Saturday (27 page)

He says, ‘Yeah. Two gins straight up, ice and lemon.'

The boon of reducing further Baxter's physical coordination has to be set against the risk of making his disinhibition even uglier. It's a choice, a calculation Perowne in his terror finds he can make. He bends like an apothecary to the task, and fills two wine glasses to the brim with Tanqueray, and adds a slice of lemon and an ice cube to each. He passes one to Nigel, and holds the other up for Baxter. The table is in the way; to Henry's relief, he comes forward, around the sofa and table to take the drink.

‘Look,' Perowne says. ‘For the sake of argument, I'm prepared to accept I was in the wrong this morning. If you want your car repaired…'

‘Been reconsidering, have you?'

The glass is not stable in Baxter's hands, and when he turns to wink at Nigel, a quantity of gin is spilled. Perhaps it's the habit of concealing his condition that causes him to steady the glass against his lips and empty it in four smooth gulps. In that short time, Perowne is thinking about the landlines into the house and whether Baxter took the trouble to
cut them. There's also a monitored panic button by the front door, and another in the bedroom. Is this fantasy again? Distress is making him nauseous. With Theo's assistance, Rosalind and Daisy are helping Grammaticus to his feet. Even though Perowne attempts with a surreptitious flick of his hand to wave them further down their end of the room, they're bringing him by the fire.

‘He's cold,' Rosalind says. ‘He needs to lie down.'

So much for that plan. Now they are bunched together again. At least Theo is on hand. But surely, it's already decided, rushing Baxter is childish dreaming. Nigel will have a weapon. These two are real fighters. What else then? Are they to stand around and wait until Baxter uses his knife? Henry feels himself rocking on his feet in fear and indecision. A strong urge to urinate keeps nudging between his thoughts. He wants to catch Theo's eye, but he also senses that Rosalind might know something, or have an idea. The way she brushed against his side could be significant. She's right behind him, settling her father on the sofa. Daisy seems calmer now – looking after her grandfather has helped her. Theo stands with his arms crossed, still staring tensely into the ground, possibly calculating. His forearms looks strong. All this talent in the room, but useless without a plan and a means to communicate it. Perhaps he should act alone, wrestle Baxter to the floor and trust the others will pile in. More fantasising, and with Baxter so volatile, so savagely carefree, the possibilities for harm multiply. All this beloved and vulnerable flesh. Henry's self-cancelling thoughts drift and turn, impossible to marshal. The proper thing would be to hit Baxter hard in the face with a clenched fist and hope that Theo will take on Nigel. But when Henry imagines himself about to act, and sees a ghostly warrior version of himself leap out of his body at Baxter, his heart rate accelerates so swiftly that he feels giddy, weak, unreliable. Never in his life has he hit someone in the face, even as a child. He's only ever taken a knife to anaesthetised skin in a controlled and
sterile environment. He simply doesn't know how to be reckless.

‘Come on then, landlord.'

Willingly, for this is his only scrap of a strategy, Perowne takes the gin and refills Baxter's outstretched glass and tops up Nigel's. As he does so Henry becomes aware that Baxter is staring past him at Daisy. The fixity of the look, and that same bottled-up little smile, causes an icy contraction across the surface of Henry's scalp. Baxter spills more gin as he raises the glass to his mouth. He doesn't shift his gaze, even as he sets his drink down on the table. Disappointingly, he's taken only a single sip. He hasn't said much since his attack on Grammaticus, and it's likely that he too is without a plan; his visit is an improvised performance. His condition confers a bleak kind of freedom, but he probably doesn't know how far he's prepared to go.

They're all waiting, and Baxter says at last, ‘So what's your name then?'

‘My God,' Rosalind says quickly. ‘You come near her, you'll have to kill me first.'

Baxter puts his right hand in his pocket again. ‘All right, all right,' he says querulously. ‘I'll kill you first.' Then he brings his gaze back onto Daisy and repeats in exactly the same tone as before, ‘So, what's your name then?'

She steps clear of her mother and tells him. Theo unfolds his arms. Nigel stirs and moves a little closer to him. Daisy is staring right at Baxter, but her look is terrified, her voice is breathless and her chest rises and falls rapidly.

‘Daisy?' The name sounds improbable on Baxter's lips, a foolish, vulnerable nursery name. ‘And what's that short for?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Little Miss Nothing.' Baxter is moving behind the sofa on which Grammaticus is lying, and beside which Rosalind stands.

Daisy says, ‘If you leave now and never come back I give
you my word we won't phone the police. You can take anything you want. Please, please go.'

Even before she's finished, Baxter and Nigel are laughing. It's a delighted, unironic laughter, and Baxter is still laughing as he stretches out a hand towards Rosalind's forearm and pulls so that she falls back onto the sofa in a sitting position by Grammaticus's feet. Both Perowne and Theo start towards him. At the sight of the knife, Daisy gives a short muffled scream. Baxter is holding it in his right hand which rests lightly on Rosalind's shoulder. She stares rigidly ahead.

Baxter says to Perowne and Theo, ‘You go right back across the room. Go on. Right back. Go on. See to them, Nige.'

The distance between Baxter's hand and Rosalind's right common carotid is less than four inches. Nigel is trying to shove Perowne and Theo into the far corner by the door, but they manage to back away from him and into separate, diagonally facing corners, ten or twelve feet on either side of Baxter – Theo by the fireplace, his father towards one of the three tall windows.

Henry tries to keep not only the panic, but the entreaty from his voice. He wants to sound like a reasonable man. He's only partially successful. His heart rate makes his voice thin and uneven, his lips and tongue feel inflated. ‘Listen Baxter, your only argument is with me. Daisy's right. You can take what you want. We won't do a thing about it. The alternative for you is psychiatric prison. And you've got a lot more time left than you think.'

‘Fuck off,' Baxter says without turning his head.

But Perowne goes on. ‘Since we talked this morning I've been in touch with a colleague. There's a new procedure from the States, coupled with a new drug, not on the market, but just arriving here for trials. First results from Chicago are amazing. More than 80 per cent are in remission. They're starting twenty-five patients on it here next month. I can get you on the trial.'

‘What's he on about?' Nigel says.

Baxter makes no response, but some tension, a sudden stillness along the line of his shoulders suggests he's considering. ‘You're lying,' he says at last, but a lack of emphasis encourages Perowne to go on.

‘They're using the RNA interference we talked about this morning. The work's come on quicker than anyone thought it could.'

He's tempted, Henry is sure he's tempted. Baxter says, ‘It isn't possible. I know it isn't possible.' He says this, and he wants to be convinced.

Henry says quietly, ‘Well, I thought so too. But it seems it is. The trial starts on March the twenty-third. I talked to a colleague this afternoon.'

In a sudden surge of agitation, Baxter blocks him out. ‘You're lying,' he says again, and then louder, almost shouting, protecting himself against the lure of hope. ‘You're lying and you better shut up or watch my hand.' And the hand bearing the knife moves nearer Rosalind's throat.

But Perowne doesn't stop. ‘I promise you I'm not. All the data's upstairs in my study. I printed it out this afternoon and you can come up with me and…'

He's cut off abruptly by Theo. ‘Stop it Dad! Stop talking. Fucking shut up or he'll do it.'

And he's right. Baxter has pushed the blade flat against the side of Rosalind's neck. She sits upright on the sofa, hands clasping her knees, face empty of expression, her gaze still fixed ahead. Only a tremor in her shoulders shows her terror. The room is silent. Grammaticus at the other end of the sofa has at last removed his hands from his face. The blood congealed above his upper lip thickens his look of horror and disbelief. Daisy stands by the armrest that supports her grandfather's head. Something is welling up in her – a shout or a sob – and the effort of suppressing it darkens her complexion. Theo, despite the cautionary shouts, has moved a little closer in. His arms dangle uselessly at his sides.
Like his father, he can look only at Baxter's hand. Perowne watches and tries to convince himself that Baxter's silence suggests he's struggling with the temptation of the drug trials, the new procedure.

From outside comes the sound of a police helicopter, probably monitoring the dispersal of the march. There's also a sudden cheerful racket of voices and footsteps on the pavement outside as a group of excited friends, foreign students perhaps, come round the square and turn towards Charlotte Street where the restaurants and bars will be filling up. Central London is already launched upon another Saturday evening.

‘So, anyway. What I was trying to do is have a conversation with this young lady here. Miss Nothing.'

Nigel, who stands leering in the centre of the room, his moist lips and horsy face suddenly animated, says insinuatingly, ‘You know what I'm thinking?'

‘I do, Nige. And I was thinking the same thing myself.' Then he says to Daisy, ‘I want you to watch my hand…'

‘No,' Daisy says quickly. ‘Mum. No.'

‘Shut up. I haven't finished. You watch my hand and listen. All right? You mess, about, we're lost. You listen carefully. Take your clothes off. Go on. All of them.'

‘Oh God,' Grammaticus says quietly.

Theo calls across the room. ‘Dad?'

Henry shakes his head. ‘No. Stay where you are.'

‘That's right,' Baxter says.

Baxter is addressing not Theo but Daisy. She stares at him in disbelief, trembling, shaking her head faintly. Her fear is exciting him, his whole body dips and shudders.

Daisy manages to say in a whisper, ‘I can't. Please…I can't.'

‘Yes you can, darling.'

With the tip of his knife, Baxter slices open a foot-long gash in the leather sofa, just above Rosalind's head. They stare at a wound, an ugly welt, swelling along its length as the ancient, yellowish-white stuffing oozes up like subcutaneous fat.

‘Fucking get on with it,' Nigel mutters.

Baxter's hand and the knife are back on Rosalind's shoulder. Daisy looks at her father. What should she do? He doesn't know what to tell her. She bends to remove her boots, but she can't free the zip, her fingers are too clumsy. With a cry of frustration she goes down on one knee and tugs at it until it yields. She sits on the floor, like a child undressing, and pulls off her boots. Still sitting, she fumbles with the fastener at the side of her skirt, then she gets to her feet and steps out of it. As she undresses she shrinks abjectly into herself. Rosalind is shaking badly as Baxter leans over her shoulder and steadies his fidgety hand with its blade against her neck. But she doesn't turn away from Daisy, unlike Theo who appears so stricken that he can't bear to look at his sister. He keeps his gaze fixed on the floor. Grammaticus too is looking away. Daisy goes faster now, pulling off her tights with an impatient gasp, almost tearing at them, then throwing them down. She's undressing in a panic, pulling off her black sweater and chucking that down too. She's in her underwear – white, freshly laundered for the journey from Paris – but she doesn't pause. In one unbroken movement she unhitches her bra and hooks off her knickers with her thumb and lets them fall from her hands. Only then does she glance at her mother, but only briefly. It's done. Head bowed, Daisy stands with her hands at her sides, unable to look at anyone.

Perowne hasn't seen his daughter naked in more than twelve years. Despite the changes, he remembers this body from bath times, and even in his fear, or because of it, it is above all the vulnerable child he sees. But he knows that this young woman will be intensely aware of what her parents are discovering at this very moment in the weighted curve and compact swell of her belly and the tightness of her small breasts. How didn't he guess earlier? What perfect sense it makes; her variations of mood, the euphoria, that she should cry over a dedication. She's surely almost beginning her
second trimester. But there's no time to think about it. Baxter has not shifted his position. Rosalind has tremors in her knees now. The blade prevents her turning her head towards her husband, but he thinks she's straining to find him with her eyes.

Daisy is before them and Nigel says, ‘Jesus. In the club. She's all yours, mate.'

‘Shut up,' Baxter says.

Unseen, Perowne has taken half a step towards him.

‘Well, well. Look at that!' Baxter says suddenly. He's pointing with his free hand across the table at Daisy's book. He could be concealing his own confusion or unease at the sight of a pregnant woman, or looking for ways to extend the humiliation. These two young men are immature, probably without much sexual experience. Daisy's condition embarrasses them. Perhaps it disgusts them. It's a hope. Baxter has forced matters this far, and he doesn't know what to do. Now he's seen her proof lying on the sofa opposite, and seizes an opportunity.

‘Pass me that one, Nige.'

As Nigel moves to retrieve the book, Henry shuffles closer. Theo does the same.

‘
My Saucy Bark
. By Saucy Daisy Perowne.' Baxter flips the pages in his left hand. ‘You didn't tell me you wrote poems. All your own work, is it?'