The Terrible Privacy Of Maxwell Sim (33 page)

‘Emma … ?’

–
Proceed on the current road.

–
Proceed on the current road.

‘It’s all very well saying that now. I can’t proceed any further on the current road. Look – it’s closed. The police have closed it. They’ve put a gate across it.

‘Where the hell are we, anyway? Didn’t we just pass a town?

‘Let’s have a look. Yes, there we are. That’s us – that little red arrow on the screen, come to a dead halt. That’s you and me, that is. But look, if we just go back a while, there’s a tiny road to the west that’ll by-pass this gate, and bring us back on to the main road. Then we’ve got to climb up this mountain, over the top and down the other side again. No worries.

‘Thing is, I’m not sure we’ve got enough petrol. That warning light’s been flashing for a while now. Still, never mind, eh? What’s the worst that can happen to us? We’ve got our whisky, we’ve got each other – let’s make a night of it. What do you say?’

–
It’s up to you, Max. Completely up to you.

‘Good girl. Come on then.’

*

‘
The wheels on the bus go round and round,

Round and round, round and round,

The wheels on the bus go round and round, all day long.

The wipers on the bus go swish swish swish,

Swish swish swish, swish swish swish,

The wipers on the bus go swish swish swish, all day long.

‘Do you know that song, Emma? You must do. You can join in if you like. Come on, sing along. It’s good to have a bit of a sing-song, when you’re in dire straits. Keeps your spirits up.

‘The horn on the bus goes beep beep beep,

Beep beep beep, beep beep beep,

The horn on the bus goes beep beep beep, all day long.

‘What’s the matter, don’t you know the words? I used to sing this with Lucy all the time. Know it off by heart. I wonder if she still remembers them? We used to sing it in bed, first thing in the morning. At the weekends, Caroline would get up and have the first shower and I’d stay in bed and then Lucy would jump in with me and sit on my stomach and we’d sing this song.’

–
I don’t know the words.

‘Well, the next verse goes like this:

‘The children on the bus go up and down,

Up and down, up and down,

The children on the bus go up and down, all day long.

‘Then:

‘The babies on the bus go wah wah wah,

Wah wah wah, wah wah wah,

The babies on the bus go wah wah wah, all day …

‘Do you know what? I don’t think we’re going to make it up this hill. The car’s not built for this kind of driving. It’s not gripping properly on the ice. And did you hear that splutter? That sounds to me like the sound of a car that’s running out of gas. So close, as well! If we could just get to the top then we could probably freewheel all the way down the other side. But sadly … I don’t think we’re going to make it.

‘Nope. We’re out of luck.

‘Stuck. Stranded.

‘Quiet, isn’t it?’

–
Very quiet.

‘You know where we are, don’t you?’

–
Where are we, Max?

‘The doldrums, of course. We’re in the doldrums, just like Donald Crowhurst when his radio finally packed in. He had a broken radio, I’ve got a dead mobile.’

–
But, Max, there’s something I want you to remember. Something very important. You’re not Donald Crowhurst. You are Maxwell Sim.

‘No, you don’t understand. You still don’t get it. Everything that happened to him is happening to me. It’s happening now.’

–
We’re in the Cairngorms. Not the Sargasso Sea.

‘Close your eyes and we could be anywhere.’

–
The inside of his cabin was hot. Here it is cold.

‘Well, that’s easily fixed. We’ll put the heating on full blast.’

–
If you do that, Max, the battery will soon be flat.

‘I don’t care. And Crowhurst was naked, wasn’t he? Didn’t he spend a lot of his last few weeks naked?’

–
Max, please don’t do that. Control yourself.

‘What’s the matter, have you never seen a naked man before? No, I suppose you haven’t.’

–
Max, stop it. Put that shirt back on. And turn the heating down. It’s already getting too hot in here. You’ll waste the battery.

‘Here come the trousers. Look away now if you don’t want to get a shock. There! Now we’re all comfy and cosy. No secrets between us. How about a wee dram, at this point? Talisker, we’ve got, twenty-five years old, courtesy of Alison and Philip. You won’t join me? Well, I can’t say I blame you. Very wise. I’ve had enough of this stuff already today, but if we’re going to get through a whole night on this mountainside …’

‘What? What happened? Where am I?

‘Emma?’

–
I’m here, Max.

‘Did I fall asleep?’

–
Yes, you did. For more than an hour.

‘Really? Shit, I was hoping it would be longer than that. God, it’s hot in here.’

–
The heater’s been on all this time. I told you not to keep it on so high. Now there’s hardly any power in the battery. You know what that means, don’t you, Max?

‘No, what does that mean?’

–
It means that I’m going to go soon. I’m fading away.

‘Oh, no! Not that, Emma! Not you as well. Don’t leave me, please.’

–
Soon I’ll be gone. Just a few more minutes
.

‘I’ll turn the heating down. I’ll turn it off completely.’

–
No, Max, it’s too late. We have to say goodbye to each other.

‘But, Emma, I can’t do without you. You’ve been … everything to me, these last few days. Without you … Without you, I can’t go on.’

–
It has to be this way.

‘No! You can’t go!I NEED YOU.’

–
Don’t cry, Max. We’ve had some good times together. Now it’s run its course. Accept it, if you can. We have just a few more minutes together.

‘I can’t accept it. No.’

–
Is there anything you want to tell me in that time?

‘What? What do you mean?’

–
Is there perhaps something you want to tell me, before I go?

‘I don’t understand.’

–
I think there’s something you ought to tell me. Your little secret. Something you never told Caroline. Something that involves Chris.

‘Chris?’

–
Yes. Now you know what I’m talking about, don’t you?

‘You mean …’

–
Yes?

‘You mean what happened in Ireland. The nettle pit?’

–
That’s it. Come on, now, Max. You’ll feel better if you tell someone.

‘Oh God … Oh God … How did you know about that?’

–
Just say it out loud. Just tell me what happened. Tell me what happened to poor little Joe. What you did to him.

‘Fuck … fuck … FUCK.’

–
That’s all right. Cry if you want to. Let it all out.

‘You want the truth?’

–
Of course I want the truth. The truth is always beautiful.

‘But the truth is, Emma … The truth is … Oh God. The truth is that I hated him. Isn’t that a terrible thing to say? Just a little boy. Just a happy, curious, lively little boy. I hated him for being so happy. I hated him for having Chris as a father. For having two sisters to play with. I hated him for everything he had … that I’d never had. All the things Dad had never given me …’

–
Cry if you want to.

‘I never realized, you see. I never realized how much hate I had in me. I never realized that I could hate a
child
like that.’

–
Let the tears come, Max. It’ll do you good. So what happened? What did you do?

‘I can’t say it.’

–
Yes you can. You can say it, Max. He was playing on the rope, wasn’t he? He was swinging over the nettle pit.

‘Yes.’

–
And then he swung over to the edge, and he tried to get off, and what did you do then?

‘I can’t say it.’

–
Yes, you can say it. You can, Max. I know what happened. You pushed him.

‘I …’

–
Is that what happened? You pushed him back in? Did you push him, Max?

‘Yes. Yes, I did. He knew, too. He
knew
it was me. He told his father. Chris couldn’t believe him, at first, but in the end I think he did. And that’s why they all left. That’s why Chris has never spoken to me since.’

–
Cry if you want to. But it’s better if you tell someone.

‘I couldn’t help it. I wanted to hurt him. I so wanted to hurt him. I’d never have believed that I could have wanted to hurt someone so much. And he was just eight years old. Eight years. FUCK. I’m a bad man. I’m a horrible man. I shouldn’t have told you that, should I? Do you hate me now, Emma? Can you ever forgive me, or like me again?’

–
I’m the only person you could have told, Max. Because I don’t judge – remember? I’m glad you told me. It was right that you told me. You had to tell somebody, in the end. But the battery’s almost finished now. I’m going to have to say goodbye. I’m going to have to leave you, Max.

‘Emma, don’t go.’

–
I have to. I’m going to leave you at the mercy of the elements. The snow will fall on you. The darkness will cover you. The elements have reduced you to this. Now they control you.

‘Don’t you have anything else to say to me? Because I’ve got something I want to say to you. Something I’ve been meaning to say for ages.’

–
All right, then. One more thing. You go first.

‘OK. Here it is. I love you, Emma. I really do. I’ve been meaning to say it for days, but I never dared. Never had the nerve. But now it’s out. I love you. Always have. Ever since I first heard your voice.’

–
Goodbye then, Max
.

‘But … what were you going to say to me?’

–
In three hundred yards, make a U-turn.

‘Emma …

‘
Please
don’t go.

‘Don’t leave me alone. Don’t leave me alone here.

‘Please.

‘Emma? Emma?’

Fairlight Beach

21

When I saw the Chinese woman and her daughter playing cards together at their restaurant table, the water and the lights of Sydney harbour shimmering behind them, I knew that it would not be long now, not long at all, before I found what I’d been looking for.

It was 11 April 2009: the second Saturday of the month.

I arrived at the restaurant at seven o’clock, and they arrived three-quarters of an hour later. They did not seem to have changed since I’d last seen them, on Valentine’s Day. They were just the same. I think the little girl might even have been wearing the same dress. And everything they did together at their table was just the same, as well. First of all they ate a big meal together – a surprisingly big meal, four courses each in fact – and then the waiter cleared all their plates and dishes away and brought some hot chocolate for the little girl and some coffee for her mother and then the Chinese woman took out her pack of cards and they started to play. Once again, I couldn’t tell exactly what game they were playing. It wasn’t a proper grown-up card game, but then again it wasn’t a childish one like snap, either. Whatever it was, they found it entirely absorbing. Once the game had started, they seemed to exist in a little cocoon of intimacy, oblivious to the presence of the other diners. The restaurant terrace was not quite as busy as it had been last time: partly because last time had been Valentine’s Day, of course, but also because Sydney had a noticeably cooler and more autumnal feel to it, already, and a lot of people had chosen to eat inside. I was even getting a little chilly myself, but still, I was glad that the Chinese woman and her daughter had chosen to stay out on the terrace, because it meant I could see them again just how I remembered them, with the water and the lights of Sydney harbour shimmering in the background. I tried to watch them unobtrusively, just the occasional glance in their direction, not staring openly or anything like that. I didn’t want to make them feel uncomfortable.

At first I was simply glad to see them. I was happy to savour the overwhelming sense of rightness, and calm, that came over me when I first saw them walk on to the restaurant terrace. After all, even though the waiter had assured me, not so long ago, that they came to this restaurant regularly on the second Saturday of every month, I’d still not quite been able to bring myself to believe that they would be here tonight. So my first reaction had been one of relief, pure and simple. This was rapidly succeeded, all the same, by a growing sense of anxiety. The fact was that, even after thinking about it for hours, I’d still not been able to come up with an appropriate way of introducing myself to them. Coming out with a tired old line like, ‘Excuse me, but haven’t I seen you somewhere before?’ would get me nowhere. If I said that the prospect of meeting them had been one of my main incentives for flying all the way over from London, on the other hand, it would probably freak them out. Was there anything I could tell them that might steer a middle ground between these two approaches? Perhaps if I were to tell them the truth: that I had first seen them at this restaurant two months ago, and ever since then they had become, for me, a sort of totem, a symbol of everything that a real relationship between two human beings should be, at a time when people seemed to be losing the ability to connect with one another, even as technology created more and more ways in which it ought to be possible … Well, I was going to get bogged down if I pursued that line of argument too far, but still, I reckoned that – with a bit of luck, if the right words managed to come to me somehow – this might just about be a feasible way of tackling it. And I had better hurry up, if I wanted any chance of speaking to them this evening. It was getting late, and the little girl was beginning to look tired, and any minute now they would probably be leaving. Already their card game seemed to be over and they were talking and laughing together again, having a friendly little quarrel about something or other while the Chinese woman looked around to see where the waiter was, presumably to ask for the bill.

So – this was it. My heart pounding, I was just on the point of rising out of my seat and walking over to their table when something stopped me. Some
one
, I should say. For just at that moment, quite unexpectedly, my father walked out on to the restaurant terrace, and came over to my table.

Yes, my father. The last person I was expecting to see, at that moment. He was supposed to be in Melbourne with Roger Anstruther.

All right, I admit that I’ve left out some important parts of the story. It’s probably time to do a little back-tracking.

It was Saturday afternoon when I finally woke up in the hospital ward in Aberdeen. I woke up to find that there were two people sitting by my bedside: Trevor Paige and Lindsay Ashworth. They had come to bring me home.

The next day, Trevor and I travelled back to London together, by train. Lindsay drove down in the Prius. On the train to London, Trevor told me the news about Guest Toothbrushes: they had been forced into liquidation on Thursday morning, after the bank had refused to extend their lines of credit any further. The announcement had been made round about the time I was skirting the edges of Dundee, but nobody from the firm had been able to make contact with me. All ten members of staff had been made redundant, and the project to launch the new range at the British Dental Trade Association fair had, of course, been aborted. All Lindsay’s plans had come to nothing.

Back in Watford, it took me a few days to recover from my journey. I spent most of the next week in bed. Plenty of people came to visit me, I must say. Not just Trevor and Lindsay, but even Alan Guest himself, which I thought was a nice touch. He seemed to feel quite guilty about the way my part in the campaign had turned out, almost as if it was his personal responsibility. I told him that he should have no worries on that score. Poppy came to see me twice, bringing her uncle with her the second time. And at the weekend, things got even better, when I was lucky enough to witness a true miracle in the form of a visit from Caroline and Lucy. They didn’t stay the night, or anything like that, but even so: it was the first time they had been down to Watford since our separation, and Caroline promised me that it wouldn’t be the last.

As soon as I felt well enough, I contacted my old employers and made another appointment to see Helen, the Occupational Health Officer. I told her that I had reconsidered my position at the department store, and if there was any possibility that my old job might still be open, I would like to start working there again. Helen seemed taken aback by this request, and told me that she would have to consult with the personnel department, and would contact me again within a few days. She kept her word. They had already taken on another After-Sales Customer Liaison Officer, she said, but she would email me a list of the vacancies currently available in other parts of the store, and she assured me that any application I might make for one of these posts would be looked upon favourably. The list arrived, and after some deliberation, I applied for a job in soft furnishings. I’m pleased to say that I got the job, and agreed to start work there on Monday, 20 April.

In the meantime I’d made a resolution, and now realized that I didn’t have long to carry it out. One morning I sat down at the kitchen table with the plastic bin liner full of Roger Anstruther’s picture postcards. I tipped them all on to the table and began sorting through them. I wanted to put them in chronological order, first of all. It wasn’t easy, because not all of them were dated, and of those which were undated, many had postmarks which were now illegible. A certain amount of guesswork was involved. After a few hours, however, I had made enough progress to be able to sketch out a rough map of his itinerary over the last few years. Since January 2006 he had travelled down from Southern China, through Myanmar, Thailand, Cambodia and Indonesia, and had then spent almost a year on the island of Palau, about 600 miles west of the Philippines. This was about as remote a spot as anyone could possibly find, and the thought that Roger might have settled there, at least for the time being, made my scheme look even more fantastic and impractical than it had seemed in the first place. My plan was …Well, have you guessed it by now? Of course. My plan was to effect some sort of reconciliation between Roger Anstruther and my father. To contact Roger, in the first instance, and suggest that he and my father meet again: meet in person, that is – not by email, or over the telephone. However, now that I considered the geographical distance between them, this idea began to appear ridiculous. They were in the same hemisphere, admittedly, but that was about it. And yet …The more I thought about my plan, the more it started to feel, not like an idle fantasy, but a necessity. My father’s and Roger’s story
had
to end this way. In my very bones I felt that there was something more than chance operating here – that their reunion was also their destiny, and that bringing it about was the task that I had been born to perform. Does that sound to you as though I had not fully recovered my wits, after the disastrous end to my journey? Well then, just consider this. There were still a couple of dozen unsorted postcards in the bin liner, at this point, and when I took them out I discovered that although most of them seemed to date from the early 1990s, there was one that was much more recent. It bore a picture of the waterfront at Adelaide, and it was dated … January 2009.

Roger was in Australia, now. He and my father were living less than a thousand miles apart. Breathlessly, I read and reread the message on the back of the postcard.

Got tired of living in the back of beyond at last,
he had written.
Have started yearning for some Western comforts again. Also occurred to me – though this is a morbid thought – that I should start looking for somewhere to end my days. So, here I am, for the next few months at least. My boarding house marked with an arrow – must have had a nice view of the bay, in days gone by, but all the new condo’s seem to have put paid to that
…

Now, tell me – does that not seem like destiny to you?

Often, as I’d come to realize over the last few weeks, the internet is something that puts up barriers between people as much as it connects them. But there are also times when it can be an uncomplicated blessing. In a matter of hours, I had used Google Earth to locate the stretch of Adelaide waterfront on Roger’s postcard, identified his boarding house, established its name and address, and sent an email to the owners asking if they had anyone staying there by his name. Their reply arrived the next morning, and it was just the one I’d been hoping for.

So I had already found Roger Anstruther.

I flew out to Australia on 4 April. It was going to be a short trip this time, little more than a week: not even long enough to get over my jet lag properly. I couldn’t really afford it, either – not without getting even further into debt. But it had to be done. At first I didn’t plan to tell my father that I was coming. I thought it would be better to surprise him. Then I realized that this was a silly thing to do – people didn’t just fly across to the other side of the world, at considerable expense, on the off chance of seeing their fathers: supposing he had gone away somewhere? Supposing he had decided to take a couple of weeks’ holiday? So, the night before I was due to fly, I tried phoning him, and I couldn’t get through. There was no reply from his home number, and no reply from his mobile. Then I started to panic. Maybe something had happened to him. Maybe he was lying dead on the kitchen floor of his new apartment. Now I would
have
to fly out to see him.

Naturally, when I turned up at his apartment thirty-six hours later, and rang the doorbell, he came and answered it in a couple of seconds.

‘What are you doing here?’ he said.

‘I’ve come to see you. Why didn’t you answer the phone?’

‘Have you been calling? There’s something wrong with it. I’ve managed to mute the ring tone, I don’t know how. Now I can’t hear it when somebody calls me.’

‘What about your mobile?’

‘The battery ran down and I can’t find the charger. You didn’t fly all the way out here because of that, did you?’

I was still standing on the doorstep.

‘Can I come in?’

I think my father was genuinely touched that I had taken the trouble to come out here again so soon after my last visit. Touched and astounded. For most of the week we didn’t do anything special, but there was an easiness and even (dare I say this?) a closeness between us that was new to both of us. I gave him back the precious blue ring binder that I had retrieved from Lichfield and told him that I had read his memoir
The Rising Sun
, but apart from that we didn’t discuss it. Not for a while, at any rate. Nor did I mention, at first, that more than half of the space in my suitcase was occupied by layer upon layer of Roger Anstruther’s postcards. Instead, I bided my time, and we passed the first days of my visit in various low-key domestic ways. My father had been in this apartment for three months now but it still wasn’t furnished properly, so we spent some time going round furniture stores buying chairs and cupboards and a spare bed. Also he had this television that was about twenty years old and barely worked, so one day we went out and got him a nice new flat-screen TV and a DVD player. He complained about this and said that he had nothing to play all his old VHS tapes on now and the remote controls were too small and he was bound to lose them, but basically I think he was pleased, not just about the TV but about everything. We were already having a much better time than the last time I’d visited.