I looked at Keith, his meaty head hung low, and felt like blurting, ‘Best out of five, Granddad?’
But I stifled my anarchic laughter, and said nothing.
There was a soft knock on the bedroom door and Ruby came in with a look of shy delight, carrying a breakfast tray.
I blinked back the fog of sleep as the smell of fried bacon filled the room. I could have sworn I had been awake all night long, fretting about how much time the doctors had given me, but I suppose I must have slept just before I was due to wake up. Ruby placed the tray on the empty side of the bed, where her mother slept. Orange juice. A still steaming mug of tea. Bacon. Two fried eggs. An incinerated sausage. ‘Welcome home. I cooked your favourite,’ she smiled.
Lara came into the room, already dressed, rubbing some sort of cream on her hands. The smell of my wife’s hand cream mixed with the smell of my daughter’s breakfast. They did not mix very well. We all looked at the tray, Ruby’s smile slowly fading.
‘That looks really good, darling,’ Lara said briskly. ‘But your father’s not meant to eat –’
‘No, it’s fine,’ I said, cutting her off as I snatched up the knife and fork. I grinned at my daughter and her face brightened. ‘You’re right. My favourite. Best meal of the day.’
Ruby frowned at the plate. ‘The sausage is a bit…’
‘Looks like a good sausage,’ I said, sawing into it.
‘Sausages are difficult,’ Ruby said. ‘Because they’re so thick.’
I nodded, not looking at Lara. But I could sense her folding her arms and choosing her words and getting ready to restore order. I didn’t need to look at her face to know what I would see there. And of course she was right. But she was also completely and totally wrong.
‘Any brown sauce?’ I asked, spearing my cremated banger.
‘Ah,’ Ruby laughed. ‘I knew I’d forgotten something.’ And she went off to get the brown sauce. Daddy’s Sauce, they used to call it when I was her age.
I looked at Lara as I chewed on my sausage. She smiled thinly at me. It was difficult for her. I knew she had my best interests at heart. When she spoke it sounded like the voice of reason in a screaming nuthouse. Calm, rational, quietly infuriated.
‘Have you been listening at all to these doctors? Have you heard a single thing they’ve said? Do you really want to clog up your arteries with the same old junk that you’ve been –’
‘It’s fine,’ I said, gulping down the badly burned banger. It left the taste of ashes in my mouth. But the bacon looked good. Tender, juicy.
‘It’s not fine. It’s stupid. It’s self-destructive. It’s just…’ She shook her head, as if she was giving up on me. But I knew she would never give up on me. ‘Is it because you’re afraid of hurting her feelings? Her feelings will be a lot more hurt if…’
She turned her face away.
‘Lara,’ I said, ‘come on.’ But she didn’t respond as I morosely sawed a piece off the bacon. Ruby came back with the brown sauce in one hand and little transparent shakers in the other.
‘Salt and pepper,’ she said. ‘I forgot that too.’
Lara turned on the pair of us. She put her arm around Ruby’s shoulder.
‘Your dad can’t eat this stuff, Ruby.’ Her words were gentle but insistent. ‘He can’t put salt on his food. Never again. Do you understand? He might as well put rat poison on his meals.’
‘Come on,’ I said. This was too much. ‘Salt’s not quite the same as rat poison.’
She gave me a frosty look. ‘You’re right, George. Rat poison would probably be healthier. There’s more fibre in it.’ She gave Ruby’s shoulder a gentle shake. ‘It’s great you made a meal for your father to welcome him home. It’s such a lovely thing to do. But, darling, you have to understand that things have changed.’ She looked at my breakfast plate and sighed. ‘He can’t eat this kind of stuff any more.’ The hand she had around our daughter dropped to her side. ‘It will kill him,’ she said quietly.
And I laughed. I had stopped eating, but now I began again. It was a bit cold by this time, and it got even colder when I smothered it in brown sauce. ‘One big breakfast is not going to kill me,’ I said, really tucking in.
‘You don’t want the salt, I guess,’ Ruby said, clutching the transparent pots to her chest, as if I might suddenly try to snatch them away from her.
‘Not necessary,’ I said, picking up a slice of toast, and feeling the slither of lavishly applied butter running across my wrist.
My wife and daughter stared at me as I jauntily consumed my big breakfast. As if they were obliged to watch this ritual. As if it was important.
As if they were witnessing the condemned man eating his last meal.
Ruby was in her bedroom.
I knocked, of course, and knocked again until I was given a half-hearted invitation to enter. There she was, at her desk, her head bowed before the computer screen as if in prayer.
‘Thanks for my breakfast,’ I said.
She nodded in response, not looking at me. I looked around for somewhere to sit. There was only her single bed and the chair.
‘You all right?’ I said.
She nodded again, her brown hair falling over her face like a curtain.
‘Can you shove over a bit?’ I said, and she automatically shuffled her bum sideways on her chair. I am a big man but she had always been a skinny kid and there was still just about room enough for two of us on that chair. Luckily she is built like her mother, the dancer, rather than her father, the fat bastard.
‘Something bad is going to happen,’ she said, so quietly that it felt like she was saying it to herself. Because she did not look at me.
I touched her shoulder, patted it. We were so close that I could smell the shampoo she had used in the shower.
‘Nothing bad is going to happen,’ I said. ‘I promise you, Ruby.’
She shook her head, not believing a word of it. ‘Something bad. Something very bad. It’s coming.’
‘Look,’ I said, really needing her to believe me. ‘I have great doctors. I am on the best medication that they can give me. And I feel good.’ I leaned back in the chair and looked at her profile. Her mother’s face, but with hints of me – a big forehead, the long upper lip – that somehow looked better on her than they ever did on me. ‘I’ll be fine, angel.’
And she looked at me.
‘Not you, Dad,’ she said. ‘The planet.’
When the house was finally empty I went into the living room to retrieve the pack of cigarettes that I had hidden.
I was grinning like a maniac, all pleased with myself, because I was finally about to get the hit I was craving, and because the pack was secreted in such a good place – behind the coals of the fake fire that we had at the bottom of our chimney. Nobody would ever look back there.
My smile didn’t fade until I stuck my hand behind the coals, felt around the gas pipe and fished out my fags, seeing the tiny holes that someone had drilled through the pack, destroying what was inside.
Whoever had done it hadn’t bothered to take out the cigarettes. They had just pushed a pin, or whatever it was, into every corner of the packet, the way a magician shoves swords into his magic box, in a careful,