The Swan Song of Doctor Malloy (15 page)

‘It's the most natural thing on earth for an alcoholic to drink and an addict to take drugs,' says John, filling in the silence. ‘But you don't have to. You can have another chance, another life. If you stick around you'll hear every story under the sun. People who have lost everything. Houses, jobs, marriages. Who have had children die on them. Still they didn't drink. And then they went out drinking because the washer went on a bathroom tap. Remember what I said,' he adds with a smile, ‘it's the mice, not the elephants, that get us.'

He eats his second doughnut and I light a cigarette.

‘I've got to go away for work,' I say.

‘Do you? You should put your sobriety before everything else.'

‘I have no choice.'

‘You can do anything other than drink.'

‘I know that one from the Friary,' I say.

‘But do you know it in your heart?' he says.

‘I have no option but to go on this trip.'

‘Okay, but there are Meetings everywhere. You should call the regional office and find out where they are in the countries you visit.'

‘That's a good idea.'

‘And, Tony, you can call me anytime, anytime at all. Day or night.'

I take his phone numbers again. He gives me a big bear hug as we get up to leave the coffee bar. It feels awkward, but not as bad as waking up to a bed littered with someone else's daffodils.

Then he hugs me again and holds me hard against him, as if making sure I don't fall apart.

‘Thanks,' I say. ‘I appreciate your concern.'

‘It's how it works – we look after each other,' he says, waving goodbye, walking off up the street. ‘Give it away to keep it,' he shouts. ‘Give it away to keep it.'

I watch him disappear into the crowd and feel good and bad and lonely all at once. And here I am again. On my own on the street. I cross the road, toss a pound coin into a young beggar's paper cup, and then head south to Soho where I can wile away an hour or so before my rendezvous with Matilda. On the way down Rupert Street I stop at a phone box and dial Mary Foster's number. I am relieved to get her voicemail.

‘Mary. This is Anthony Malloy. I'm ready to begin our collaboration. The sooner we get on with this the better.'

It is not a good day to be at Benito's. Francesco Benito, the proprietor, drinks a glass of wine while I nurse a mineral water.

‘Mister Tony, I tell him one more time, one more trouble, and he's out the door.'

Alfredo, the Head Chef (the only chef, if the truth be known), took too many liberties. It was one thing to take pastries home and drink more than his share of wine, but quite another to have people queue out back on Monday mornings for cut-price chickens and lamb chops. This morning Benito arrived unexpectedly early and there was Alfredo running a cash and carry from the kitchen door. Benito and Alfredo both have fiery dispositions, so all hell broke loose, with feathers and wigs (Benito wears an appalling hair-piece) flying through the air.

The upshot of this is there is no chef today.

‘You must excuse us, Mister Tony,' explains Benito, wiping his chubby hand across his red face. ‘I tried to get a replacement, but my one cousin says yes and then his wife goes into labour half an hour ago. Of all days to give birth … may it be a safe one,' he says, crossing himself, repenting his selfishness. ‘I'm counting on Giovanni. I've left a message with his son. You remember Giovanni? He has his leg. You know Giovanni's leg?'

‘Of course, how can anyone forget Giovanni?' I say, remembering the famous incident with the bottle of brandy and the balancing chairs.

‘Ah, Senora,' says Benito, his arms outstretched, a smile directed over my shoulder.

It is Matilda. She looks tired. She is wearing a loose blue sweater and blue jeans. Around her neck is a cashmere scarf that looks like the one we bought together when she was pregnant. It reminds me of a happy afternoon long ago: choosing a scarf, placing it around her neck, kissing her gently on the cheek. Benito stands up and gestures to Matilda to sit down.

‘I hope we can offer you a good meal,' he says, and leaves for the kitchen.

Matilda sits, looking confused.

‘What does he mean? The food is always good here.'

‘The chef.'

‘Again?'

‘Again.'

‘You have a real talent for being in the wrong place at the wrong time,' says Matilda, casting me a look that triggers a dozen scenarios from our recent past.

‘You like salad,' I say, trying to lighten things up.

‘That's not the point. Anyway, I'm only staying for a drink. Lottie is upset. Really upset. That's the only reason I'm here – to let you know how your daughter feels. She doesn't trust you anymore, Anthony. You can't be trusted. She loves you, still, but she can't rely on you.'

I feel a sense of hollowing, deep in my stomach. A hole so large you could put a fist through it. It is raw and weeping. An empty space where my spirit should be; where my love should be. Matilda looks at me and sees the sadness in my eyes.

‘Last night …' I begin, unsure as to what I have to say.

‘Anthony,' she says firmly, ‘I don't want to know. I don't care. It's one thing to let me down. You've only been out of treatment for ten minutes. It'll take time, even if you don't drink. You can't expect her to really trust you. Not yet. Not after all the madness of the last four years. Not after pulling stunts like last night.'

‘What did she say to you?' I ask sheepishly, turning the glass in my hand, my voice high-pitched, my eyes lowered, set on the cutlery.

‘Last night, after you phoned drunk …' she says. I look up at her and I know she knows I don't remember any phone call. I stay silent; there is no need for words. ‘When she realized you weren't coming and you were drinking again, she told me she felt that you don't care about her. You don't care about what is important to her.'

Matilda reaches her hand to the middle of the table as if she's about touch my hand. But then her hand recedes like a wave sucking back on the shoreline.

‘You can't be surprised,' adds Matilda, ‘not after all the other times. The birthday party.'

Our eyes meet as the shared memory sweeps back into the room like an icy draught. The fight on the stairs, the overturned birthday cake. Children all sent home. The sound of the police sirens turning into the drive, then the police station, then me throwing the typewriter at the desk sergeant, banging my head rhythmically against the wall of the cell. Peter arrived, then Dr Le Frais. Let's call it stress, he's overworked, they agreed, as they arranged for me to go to the Friary, an exclusive and confidential rehab for those in the medical profession. ‘Don't worry,' said Dr Le Frais, ‘we'll have you back on your feet in no time at all.' Twelve thousand pounds for two weeks and then they tell you to go to Aftercare Meetings in cold church halls.

‘She says she's terrified of that dead look in your eyes, the way your voice sounded last night. It horrified her,' says Matilda, bringing me back to the present. ‘She's really perceptive. She's had to grow up so quickly. Too quickly, with all this insanity around her.'

Benito arrives from the kitchen, all in a flurry.

‘Good news. Giovanni is here. He has a bad bone in his leg, but otherwise he's fit. Now what can I get you to drink?' he asks, licking his pencil.

After the drinks arrive I take a deep breath, knowing what I have to say next will only cause more upset. Better get it over with and face the medicine.

‘Matilda, I'm sorry but I have to go away for work pretty much straight away. I can't look after Lottie when you go away to Macaroni Wood with your kids.'

She looks at me in disbelief, her wine glass poised between the table and her lips. I'm sure for a second she considers throwing it at me. But she places it back on the table and fixes me with a scary glare. ‘Have you learned nothing? Have you listened at all?'

She gets up to go.

‘You tell Lottie,' she says, barely keeping her anger in check. ‘You tell Lottie you're to miss her recital. You'll see her tonight. Believe it or not she still wants to stay at your house tonight. She thinks it's better she's with you than not. So you tell her. Tell her how much you care. It's not what you say, it's what you do.'

Matilda leaves the restaurant without turning back. The door to the street slams and the full glass of dry white wine jumps from the table to let me know it's there. Benito's eyebrows rise in my direction. I stare at the colours refracted in the glass. It's the first drink does the damage, I remember. Just as well, I think, as I drain the glass. I look at Benito. If you had my problems you would drink too. Sobriety will have to wait until I sort out this mess of my life.

As I turn the key in the door, Matilda's words swim through my mind. As I enter the hallway the sounds of the flute tell me Lottie has beaten me to it and is home from her after-school music practice. Ever since my separation from her mother, treatment-cum-retreats aside, Lottie stays with me every Wednesday night and alternate weekends. It is as much her decision as anyone else's and part of her vow to herself to love both her parents equally and to show no partiality.

When I enter the living room she puts down her flute and blows me a kiss.

‘Last night …' I say, fumbling over the words for the second time this day, as if I were the child and she the parent.

‘It's okay, Dad. You don't have to explain. I never expected two weeks to make any difference. I remember reading about old rock stars in one of my magazines. They're always going to rehabs and places.'

She looks at me with simple forgiveness in her eyes. And my heart, what's left of it, dissolves.

I sink on to the sofa and she comes to join me.

‘And how is your therapy going?' she asks, trying to sound detached, like a grown-up, secretly hoping eventually it might mean we will all be back together again.

‘Oh,' I say, trying to sound light and frivolous, instead of heavy and broken, ‘she asked me if I loved my mother and had I ever tried to kill my father. And I said, how did you guess and paid her a bonus.'

‘Why don't you ever take me seriously?' replies Lottie, looking hurt. And then the phone rings.

It's Matilda.

Lottie pretends to read her music score, but I know she is listening to the conversation in vain hope of signs of reconciliation. She is adept at gauging the silent end of telephone conversations from the tone of the speaker's voice.

‘Yes, I'm sorry. I can't change anything. It's out of my hands … No, I can't put it off … I have to go in the next day or so … of course I am going to tell her … I know, I know … I know … look, it doesn't really matter.'

A loud click rings in my head as Matilda abruptly concludes the conversation.

Lottie looks up from the swirling notes on her page.

‘What is it you are going to tell me?' she asks quietly.

‘I was about to tell you, before your mother called. I have to go on a work trip for a month or so, or maybe longer.'

The smile, the lightness, drops from her face in an instant.

‘When?' she asks, cautiously.

‘Real soon. Friday. It's all happened so suddenly. It's a big chance to launch my syringe …'

‘Dad!'

She rushes from the room, slamming the door behind her.

It has all gone horribly wrong. I wanted to sit quietly with Lottie and tell her why I had to go away. That I was so sorry to have to miss the concert, but that I would be there for many more in the future. Half an hour later, Lottie emerges from her room. I am lying asleep on the sofa, a glass of whiskey by my side, with the news playing silently on the television. She strokes my hair and I stir. She lies on the sofa next to me. Her body fits neatly into the line of my torso. She holds my hand and says how sorry she is for being so selfish. She is glad my work is taking off. She asks me to tell her all about the places I visit, and to stop, wherever I am on Thursday at one-thirty next week, and imagine her beginning her piece at the concert. She makes me promise and I do. Later that night, before going to bed, I write
Lottie's Solo
in my diary and surround it with asterisks.

‘It's getting late, petal,' I say, shifting my arm against my sleeping daughter.

She rouses and makes her way slowly to the bathroom. I hear the slow motion of her pushing the toothbrush around her mouth. She comes back into the room, her hair long and tousled, her face sleepy and distant. She flings her arms around me, kisses and hugs me tight.

‘Love you for ever and ever,' she whispers.

‘And I love you too, for ever and ever, whatever else happens,' I reply, kissing her on each eyelid in turn.

I go to my own bed with a terrible migraine. I felt it building up all day. That almost imperceptible fluttering of butterfly wings in the deep left side of my brain. I rummage through the medicine cabinet, even though I know I have not picked up the repeat prescription for the suppositories that do the trick. Instead I wash down a handful of headache pills with a large glassful of whiskey. As I look at the empty glass I think back to the Aftercare Meeting and the image of the rocks at the bottom of the ocean and decide maybe I've not dived that deep yet.

As I drop off to sleep I am vaguely aware of the sound of crying in the room next door. But my dream world takes over.

When I wake it is still dark. I turn over on my side and, closing my eyes, switch on the lamp on the floor. The pain in my head is thumping, but the dream I was having, of a young child alone in treehouse, still hovers like a flying insect, just out of sight. I remember the first time I had the dream as a small boy, hiding under the eiderdown as the stiff winter branches tapped on the frosted window of my bedroom like dead fingers.

Dr Mary Foster insists on meeting me in the lounge at London's City Airport. Perhaps she wants to be sure I get on the plane. The first leg of my journey is to Paris. Out of the elevated window of the cafeteria I look over the wasteland of Docklands. The light on top of Canary Wharf winks at me conspiratorially. I feel as lonely and empty as the landscape.