not yet managed to find a cure for.

‘Yes, I’m sure,’ said Mum.

Dad said nothing. He just put his head in his hands and gripped his fingers across the top of his skull.

‘I thought perhaps you’d do the test for me, Matt,’ said Mum. ‘You did say you might.’

‘I’m not sure I can face it.’ Dad sounded in complete agony.

‘Mum’s the one who’s got to face it the most,’ said Gil. ‘She’s the one who might be ill.’

‘Yes,’ said Dad. ‘You’re right. I know.’

‘It would really help me if we could all do this together,’ said Mum.

‘What are the chances of you having Huntington’s Disease?’ said Gil.

‘They’re exactly fifty-fifty,’ said Mum very softly.

‘Oh my God,’ said Gil. A fifty-fifty chance meant Mum was balanced on a knife-edge. It was like having a choice of only two doors. If you opened one, you could walk through and live
happily ever after. If you opened the other, you would die. No wonder Dad was scared.

‘You have to keep hold of the fact that there’s an even chance I’m OK,’ said Mum. ‘And if not – there’s still Dad’s research. But if neither of
you want me to have the test, I will listen to you.’

Gil couldn’t speak any more. At that moment he longed to have no sense of himself. It was too hard being human, being aware, having to choose. What should he say? Was it better to know, or
not to know? Once you knew something for certain you could never choose to be ignorant again. Unless of course you had a disease like Huntington’s, and then you had no choice. Your memory was
eventually wiped clean whether you liked it or not.

‘I think we need to know,’ Gil said at last. ‘Dad?’

‘OK,’ said Dad. He still didn’t look up. ‘OK.’

‘Sleep on it for now,’ said Mum. ‘Go back to bed, the pair of you.’

Gil went back to bed, and buried himself deep under the duvet and both pillows so that the entire world was blocked out. He hoped he would be able to sleep without dreams.

Gil was woken by someone coming into his room. He guessed it was time to go and get his hand stitched up.

‘OK, Mum,’ he mumbled. He rolled over and sat up, and then stared in amazement at Louis standing at the end of his bed.

‘Wha . . .?’

‘Your mum said it was OK,’ said Louis quickly.

Gil watched while Louis hopped from foot to foot uncomfortably. He was too dazed with sleep to think of anything to say to him.

‘Don’t look at me like that!’ Louis burst out suddenly. ‘I’m sorry, all right? I came to say sorry. I feel so crap for grassing you up to your dad yesterday. But if
you’re just going to try and stare me out I’m not staying.’

‘No, no, no,’ said Gil. ‘Wa it.’ He rubbed his face. What did he need to say to Louis? ‘It’s OK. You did the right thing.’

‘Did I?’ said Louis uncertainly.

‘Yeah, you did. I mean, it needed to happen. It’s a bit like . . .’ Gil thought for a moment. His head was still fuzzy. ‘It’s like you found out I had gangrene in
my leg and you knew you’d have to chop my leg off to save my life, and then you hacked my leg off with a penknife or something, and to begin with I was really angry with you but then I saw
that you’d saved my life.’

‘What? What are you on about?’ Louis looked really agitated now. ‘Are you ill? Oh my God, are you going to die?’

‘No, you moron, we used to play that game, don’t you remember? Shipwrecks. And I had gangrene and you had to hack my leg off.’

‘Oh. Yeah. Actually it was
you
who always chopped
my
leg off,’ said Louis.

‘Was it?’ Gil tried to remember properly.

‘Yeah. But I still don’t get why you’re talking about gangrene.’

‘Look, what I mean is that you dumped me in it big time with Dad. And I was so angry with you. But then . . . then I found out . . .’ Gil tailed off. There was too much to tell
Louis. Secrets writhed and wriggled inside his head like maggots in a dead animal.

‘Your dad said you’d had a bit of a shock,’ said Louis, frowning.

‘Did he?’

‘Yeah, when he phoned me up,’ said Louis.

‘When? What did he phone you for?’

‘To ask me to come round. He said you needed a bit of – um . . .’

‘Yeah, well, Dad thinks you’re wonderful, doesn’t he?’ said Gil grimly. ‘He likes you better than he likes me.’

‘No he doesn’t. Don’t talk crap. Look, Gil – what’s happened? You don’t look good.’

Gil began to tell Louis about Mum, about the way she might be ill with the same disease that was slowly killing his grandmother, about the way Mum and Dad had genetically screened him as an
embryo to make sure he didn’t have Huntington’s Disease. He said nothing about Jude, about the labs, about Dad’s research. He picked his way around the forbidden topics as if he
was finding a path through a minefield. All the time he tried not to look at Louis, but he was aware of Louis’ mouth hanging open in stunned silence and his eyes bulging like giant
marbles.