and it would have made no difference to anything at all.”
Another pact broken: we never talked about the fact that he was dying. I had no idea what to say. This conversation felt bad, threatening in ways I couldn’t catch hold of. I lit myself a new cigarette and we sat there, watching sycamore helicopters spin through the air.
“Susanna rang,” Hugo said, eventually. “Her Swiss specialist fellow had a look at my file. He agrees with my doctors: there’s nothing more that can be done.”
“Oh, shit,” I said, flinching. “Shit.”
“Yes.”
“I’m really sorry.”
“I really believed I wasn’t getting my hopes up,” Hugo said. He wasn’t looking at me; he was watching the smoke of his cigarette curl out into the sunlight. “I really did.”
I could have punched Susanna. Selfish little bitch, so in love with her seat on the high horse, her self-righteous victim bullshit about evil doctors, she had put Hugo through this when anyone with half a brain would have known it was pointless— “That was a shitty thing for Susanna to do,” I said. “A fucking stupid fucking shitty thing.”
“No, she was right. In principle. The specialist said that, in around three-quarters of the cases that come his way from these parts, he actually does disagree with the original doctors and recommend surgery—mostly it isn’t a cure, the cancer comes back sooner or later, but it gives people an extra few years . . . I just happen to be in the wrong quarter. Something to do with the location of the tumor.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said again.
“I know.” He took a final deep drag on the cigarette and put it out in the dirt. His thick locks of hair shifted as he bent, showing the bald spot on the side of his head where the radiotherapy waves had gone in or out. A blur of leaf-shadows and sunlight whirled over his thin-worn shirt. “Could I have another one of these?”
I found him another smoke. “I should try everything,” he said. “Speed, LSD, the lot. Heroin. There wasn’t much of anything around when I was young; I smoked hash a few times, didn’t really take to it . . . Do you suppose Leon would know where to get LSD?”
“I doubt it,” I said. The thought of babysitting Hugo on an acid trip was mind-boggling. “He probably wouldn’t know anyone in Dublin.”
“Of course not. And I probably wouldn’t take it anyway. Ignore me, Toby. I’m babbling.”
“We’d like to stay here,” I said. “Me and Melissa. As long as . . . as long as we’re any use. If you’ll have us.”
“What am I supposed to say to that?” A sudden harsh burst of bitterness in Hugo’s voice, his head going back— “I know, I should be thanking you on my knees—yes, I should, Toby, the thought of leaching away the last of my life in some hellish hospital— And of course I’m going to say yes, we both know that, and of course I’m grateful beyond words, but I would have liked to have a choice. To invite you to stay on because I love having you both here, rather than because I’m in desperate need. I would like”—voice rising, the heel of his hand slamming down hard on a tree root—“to have a bloody say in some of this.”
“Sorry,” I said, after a moment. “I didn’t mean to . . . like, force your hand. Or anything. I just thought—”
“I know you didn’t. That’s not what I’m talking about. At all.” Hugo rubbed a hand over his face. The surge of energy had ebbed out of him as suddenly as it had come, leaving him slumped against the tree. “I’m just sick and tired of being at the mercy of this thing. Having it make all my decisions for me. It’s eating my autonomy as well as my brain, eating me right out of existence in every way, and I don’t like it. I would like . . .”
I waited, but he didn’t finish. Instead, when at last he took a breath and straightened: “I would love to have you stay on,” he said, clearly and formally. He was looking out at the garden, not at me. “You and Melissa both. On condition that you promise me you’ll feel free to change your minds. At any point.”
“OK,” I said. “Fair enough.”
“Good. Thank you.” He searched for a bare patch of dirt and twisted out his cigarette in it. “I need to ask you another favor. I’d like