On the Edge A Novel by Edward St. Aubyn

minutes, staring at the carpet. Was it Gavin’s suicide that had made him think about him so often during the week? Had Gavin been haunting him? It was a far-fetched but irresistible idea. Would Oriane, he wondered with a sudden spasm of bitterness, have claimed that a hundred pages of zeros made a sacred number? No, he knew Oriane now, what was he thinking? Was he angry with Gavin for reminding him of buried moments during his adolescence when he’d longed to kill himself? Why hadn’t he? Was it because it was even more difficult than not doing so? Something had happened and he, like almost everyone else, had got used to the habit of life. Perhaps that was all life was: a habit that resisted the adventure of death. Perhaps Gavin, behind the camouflage of his ridiculous slang, had never acquired that vital habit, had never stopped being excruciated.
    Realizing he must tell Fiona that he would only be passing through London briefly, Peter called her from the train. He swayed from side to side in the carpeted cubicle, watching the credit hurtle down on his phonecard.
    ‘Awful about Gavin committing sui,’ said Fiona.
    ‘Doing what?’ said Peter.
    ‘Committing suicide.’
    ‘Did you say “committing sui”?’
    ‘Yes, I suppose I did,’ said Fiona uneasily.
    Peter was silent. Somehow the full horror of Gavin’s life being cut short was unveiled by Fiona’s cosy abbreviation.
    ‘He didn’t seem the type,’ Fiona soldiered on.
    ‘The type?’ said Peter. ‘What type? We could all do it any time.’
    ‘I suppose so,’ said Fiona with a reluctance that was at once exaggerated and frivolous, as if she had been asked to play croquet on a particularly wet lawn. ‘Isn’t it usually intellectual types who do it, or real proper loonies?’
    ‘The intellectuals probably buy another black polo neck instead,’ said Peter, realizing he wouldn’t have said anything so silly except to Fiona.
    ‘Shall I stick my head in the oven or buy another polo neck?’ she guffawed.
    ‘Listen, I’m not going to be spending much time in London. In fact I’m going to be flying out before the weekend.’
    ‘But we’re going to Daddy’s.’
    ‘I know. I’ll just have to cancel.’
    ‘It’s a bit late to chuck.’
    ‘I’m sorry.’
    ‘You’re not giving me the old heave-ho, are you?’ said Fiona, with a sudden burst of vulnerability as grating as a missed gear.
    ‘God, no,’ said Peter, ‘I’m just…’ he searched for the right phrase, and then he remembered Gavin’s formula, ‘just going walkabout.’
    ‘Men!’ said Fiona, and he could hear her eyeballs rolling skywards.
    That night Peter could not sleep in his airless berth. He didn’t bother to lower the blind as the train screeched its way into the crowded south. The bunk, which had been so perfect for an eight-year-old, no longer suited him, and he couldn’t abandon himself to playing with the light switches any more.
    The rhythm of the train cajoled him into a mysteriously pensive insomnia. Had Gavin’s suicide been a momentary madness, or a long-postponed rebuttal of an unbearable suffering? Was suicide the most courageous and authentic thing he had ever done? Why had Peter learned about Gavin’s suicide just when he was so elated and open to life?
    Peter was unable to answer any of these questions, but as the night wore on, his imagination tracked Gavin’s fate, crossing to that realm of bored and plaintive ghosts, to see if he could find Gavin still smoking idly beside a pool of his own blood. Gavin’s suffering gradually merged in Peter’s tired mind with Lara’s unspeakable loss, and for one astonishing moment, as the train shot through an empty station, its deserted platforms still uselessly lit, Peter suddenly lost himself in this pool of other people’s tears, re-emerging as the windows darkened again, shaken but somehow washed.
    Yes, Fiona was right, Findhorn was responsible for the start of some change in him which he could never stop