[11] What beings will succeed mankind?

I’m thinking what I’ll tell the prosecutor: I wasn’t trying to murder him, I just wanted us both to stop feeling sorry for ourselves. If the porcelain candlestick was harder than his head, why blame me? The inspectors would have gathered the evidence by then: Paul’s bedside Bible placed silently by the door for me to gain height – stepping up will be a new move for me. The lamp unplugged from the wall so that nothing will happen when he presses the switch. Once I was standing on the book, it was easy, Doctor Inspector. I just lured him one step and crack. But why, Madame Karsh, kiss the hand, did you then place the weapon in his hand, since obviously he would not have ended his life in such a manner? Well, obviously, if he got up, I wanted him to know he did it to himself.

I have a cruel streak too. The urge to destroy is always there, waiting to come out for reasons to hand, but when the first person you always see in a mood like that … No, you have to always remind yourself not to murder the person you love. It’s the first thing … just don’t. Learn that, people. Yank the beast before it eats you the both.

In the dawn half-light, the city is never quieter. Johnny is breathing in his kitchen crib, I hear without looking. For a minute I can forget he’s there. No nursing allowed, they say I haven’t the strength. He won’t miss it, he’d never find them – I never had much up top. This world, this world … he just doesn’t know yet, and I’m not going to tell him until he needs to know.

I’m brewing coffee and waiting for Paul to rise from the floor. He finally pulls himself onto a kitchen chair. I’m telling myself, ‘My guy didn’t chicken out. Because then I really would have wished I was dead.’ Except for the part about me being nothing when his cock isn’t in me – that was an exaggeration. He crossed one there, all right. Repercussions were necessitated by that one.

Grandfather, I heard almost every word you two said last night. Oh yes, you were right about all of it, except you didn’t know the no-door-slamming rule that Paul and I kept for seven years next June. We argue toe to toe. When a storm breaks, we don’t stomp out unless it’s together. When one of us starts yelling, the other is allowed a few seconds of stunned disbelief, but that’s it – you’d better come back and finish it unless you want it to get worse for longer. I almost thought he’d broken our pact last night, but no, not my guy. If you can’t name what’s hurting you, you’ll never make it stop. It’s never acceptable to be angry at everything all at once. Not where we both live.

‘I wish you hadn’t seen it,’ I tell him. ‘It wasn’t about you, Paul. I’m ashamed of that.’ It feels human to be ashamed, and some days it takes a moment to feel comfortable with that.

His face is sagging with his candlestick hangover.

‘Don’t be,’ he says. ‘Seeing you like that made me feel sick.’

‘Sick?’

‘Horribly, horribly sad. Where did you go?’

‘You’re asking me to explain?’ As if grandfather hadn’t, a lot of it.

‘No,’ he says. ‘Just tell me you’ll be okay again.’

‘I’m all right now. Just tired. Does it hurt much?’

He’s staring at three fingertips, rubbing them with his thumb, willing himself not to touch his head. Too proud. Pride, gluttony, avarice – there’s three sins we can still share.

‘Pain doesn’t hurt,’ he says.

‘I’ve heard,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll clean you up. What am I going to do – run? You’re the one I’ll always run to. We both know that, don’t we? So where would I have run?’

Now he touches the top of his head and feels his fingertips stick.

‘Johnny’s fine,” I tell him. ‘I just changed him. Next bottle’s in an hour. Let me stitch you up now. It looks like five.’

[[ chapter 12 on 21 February ]]