The Suspect

against the sloping roof and lifts himself. He squats on the edge, with his toes hanging over the gutter, like a bird perched on a branch.

I can hear someone screaming and then I realize that it’s me. I’m yelling the place down. I’m wildly gesticulating for them to get the ladder away. I look like the suicidal jumper and Malcolm looks totally calm.

I fumble for the earpiece and hear pandemonium inside. The critical incident team is shouting at the chief fire officer, who is shouting at his second-in-command, who is shouting at someone else.

“Don’t do it, Malcolm! Wait!” I sound desperate. “Look at the ladder. It’s going down. See? It’s going down.” Blood is pounding in my ears. He stays perched on the edge, curling and uncurling his toes. In profile I can see his long dark lashes blinking slowly. His heart is beating like a bird’s within his narrow chest.

“You see that fireman down there with the red helmet?” I say, trying to break into his thoughts. “The one with all the brass buttons on his shoulders. What do you think my chances are of spitting on his helmet from here?”

For the briefest of moments, Malcolm glances down. It’s the first time he’s acknowledged anything I’ve said or done. The door has opened a crack.

“Some people like to spit watermelon seeds or cherry pits. In Africa they spit dung, which is pretty gross. I read somewhere that the world record for spitting Kudu dung is about thirty feet. I think Kudu is a kind of antelope but don’t quote me on that. I prefer good old-fashioned saliva and it’s not about distance; it’s about accuracy.”

He’s looking at me now. With a snap of my head I send a foaming white ball arcing downward. It gets picked up by the breeze and drifts to the right, hitting the windshield of a police car. In silence I contemplate the shot, trying to work out where I went wrong.

“You didn’t allow for the wind,” Malcolm says.

I nod sagely, barely acknowledging him, but inside I have a warm glow in a part of me that isn’t yet frozen.

“You’re right. These buildings create a bit of a wind tunnel.”

“You’re making excuses.”

“I haven’t seen you try.”

He looks down, considering this. He’s hugging his knees as if trying to stay warm. It’s a good sign.

A moment later a globule of spit curves outward and falls. Together we watch it descend, almost willing it to stay on course. It hits a TV reporter squarely between the eyes and Malcolm and I groan in harmony.

My next shot lands harmlessly on the front steps. Malcolm asks if he can change the target. He wants to hit the TV reporter again.

“Shame we don’t have any water bombs,” he says, resting his chin on one knee.

“If you could drop a water bomb on anyone in the world, who would it be?”

“My parents.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to have chemo again. I’ve had enough.” He doesn’t elaborate. It isn’t necessary. There aren’t many treatments with worse side effects than chemotherapy. The vomiting, nausea, constipation, anemia and overwhelming fatigue can be intolerable.

“What does your oncologist say?”

“He says the tumor is shrinking.”

“That’s good.”

He laughs wryly. “They said that last time. The truth is they’re just chasing cancer all around my body. It doesn’t go away. It just finds somewhere else to hide. They never talk about a cure; they talk about remission. Sometimes they don’t talk to me at all. They just whisper to my parents.” He bites his bottom lip and a carmine mark appears where the blood rushes to the indentation.

“Mum and Dad think I’m scared of dying, but I’m not scared. You should see some of the kids in this place. At least I’ve had a life. Another fifty years would be nice, but like I said, I’m not scared.”

“How many more chemo sessions?”

“Six. Then we wait and see. I don’t mind losing my hair. A lot of footballers shave their hair off. Look at David Beckham; he’s a wanker, but he’s a wicked player. Having no eyebrows is a bit of a blow.”

“I hear Beckham gets his plucked.”

“By Posh?”

“Yeah.”

It almost raises a smile. In the silence I can hear Malcolm’s teeth chattering.

“If the chemo doesn’t work my parents are going to tell the doctors to keep trying. They’ll never let me go.”

“You’re old enough to make your own decisions.”

“Try telling them that.”

“I will if you want me to.”

He shakes his head and I see the tears starting to form. He tries to stop them, but they squeeze out from under his long lashes in fat drops that he wipes away with his forearm.

“Is there someone you can talk to?”

“I like one of the nurses. She’s been really nice to me.”

“Is she your girlfriend?”

He blushes. The paleness of his skin makes it look as though his head is filling with blood.

“Why don’t you come inside and we’ll talk some more? I can’t raise another spit unless I get something to drink.”

He doesn’t answer, but I see his shoulders sag. He’s listening to that internal dialogue again.

“I have a daughter called Charlie who is eight years old,” I say, trying to hold him. “I remember when she was about four, we were in the park and I was pushing her on a swing. She said to me, ‘Daddy, do you know that if you close your eyes really tightly, so you see white stars, when you open them again it’s a brand-new world?’ It’s a nice thought, isn’t it?”

“But it’s not true.”

“It can be.”

“Only if you pretend.”

“Why not? What’s stopping you? People think it’s easy to be cynical and pessimistic, but it’s incredibly hard work. It’s much easier to be hopeful.”

“I have an inoperable brain tumor,” he says incredulously.

“Yes, I know.”

I wonder if my words sound as hollow to Malcolm as they do to me. I used to believe all this stuff. A lot can change in ten days.

Malcolm interrupts me. “Are you a doctor?”

“A psychologist.”

“Tell me again why should I come down?”

“Because it’s cold and it’s dangerous and I’ve seen what people look like when they fall from buildings. Come inside. Let’s get warm.”

He glances below at the carnival of ambulances, fire engines, police cars and media vans. “I won the spitting contest.”

“Yes you did.”

“You’ll talk to Mum and Dad?”

“Absolutely.”

He tries to stand, but his legs are cold and stiff. The paralysis down his left side makes his arm next to useless. He needs two arms to get up.

“Just stay there. I’ll get them to send up the ladder.”

“No!” he says urgently. I see the look on his face. He doesn’t want to be brought down in the blaze of TV lights, with reporters asking questions.

“OK. I’ll come to you.” I’m amazed at how brave that sounds. I start to slide sideways in a bum shuffle— too frightened to stand. I haven’t forgotten about the safety harness, but I’m still convinced that nobody has bothered to tie it off.