221
Ian McEwan
long withdrawing roar, retreating, to the breath of the night wind, down the vast edges drear and naked shingles of the world.' It rings like a musical curse. The plea to be true to one another sounds hopeless in the absence of joy or love or light or peace or 'help for pain'. Even in a world 'where ignorant armies clash by night', Henry discovers on second hearing no mention of a desert. The poem's melodiousness, he decides, is at odds with its pessimism.
It's hard to tell, for his face is never still, but Baxter appears suddenly elated. His right hand has moved away from Rosalind's shoulder and the knife is already back in his pocket. His gaze remains on Daisy. The relief she feels she manages to transform, by a feat of self-control and dissembling, into a look of neutrality, betrayed only by a trembling in her lower lip as she returns the stare. Her arms hang defencelessly at her sides, the book dangles between her fingers. Grammaticus grips Rosalind's hand. The disgust with which Nigel listened to the poem a second time has only just faded from his face. He says to Baxter, 'I'll take the knife while you do the business.'
Henry worries that a prompt from Nigel, a reminder of the purpose of the visit, could effect another mood swing, a reversion.
But Baxter has broken his silence and is saying excitedly, 'You wrote that. You wrote that.'
It's a statement, not a question. Daisy stares at him, waiting.
He says again, 'You wrote that.' And then, hurriedly, 'It's beautiful. You know that, don't you. It's beautiful. And you wrote it.'
She dares say nothing.
'It makes me think about where I grew up.'
Henry doesn't remember or care where that was. He wants to get to Daisy to protect her, he wants to get to Rosalind, but he's fearful as long as Baxter remains near her. His state of mind is so delicately poised, easily disturbed. It's important not to surprise or threaten him.
222
Saturday
'Oi, Baxter.' Nigel cocks his head at Daisy and smirks.
'Nah. I've changed my mind.'
'What? Don't be a cunt.'
'Why don't you get dressed/ Baxter says to Daisy, as though her nakedness was her own strange idea.
For a moment she doesn't move, and they wait for her.
'I can't believe it/ Nigel says. 'We gone to all this trouble. '
She bends to retrieve her sweater and skirt and begins to pull them on.
Baxter says eagerly, 'How could you have thought of that? I mean, you just wrote it.' And then he says it again, several times over. 'You wrote it!'
She ignores him. Her movements are abrupt as she dresses, there could even be anger in the way she kicks aside the underwear she leaves lying on the floor. She wants to cover herself and get to her mother, nothing else matters to her. Baxter finds nothing extraordinary in the transformation of his role, from lord of terror to amazed admirer. Or excited child. Henry is trying to catch his daughter's eye in the hope of silently warning her of the need to go on humouring Baxter. But now she and her mother are embracing. Daisy is kneeling on the floor, half lying across Rosalind's lap, with her arms around her neck, and they're whispering and nuzzling, oblivious to Baxter hovering behind them, making frenetic little dips with his body. He's becoming manic, he's tripping over his words, and shifting weight rapidly from one foot to the other. Daisy let her book drop on the table when she went to Rosalind. Now Baxter nips forward and seizes it, waves it in the air, as if he could shake meaning from it.
Tm having this/ he cries. 'You said I could take anything I want. So I'm taking this. OK?' He's addressing himself to the nape of Daisy's neck.
'Shit/ Nigel hisses.
It's of the essence of a degenerating mind, periodically to lose all sense of a continuous self, and therefore any regard
223
Ian McEwan
for what others think of your lack of continuity. Baxter has forgotten that he forced Daisy to undress, or threatened Rosalind. Powerful feelings have obliterated the memory. In the sudden emotional rush of his mood swing, he inhabits the confining bright spotlight of the present. This is the moment to rush him. Henry looks across at Theo who makes a slow-motion nod of agreement. On the sofa, Grammaticus is sitting up, with his hands on his daughter's and granddaughter's shoulders. Rosalind and Daisy remain in their embrace - hard to believe they think they're out of danger, or that by ignoring Baxter they're nmking IhemseK e^ more secure. It's the pregnancy, Henry decides, the overwhelming fact of it. It's time to act.
Baxter is almost shouting again. 'I'm not taking anything else. You hear? Only this. It's all I want.' He clutches the book like a greedy child fearing the withdrawal of a treat.
Henry glances across at Theo again. He's edged nearer, and he looks tensed, ready to leap. Nigel stands between them, watching - but he's disaffected and there's a chance he'll do nothing. And besides, he, Perowne, is closer to Baxter and will certainly reach him before Nigel can intervene. Again, Perowne feels his pulse knocking in his ears, and sees a dozen ways in which it can go wrong. Henry glances once more at Theo, and decides to count in his mind to three, and then go, no matter what. One . . .
Suddenly Baxter turns. He's licking his lips, his smile is wet and beatific, his eyes are bright. The voice is warm, and trembles with exalted feeling.
T'm going on that trial. I know all about it. They're trying to keep it quiet, but I see all the stuff. I know what's going on.'
'Fuck this,' Nigel says.
Perowne keeps his tone flat. 'Yes.'
'You're going to show me this stuff.'
'Yes, the American trial. It's upstairs, in my office.'
He had almost forgotten his lie. He looks again at Theo
224
Saturday
who now seems to be prompting him with his eyes to go along with this. But he doesn't know that there's no trial. And the price of disappointing Baxter will be high.
He's put the book in his pocket and has taken the knife out and waves it in front of Perowne's face.
'Go on, go on! I'll be right behind you.'
He's so high now, he could stab someone in his joy. He's babbling his words.
The trial. You show me everything. All of it, all of it . . .'
Henry wants to go to Rosalind, touch her hand, speak to her, kiss her - the snuiHest exchange would be enough, but Baxter is right in front of him now, with that peculiar metallic odour on his breath. The original idea was to draw him away from the others, and to separate him from Nigel. There's no reason not to carry this through. So, with a final despairing look in Rosalind's direction, Henry turns and walks slowly towards the door.
'You watch them,' Baxter says to Nigel. They're all dangerous.'
He follows Perowne across the hall, and they start up the stairs, their steps ringing out in time on the stone. Henry is trying to recall which papers lying around on his desk he can plausibly pass off. He can't remember, and his thoughts are confused by the need to make a plan. There's a paperweight he can throw, and a bulky old stapler. The high-backed orthopaedic office chair will be too heavy to lift. He doesn't even own a paper knife. Baxter is one step behind him, right on his heels. Perhaps a backward kick is the thing.
The know they're keeping it quiet,' Baxter is saying again. They look after their own, don't they?'
They're already halfway up. Even if the trial existed, why would Baxter believe that this doctor would keep his word rather than call in the police? Because he's elated as well as desperate. Because his emotions are wild and his judgment is going. Because of the wasting in his caudate nucleus and
225
Ian McEwan
putamen, and in his frontal and temporal regions. But none of this is relevant. Perowne needs a plan, and his thoughts are too quick, too profuse - and now he and Baxter are on the broad landing outside the study, dominated by the tall window that looks onto the street, just where it runs into the square.
Henry hesitates for a moment on the threshold, hoping to see something he might use. The desk lamps have heavy bases, but their tangled wires will restrict him. On a bookshelf is a stone figurine he would have to go on tiptoe to reach. Otherwise, the room is like a museum, a shrine, dedicated to another, carefree age - on the couch covered with a Bukhara rug his squash racket lies where he tossed it when he came up to look at Monday's list. On the big table by the wall, the screen saver - those pictures from the Hubble telescope of remote outer space, gas clouds light years across, dying stars and red giants fail to diminish earthly cares. On the old desk by the window, piles of papers, perhaps the only hope.
'Go on then.' Baxter pushes him in the small of his back and they enter the room together. It's a dreamy sensation, of going quietly, numbly, without protest towards destruction. Henry doesn't doubt that Baxter is feeling free enough to kill him.
'Where is it? Show me.'
His eagerness and trust is childlike, but he's waving his knife. For their different reasons, they both long for evidence of a medical trial and an invitation for Baxter to join the privileged cohort. Henry goes towards the desk by the window where two piles of journals and offprints lean side by side. Looking down, he sees an account of a new spinal fusion procedure, and a new technique for opening blocked carotid arteries, and a sceptical piece casting doubt on the surgical lesioning of the globus pallidus in the treatment of Parkinson's Disease. He chooses the last and holds it up. He has no idea what he's doing beyond delaying the
226
Saturday
moment. His family is downstairs, and he's feeling very lonely.
This describes the structure/ he starts to say. His voice quavers, as a liar's might, but there's nothing he can do but keep talking. The thing is this. The globus pallidus, the pale globe, is a rather beautiful thing, deep in the basal ganglia, one of the oldest parts of the corpus striatum, and uh divided in two segments which
But Baxter is no longer paying attention - he's turned his head to listen. From downstairs they hear rapid heavy footsteps crossing the hall, then the sound of the front door opening and slamming shut. Has he been deserted for the second time today? He hurries across the study and steps out onto the landing. Henry drops the article and follows. What they see is Theo coming towards them at a run, leaping up the stairs three at a time, his arms pumping, his teeth bared savagely with the effort. He makes an inarticulate shout, which sounds like a command. Henry is already moving. Baxter draws back the knife. Henry seizes his wrist with both hands, pinning the arm in place. Contact at last. A moment later, Theo lunges forwards from two steps down and takes Baxter by the lapels of his leather jacket, and with a twisting, whip-like movement of his body pulls him off balance. At the same time, Perowne, still gripping the arm, heaves with his shoulder, and together they fling him down the stairs.
He falls backwards, with arms outstretched, still holding the knife in his right hand. There's a moment, which seems to unfold and luxuriously expand, when all goes silent and still, when Baxter is entirely airborne, suspended in time, looking directly at Henry with an expression, not so much of terror, as dismay. And Henry thinks he sees in the wide brown eyes a sorrowful accusation of betrayal. He, Henry Perowne, possesses so much - the work, money, status, the home, above all, the family - the handsome healthy son with the strong guitarist's hands come to rescue him, the beautiful poet for a daughter, unattainable even in her nakedness,
227
Ian McEwan
the famous father-in-law, the gifted, loving wife; and he has done nothing, given nothing to Baxter who has so little that is not wrecked by his defective gene, and who is soon to have even less.
The run of stairs before the turn is long, the steps are hard stone. With a rippling, bell-like sound, Baxter's left foot glances along a row of iron banister posts, just before his head hits the floor of the half-landing and collides with the wall, inches above the skirting board.
They art1 in various forms of shock, and remain so for hours
j '
after the police have left and the paramedics have taken Baxter away in their ambulance. Sudden bursts of urgent, sometimes tearful recall are broken by numb silences. No one wants to be alone, so they remain in the sitting room together, trapped in a waiting room, a no man's land separating their ordeal from the resumption of their lives. With the resilience of the young, Theo and Daisy go downstairs to the kitchen and return with bottles of red wine, mineral water and a bowl of salted cashews, as well as ice and a cloth to make a compress for their grandfather's nose.
But alcohol, tasty as it is, barely penetrates. And Henry finds that he prefers to drink water. WTiat meets their needs is touch - they sit close, hold hands, embrace. The parting words of the night-duty CID officer were that his colleagues would be coming in the morning to take formal statements from them individually. They were therefore not to discuss or compare their evidence. It's a hopeless prescription, and it doesn't even occur to them to follow it. There's nothing to do but talk, fall silent, then talk again. They have the impression of conducting a careful analysis of the evening's horrible events. But it's a simpler, more vital re-enactment. All they do is describe: when they came in the room, when he turned, when the tall horsy one just walked out of the house . . . They want to have it all again, from another's point of view, and know that it's all true what they've been through,
228
Saturday
and feel in these precise comparisons of feeling and observation that they're being delivered from private nightmare, and returned to the web of kindly social and familial relations, without which they're nothing. They were overrun and dominated by intruders because they weren't able to communicate and act together; now at last they can.
Perowne attends to his father-in-law's nose. John refuses to go to casualty that night, and no one tries to persuade him. The swelling already makes a diagnosis difficult, but his nose hasn't shifted from the midline position, and Perovvne's guess is a hairline fracture to the maxillary processes - better that than ruptured cartilage. For much of this stretch of the evening Henry sits close to Rosalind. She shows them a red patch and a small cut on her neck, and describes a moment when she ceased to be terrified and became indifferent to her fate.