40
Peter, 1985
After my confrontation with Dad, I had driven around aimlessly for hours through the night before realizing there was nothing I could do about Lindy’s situation without risking my own life. I went home eventually, arriving at breakfast time. Dad said nothing on my return. He knew I had nobody and nowhere else, and that my disease would stop me reaching out, in any way.
The next evening when I visited Lindy, I told her about the confrontation.
‘So now you know, why haven’t you gone to the police?’ Her voice was high, hysterical. ‘You can let me go right now. What is stopping you?’
I tried to explain that there was nothing I could do, that the risk to me was too high. I told her that Dad had implied that I’d been having sex with her too, which made no sense because of the disease. She was silent for a while and then she said, ‘This disease you have, necrotic whatever, it’s very convenient, isn’t it?’
‘What do you mean? It’s not convenient to me. I have no bloody life.’
‘He has lied to you about everything else, everything …’
A few months earlier I had asked my father to find any new research papers he could on my illness. He brought home printouts with photographs of deformed dead bodies and people in hospital beds, mummified in bandages in isolation rooms. There was mention of research in a German clinic, but that progress was slow and underfunded because of the rarity of the condition. There was no cure on the horizon.
‘I bet you don’t have any disease. He used it to keep you away from people. You’ve never been to school. You’ve never had a mother in your life, have you? What happened to her?’
I didn’t want to tell her about my mother. ‘I don’t know.’
‘So, for your whole life, it’s been you and your dad. Do you know how crazy that is? Take off those stupid gloves and come here and touch me, just my hand or my arm.’ She reached out as far as the chain would let her. I shrank back.
‘He wouldn’t lie to me about that.’
‘He hasn’t even told you where your mother is. You know now what he does to me. I’ve never heard of this disease. At the very least, it’s suspicious.’
‘Stop it!’ I shouted at her.
‘You have to let me go! We both need to escape,’ she screamed as I locked her in.
I thought of all the life I had missed out on, if what Lindy said was true. And then I thought of Rangi. If I didn’t have necrotic hominoid contagion, then I could have saved him easily. If I didn’t have necrotic hominoid contagion, I was responsible for his death.
I said nothing about this to my father that evening. He acted as if nothing had happened after our big reckoning the day before. He cooked and I set the table. Eventually, when we were both at the table, he began to speak.
‘Peter,’ he said, and it was the first time he had called me that since we had left London, ‘you have your disease and I have mine.’
‘What?’ I said, sullen.
‘Let me speak, please. I’m not proud of what I am. I know it’s a sickness, this attraction to young girls, but it’s a disease I have no control over. Like your disease. We are what we are and –’
‘You have control,’ I interrupted him. I wasn’t prepared to let him paint himself as the victim. ‘You chose to take my mother out of her garden when she was a child, you chose to kidnap Lindy from the lake, and worse than that, you pretended that you were doing it for me.’
I didn’t challenge him about my disease. I was going to research that myself.
‘I’m sick, Peter, what do you expect me to do about it?’
‘You should hand yourself in to the police. Tell them who you are and what you did in Ireland.’
‘And what would become of you?’
‘I’d manage. What about my sister?’
‘Who?’
‘The baby that was born in Ireland, in that room!’ I raised my voice.
‘I had no use for her, Peter. I wanted a son, but not a daughter, and I wasn’t cruel. I could have taken that child from Denise, but it would have broken her.’
‘You don’t think she wasn’t broken already? Shackled to a radiator for God knows how many years? You told me to kick her and to hit her when I was too young to know better. And you knew she would never retaliate because she loved me.’
‘I love you,’ he said, and I could see tears in his eyes. He put his hand on my arm, and I let it stay there, so starved was I of human contact. We had always had a tactile relationship when I was younger, but once I’d hit my teens, it seemed less appropriate. I took my cues from television and grown boys did not walk hand in hand with their fathers. They did not hug them or hold them close. I withdrew from Dad, physically, though I missed the touch dreadfully. In that moment, I felt sorry for him. But not so sorry that I didn’t spend the next week at the library.
At home, Dad and I reached an understanding. He didn’t know how I was spending my days once I dropped him at his office. He thought I was working the land. We didn’t talk about Lindy. He had left the key out on the kitchen table. I could visit her while he was at work, but I found it hard to face her. Apart from dropping off groceries, I left her alone.
In the library, I asked for every medical journal they had, but they only had their own New Zealand Medical Journal. I went through every edition of the previous five years. There was no mention of my disease, but I thought perhaps New Zealand was too small. Dad had said it was incredibly rare. The library agreed to order back issues of the British Medical Journal, The New England Journal of Medicine and the Journal of the American Medical Association. All of these journals had been cited in the New Zealand one. I remembered the Boy in the Bubble. Was he the only child in the world to have Severe Combined Immuno Deficiency? How different was my disease? How did Dad have me diagnosed in a small country like Ireland?
Ever since I had started going to the shops, the library, selling my vegetables, I had carried out all transactions wearing hats with earflaps as well as gloves and several more layers of clothes to protect myself in spite of the discomfort in summer months when every other boy was in shorts and a singlet. My hair was deliberately long to cover my neck. I planned on growing a beard, but my facial hair was still sparse. I knew the people I dealt with thought I looked odd, but Dad had told me there was no point in explaining anything as nobody would understand. I had been bumped into by people a number of times despite how cautious I was, and had been terrified each time, but there was never any skin-to-skin contact. Dad had carried out any dental work, so my teeth were fine. I had recurring tonsillitis, but Dad always managed to get me antibiotics to treat that. I had never seen a doctor. Maybe it was time.
41
Sally
‘So, who is Mark Butler?’ I asked Angela as she made me sit down at the kitchen table.
‘Let’s wait until you have a cup of tea in your hand,’ she said, and flicked on the kettle.
The doorbell rang. I went to the door with Angela hot on my heels and opened it to see a young guard in a uniform that was too big.
‘I’m Garda Owen Reilly, here to collect a piece of evidence,’ he said.
‘It’s there, the card and the envelope,’ I said, pointing to the table that had Martha’s Post-it on it. I quickly updated Angela on the birthday card. The guard picked it up with a pair of tweezers and put it into an evidence bag.