‘No,’ he said, and hurried on.
Meg led him through to the kitchen, which was empty, and furthest from the stereo. Even so, by the time they got there, Patrick wanted to sob or scream with itchy repulsion and the pain in his ears. He sat with his back to the wall, then pulled the kitchen table towards him across the fancy quarry tiles so that no one could pass behind him. There was some small relief in having his back covered, even if his face and chest and hands and legs felt hopelessly vulnerable. There were a dozen bottles on the table and Patrick rearranged them into a glass barrier.
Meg found a tumbler in a cupboard. ‘Do you want a drink?’ she said.
He shook his head. The Coke was cold and tempting in his hands but he didn’t dare open it, because it had become his guardian for the night. Full, it protected him; empty, it lost its power. Opening it would seem like the action of a man who had dropped his guard.
Meg put the tumbler on the table and went over to the counter nearest the sink, where more bottles were waiting for customers.
Patrick noticed that the glass Meg had chosen had a faint smear near the rim. He got up and washed it.
‘Thanks,’ she said, sitting down and pouring herself some wine. She took a long gulp and smiled at him. ‘So, Patrick, how many Valentine’s cards did you get?’
‘One.’
‘Only one? Who was it from?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘You said you were going to find Scott.’
Meg stared silently into her wine glass for a while, then said, ‘OK then.’
When she’d gone, Patrick opened the cupboard and examined all the glasses. He ran a bowlful of soapy water and washed them and put them on the rack to dry. Then he opened the cutlery drawer. He emptied the whole lot into the hot water.
He flinched as Spicer came in on a wave of noise.
‘I didn’t realize the kitchen was contaminated,’ he said with a wink.
‘That’s OK,’ said Patrick. ‘I’m cleaning it now.’
Spicer laughed, and started to transfer pizzas from the freezer to the eye-level oven. ‘I’m sorry you were asked to leave the course, Patrick.’
‘Yes,’ said Patrick. ‘It was inconsistent.’
‘I hear you took it out on the porter.’
Patrick shrugged. Removing all the knives and forks and spoons and bits like tin-openers and broken candles meant he could now see that the tray needed washing too. And the drawer underneath that.
Dr Clarke came in and said, ‘Hello, Slugger.’
Patrick thought he must have confused him with someone else.
Dr Clarke sat on the corner of the table and drank beer from a bottle and made small talk with Spicer that Patrick didn’t listen to. Up to his elbows in warm suds, he felt suddenly more at home. By the time Meg came back with Scott, he was sitting at the table once more, rubbing the clean cutlery to a shine and placing it neatly back in its freshly washed tray.
Scott dragged a chair out with a clatter and flopped down into it. His Mohawk was half up and half down, and his face was shiny.
‘All right, Paddy!’
‘Patrick,’ said Patrick.
‘You’re such a tight-arse, you know?’
‘I know. Did you take the peanut?’
‘What peanut?’
‘The one I found in Number 19.’
‘Hey, I didn’t take your stupid peanut, so just get over it.’
Patrick didn’t stop polishing the knife in his hand, but he did stop thinking about polishing it. His heart sank. Scott had not taken the peanut. He believed that, not because Scott was inherently trustworthy, but because Scott was drunk, and drunks told the truth, in his experience. His drunken mother had once told him that she’d almost killed herself because of him – that on the day his father had died, she’d gone up Penyfan and come this close to throwing herself off. Because of you! she’d shouted. Because of you!
Scott put his head on the table so he could look up at Patrick’s face. ‘Did you hear me?’
‘Yes,’ said Patrick. ‘I heard you.’
‘Nut,’ said Scott. Then he laughed and said, ‘Get it?’
‘No,’ said Patrick, which made Scott laugh even harder.
‘Don’t be an arsehole, Scott,’ said Meg. ‘Just this once.’
‘OK,’ said Scott. ‘Just for you. You want to dance?’
‘All right,’ said Meg, and Patrick watched her leave. For some reason, he wished she hadn’t. Scott went after her, letting in another blast of gut-churning beat before the door swung shut behind him.
Patrick sighed deeply. At least the knives and forks were clean.
The dark-haired woman Meg knew came in and whispered something in Spicer’s ear and he smiled. She stretched her hand out for them both to admire. It glittered with a diamond ring that made Patrick blink. His mother had a diamond ring but it was dull and puny compared to this one. Patrick had taken it off her bedside table once and gone to the greenhouse to see if diamond really could cut glass, and then had left it in the garden. The memory of her fury still sent a little shiver through him.
The woman kissed Spicer’s cheek and he squeezed her waist and she left.
Spicer slid another pizza into the oven, then sat down. ‘You still on about that peanut?’
Patrick nodded.
‘What’s the significance again?’ Spicer opened a bottle of beer with an expert twist.
Patrick told him the significance, and Spicer nodded between slugs.
Dr Clarke got up and opened the oven to check on the pizzas, and Patrick felt the hot air drift across the kitchen to warm his face. He curled his hands around his Coke. He longed to twist it open and take a long bubbling swig. The curved coldness felt curiously close to his skin and he realized it felt strange to be in a room with Dr Clarke and Dr Spicer without his blue gloves on. His hands felt as exposed as theirs looked.
‘These are almost ready,’ said Dr Clarke, peering between his naked hands and through the glass. He had long, bony fingers, and the nails were bitten to the quick.
The smell of hot cheese came to Patrick, and he thought of Number 19’s salivary glands, which made him think again of the gouges and the black blood.
‘So what are you going to do about it now?’ said Spicer, slowly peeling the label off his beer bottle.
‘I don’t know,’ said Patrick. The warmth and the disappointment were making him tired and he couldn’t think too well. ‘Maybe go to the police again.’
‘You went to the police?’ said Spicer. ‘To report the theft of a peanut?’
Dr Clarke snorted and looked at him.
‘Yes, but there was blood on my hand, so I left before telling them about it.’
Spicer widened his eyes, then laughed. ‘I’m not even going to ask,’ he said, and put his hands up like a baddie in a cowboy film. He had large, fleshy hands – although he was not a big man – and the right forefinger was ringed with short pink scars.
‘What happened to your finger?’ Patrick asked, and Spicer looked at him as if he’d forgotten he was there.
‘My finger?’ he said, then looked at his finger as if he’d forgotten that was there, too.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I cut it on the tin-opener. Blood everywhere. I nearly fainted!’
Dr Clarke laughed, but Patrick felt a little electrical spark in his chest.
That was a lie!
He’d just seen the tin-opener in the cutlery drawer. It was a cheap, old-fashioned one – the kind his mother had at home – and it was rubbish. It worked more by pressure than sharpness, and would be almost impossible to puncture the skin with, let alone cause the two or three deep scars on Spicer’s finger.