# peter text

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**Peter**

Presently an old man in a grubby cream apron appeared, trundling a wheelchair from
the back of the house. Anna moved smartly to the side of the car and opened the 
door. ‘Right, Tom,’ she said, ‘if you take him at the top and I grab his legs, OK?’
Their hands reached into the car, tangling with each other, fumbling with the seat-
belt, feeling for their quarry. ‘Come one, Peter,’ said the old man, his nose moist
and capillaried. ‘In to this chair,’ he said. ‘But don’t get too used to it, mind.’
He grinned, his lips thick and pink, as he took my weight, hoisting me into the 
wheelchair before bending back into the car for the black polythene bag containing
my ‘belongings’. He put the bag in my lap and curled my hand over it. Then he reached
back into the car for my history which he handed to Anna. The bag slid from under
my moist palm, creased shirts and odd socks spilling on to the slushy gravel. A 
shadow of irritation passed over his face before he bent down to pick up my things.‘
Never mind, Peter,’ he said. ‘Never you mind.’

As they wheeled me round to the back of the house I felt a curious sensation: the
building had jerked, slipped somehow, bounced a little in its foundations. But the
other two seemed to have noticed nothing and I readily attributed it to my considerable
fatigue. Tom negotiated a troublesome step with the chair, pushing me into a big,
warm kitchen dominated by two yellow topped tables pushed together in the center.
The place was alive with the smell of freshly baked food and my stomach stirred 
unpleasantly. ‘Has he eaten?’ asked Tom. Anna silently and tartly indicated that
he should direct his question to me. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said to her, compounding his
error. ‘Have you had anything to eat, Peter?’ he bawled, unnecessarily. The two 
looked down at me in silence. Anna pursed her lips. They’ve been using a syringe
to feed him,’ she said.

_The Comforts of Madness_ by Paul Sayer (BrE)