I threw my hands out to break my fall and crashed like a tree. Something big and sharp razored my palm. I sat up, dragged in a burning breath, and held my hand up to the moonlight. There was a glass shard there, a big one, sticking up out of a rising pool of blood. Black blood filled the basin of my palm and dribbled off.
Shock made me stupid: I pulled the shard out. I must have screamed, but no one came to the door. I got up and saw what had tripped me. A metal plate: the gates locked into it when they were shut. I catted. Saliva ran down my chin. I wiped it away with my good hand. It smelled of spirits and fish and soy sauce. Blinking against the harsh light, I staggered back to the house. I rang the bell and waited, studying the wound in the light from the glass-panelled door. Bits of shattered glass were still buried there. I could see them glittering - bright flecks. Or was it bone?
The door opened. 'Adam,' Zoe said, then, 'Jesus.'
'I fell,' I said.
'Let me look,' said Zoe. She took my hand in both of hers.
'Ow.'
'What is that? Glass?'
'Can I come in?'
'Or is it grit?'
'Ow.'
'Come on, then,' she sighed, and led me down the hall.
There were voices coming from the kitchen. Music and screaming. Full Auto Angel through a cheap speaker.
The kitchen wasn't a bit like the rest of the house. The red floor tiles were lifting. The table was topped with sickly yellow Formica.
All I need is a tissue,' I said. 'I'll take the cab to casualty.'
Money was clearing up after our meal. There were garlic skins and fish-guts all over the chopping block.
'Don't be silly,' she said. 'Zoe, get me the first-aid box.'
The TV sat on the top of the fridge.
Brin was tied to a table. A girl in a bikini and RayBans was whipping him with a car aerial. The scene was cut to look like a special effect.
In a moment the door would burst in under a hail of shotgun pellets. Cantonese extras in Versace jeans and blue sweatbands identifying them as members of the secret Order of the Paper Chrysanthemum would steal in like ghosts, silence the girl with a touch, and pass through. Brian would not appear again until the third reel, posing as a wheelchair-bound cripple. Taken apart and reassembled, the wheelchair would in Brian's hands make a primitive but impressively loud heavy machine gun, in a scene praised by cult film critic Kim Newman for its 'exuberant post-Besson pastiche', and later analysed shot by shot in a long behind-the-scenes exclusive in Fangoria magazine. Zoe came back in with a Tupperware cake-box and a bottle of medicinal alcohol. Money dipped the bottle over a cotton swab and cleaned the cut, then used a pair of eyebrow tweezers to pull the bits out. I told her not to probe so deep, to let me go and get the cut seen to properly, but she wasn't listening. I winced and tugged away. She leaned her wrist into mine, pinning my hand against the table, and probed still deeper.
'Fuck! Shit!'
'Oh, grow up,' she muttered, peering myopically into the tear.
Eddie was taunting his pursuers, knocking one after the other off the top of the HSBC building in ever more gymnastic and unlikely ways. It was like watching music. Like jazz. Like the dialogue you get between guitars. Eddie was much fitter then.
She rummaged about in the cake box and came out with paper sachet. She tore it open and withdrew a bright, scythe-shaped needle. Now I was really in trouble. 'I'd rather - '
'Oh Adam,' she said, losing patience with me, 'I do this all the time for the boys.'
The girl in the bikini had revived and was being comforted by her faithful, somewhat boyish female companion.
I thought about Brian and Eddie - their scarred arms.
'The scraps they get into, if I hadn't learned how by now we'd never be out of Casualty.'
'But my palm - '
'Put your hand on the table.'
'Cab's here,' said Zoe, leaning in.
'Tell him we'll be a few minutes.'
'I can - '
'Oh for God's sake Adam keep still.'
I swallowed. 'Is that proper surgical thread?'
'For heaven's sake,' she sighed. She pressed the needle in.
'Christ!'
'What now?'
'You can't just poke it in like that.'
'Why not?'
'Because it hurts, you stupid bitch. It hurts, damn it.'
She blinked at me. 'Brian and Eddie don't carry on like this,' she said.
'Here,' said Zoe, coming in again. She handed me a glass. It was so full the rum dribbled off my fingers.
'What?' she said, meeting my eyes with her hungry, Siamese smile.
'Now. Adam,' said Money, 'hold still.'
Zoe hunkered down beside me and slid her arm round my shoulders. I looked away, at her hand. The long bones of her fingers, her delicate wrist, the blue tracery under her skin. I smelled her again. Money's needle went in, and out, and in.
8.
The letter came lunchtime the following day, franked Hong Kong, with a government stamp. Eva saw.
'Aren't you going to open it?' she said.
It was thin - a single sheet. A friendly one-liner from a former colleague? A formal summons on ICAC
letterhead? Would it make any difference, which it was? I crammed it unopened into the inside pocket of my jacket, drew the jacket off the chair and slipped it on, one-handed. 'Let's get going,' I said.
'You can't drive in that state.' Eva pulled the plug out of the sink and snapped free of her rubber gloves. We'd just eaten a late lunch, and planned to get to Knox Lodge by 4.30. 'Why won't you listen? We'll have an accident.'
'Tell you what,' I said, kicking the kitchen door open. The warped wood grated sickeningly on the stone step. 'You keep rehearsing that idea - see if you can make it happen.'
There was a narrow leaf-sodden path connecting the basement area to the garage. She followed me out in her slippers.
'Adam, I am really not that interested in your fragile ego, I am - '
'I'm driving,' I said. I unlocked the garage door and pulled it up on its rollers with my good hand. I glanced at her, ready for the next round, but she had gone back inside. The garage was on the same level as the kitchen, which was to say seven foot below the road. The drive was absurdly steep - there were steps set into one side because you couldn't walk the slope without them. In winter sometimes the whole thing became an ice-ramp. When we were visiting Justin once, the AA had to winch us onto the road.
The Xedos needed cleaning - I tried not to rub against it as I sidled towards the driver's door. I took a moment to fuss about with the controls, adjusting wing mirrors and the seat position so I could drive comfortably one-armed. Eva had insisted we buy an automatic and for once I was grateful. I reversed up the steep drive and onto the street. Eva was already waiting on the pavement, arms folded over her Karen Millen suit. I unclipped the door. She started to get in when I remembered Justin's birthday present.
'I thought you had it,' she said.
'Of course I don't,' I said.
'Okay,' she said. 'I'll go and get it. Jesus.' I watched her back to the front door, noticing the stiffness in her shoulders, the mincing steps she took in her new boots. She let the door stand open while she went inside.
All this damage from one sly little visit to Money. I was a nervous wreck. My hand was stiffened and useless. Eva had dressed it that morning and in the light of day the stitches looked frighteningly professional. 'Where did you go?' she asked me. 'Did you have to wait long?'
'Did it hurt?'
'Did they give you any antibiotics?'
Drizzle spattered the windscreen. I thumbed the stick down one notch to turn on the wipers, and stretched the stitches in my palm. I winced.
The pain became a warmth, then, as it eased, a buzzing shape - a thick crescent, with an edge taken out of one corner. It felt as if the shard was still there, and it reminded me of something.
'Adam.'
Eva was back already, struggling with the PlayStation box. She had wrapped it in shiny gold paper. I leaned over and opened the door for her. She clambered in part way and dropped the box over her seat into the rear of the car.
'Careful,' I said, 'it's delicate.'
'Oh Adam, just - '
'What?'
She bit her lip.
I waited till she'd strapped herself in. 'Eva?' I wanted to say I was sorry.
'Can we go now?' she said, tightly.
I put the car into gear. There's a button on the stick you have to press to take it out of reverse, and another bolt of heat shot through my palm. This time I recognised the shape.
'There was a lunar eclipse last night,' I said.
'I wish you'd let me drive.'
'It was very pretty.'
'I'm only trying to be nice,' she said.
We took the A13 to the Dartford Crossing. The M25 was so unnaturally quiet, I even got to play with the cruise control. Since it was clear by then that I wasn't going to run us off the road, Eva cut back on the anxious glances and sharp intakes of breath. She wasn't any more relaxed - but there were different reasons for that.
Knox Lodge lies just outside Staplehurst, about forty minutes off the M20. It started life as a country house, but it's been institutionalised for so long, accreting prefabs and benches and extra toilet blocks, today it resembles any mediocre private school.
Injured pilots were treated here during the second world war; the Ministry of Defence used it as a sort of workhouse-cum-retirement home for fifty aged pen-pushers when they restructured Porton Down; in the Seventies, young offenders went there as an alternative to Borstal. The district health authority rattled about in it until '92.
The rumour was it was going to be Britain's first Higashi school, especially since local authorities were refusing to help out parents paying for their kids to go to the one in Boston. The principal, Guy Criville, was a convert - he had a photograph of himself with Dr Kitahara on the wall behind his desk - but whatever his professional allegiances, his school hadn't the money to run his mentor's full programme. A lot of people found Criville's pint-sized version pretty disappointing, but Justin had already been through Kitahara's Daily Life Therapy in Tokyo and it was pretty obvious by the end that he simply wasn't up to the full programme.
If you're autistic, the world is meaningless.
Literally. Meaningless. The parts of your brain that give meanings to things don't work properly, or at all. That's why, in extreme cases, you never really acquire language. All you have, at best, is a serious of bird calls - noises that conform roughly to words, which you rote-learn to use in specific situations. Calls for food, calls for the toilet, calls for Give-me-that and for Take-this-away. Because nothing in the world makes any sense, you can't spot the obvious patterns. Sunset, bedtime; breakfast, bathtime - to you it's just one damn thing after another. You never know what's going to happen next, and of course it's only a tiny step from that to thinking that the next thing that'll happen could be very bad indeed.
The best you can hope for is a little control. A routine you can rehearse, repeat and comprehend. Lunch at 12.05:00pm and not, under any circumstances, 12.06:35pm, because that opens a window for the chaos to get in. A tea of bread and butter cut always into isosceles triangles of exactly the same size, because a square piece once choked you, and you daren't risk it happening again. And then, just when you think you've got the lid on things - this is where the irony becomes really delicious - there are other people.
We're all born with a message inside our heads: a piece of information so incredible, it has to be coded in our genes - because we'd never work it out on our own. It says to each of us - if you can believe this that there are other people, like us, waiting to make contact. Think about it: other people. It even tells us what they look like.
If you're autistic, you can't hear the message. Without it, there is only one reasonable conclusion left for you to draw: you are alone. (The animated furniture around you wants you to join in with their unpredictable games - and sometimes you do - but nothing on earth will convince you that that you are one of them.)
It was just before four thirty in the afternoon when three hat-stands entered Justin's room. They stood there a moment, flailing and hooting, and then they started interfering with him. Justin's favourite carer, Francis, came and led us to his room. School was over for the day and the kids here were left to themselves until tea at 5pm. Justin was bouncing up and down on the bed when we came in. He was very beautiful. Eva's breath caught in her throat.
There was his face, of course, but we were used to that. It's that expression of theirs: calm, untouched, transcendent. If you let yourself, you can end up believing it's not a lack of something but - on the contrary - a surfeit, that makes them act the way they do. Popes have canonised such holy fools; there are saints whose lives read like case studies in pervasive developmental disorder. These days, no-one's fooled for long. The real world's the only radio show in town: dare to tune out and you're nowhere but gone.
Francis crossed the room and extended his hand. 'Justin,' he said, easily, 'come over here.'
Justin stopped bouncing. His hair, which had grown almost to his shoulders, descended in a fan around him. He shook his head, clearing it out his eyes.
It was his hair made the difference, I decided. A dark halo for a fallen angel. (Parents are entitled to their metaphors, however trite.)
'Justin?'
He turned and looked at Francis with eerie beneficence.
Francis extended his hand. 'Take my hand.'
Justin gripped his forearm.
Gently, Francis brought the hand into his.
'Remember? It's your birthday. Remember the story? Your birthday.'
He didn't remember a thing, so we sat down and read it all through with him again, only this time with Eva there too.
The front of the scrap-book read 'My Birthday Book'. Inside there was a photographic mock-up of the afternoon as we hoped it would go.
There were Polaroid snaps of the PlayStation game, and its modified handset with outsize buttons. There were pictures of Eva and I; a picture of a birthday cake. Beside each picture there was a sticker with a clock-face printed on it. Francis and I had drawn in the hands ourselves with a gold pen, so Justin could rehearse what was going to happen and when.