Trevor woke up and found Malcolm snoozing in the big armchair by the window. He wondered what time it was; his blinds were drawn and the room was rather dark. It was always a bit difficult to tell whether the light coming through the edges of the blinds was daylight or the lights of the grounds.
Trevor had been feeling terrible the last week or so. He was tired all the time. And couldn’t keep his food down. They were feeding him intravenously. But most alarmingly there were whispered conversations around his bed when he was thought to be sleeping. His daughter had visited more often than usual. And Zoe had been visiting daily. None of this foretold a long and happy future.
‘Malcolm,’ he said loudly. And he smiled as he watched Malcolm wake. He was confused and disorientated and looked quite the fool for a moment or two.
‘Trevor, what are you doing here?’
‘You’ve been sleeping.’
‘Have I?’
‘You’re meant to be visiting me. But you’ve been a terrible bore, snoring loudly and passing wind.’
Malcolm sat up straight and wiped a bit of drool from the corner of his mouth. He had really been dead to the world. He felt groggy. He touched his hair and straightened his shirt and jacket.
‘Have I? I’m sorry. I must have dropped off. You were asleep when I arrived.’
‘The bed in the next room is empty if you want to move in permanently. We lost one on Thursday.’
‘It wouldn’t be a bad idea,’ he said, standing up and moving to the chair closer to Trevor’s bed. ‘How are you feeling, Trevor? I ran into Usman in the car park, who said you hadn’t been well this last week.’
‘I’m dying, Malcolm. I can feel it. It’s over.’
‘You can feel it?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do the doctors say?’
‘Nothing direct. But I can tell you now, from experience, when death comes you know. Death’s coming. He’s probably parking his car as we speak.’
‘So this is it, then?’
‘This is it. The last time you have to visit me.’
‘I’d better say something profound, then,’ said Malcolm grimly.
‘I thought the dying man said the profound things.’
‘You get the last word.’
Trevor chuckled and coughed. Malcolm handed him some water. Trevor waved it away.
‘Everything makes me queasy; that’s why this is in,’ he said, pointing to the drip. ‘I’m yesterday’s news. How are you, Malcolm?’
‘My son is dead and I killed him. I’m fine.’
‘And Helen?’
‘No change there.’
‘And your book?’
‘Finished. It’s the best thing I’ve ever written. Too bad no one will be around to read it.’
‘It’s bad form for me to die so soon after Daniel.’
‘You might have arranged things better. But then, you might be wrong. You look well enough to me.’
‘I might linger. But I won’t rally. Can I read the new book?’
‘I didn’t bring it with me. And as this is my last visit, it seems not. Probably for the best. It’s all about death.’
‘I could take it with me.’
‘It would certainly be appreciated on the other side.’
‘Malcolm Taylor? I hear he’s big in Hades.’
Malcolm smiled but said nothing.
‘Can you believe they gave the Nobel to Dylan?’ asked Trevor.
‘It makes sense to me.’
‘How so?’
‘You’ve been following the election. They’re all fucked. Dylan’s music is the last gasp of American culture. He stands for something. Awarding it to him now is a political decision, frankly.’
Trevor coughed and waved away Malcolm’s assistance.
‘Trouble is, in the US, no one knew whether Dylan’s irritating whining drone was something to be proud or ashamed of. Thanks to the Nobel committee, Americans can rest comfortably. He’s been given a bona fide seal of approval.’
‘He’s always annoyed me.’
‘You’re too old, Trevor. You always have been. You’re a jazz man. Personally, I don’t doubt Dylan’s brilliance. I just hope he doesn’t accept the award. Like Jean-Paul Sartre.’
‘You compare him to Jean-Paul Sartre?’
‘You have to admit Dylan’s unique. And consistently brilliant across fifty years.’
‘But the Nobel?’
‘What is it, really? Come on. You don’t take it seriously, do you?’
‘Not now. Not now.’
They were silent for a moment. Malcolm was thinking of Daniel. That night they had listened to On the Beach. Daniel had flicked through all that fucking Bob Dylan. The following day Malcolm had made him listen to ‘Visions of Johanna’ and Daniel conceded that he had always liked the song. Now he was gone.
‘Have you written your acceptance speech?’ asked Trevor, moving slightly. He was uncomfortable.
‘I won’t win.’
‘Write one, just in case. Will you attend?’
‘When is it?’
‘Twenty-fifth of October.’
‘That soon? Well, I haven’t won then, have I? I’d know by now, surely.’
‘Would you? I think they only warn the winner when they’re living abroad. I’ll make enquiries. Zoe tells me the bookies favour Madeleine Thien’s Do Not Say We Have Nothing.’
‘I haven’t read it. I only got through a couple of them.’
‘The Duchess of Cornwall will be handing out the award.’
‘I don’t think I want to be there. They’ll have to excuse me after Daniel’s death. I’ll send Amy in my stead.’
‘Have you adopted her?’
‘She’s adopted me.’