The Twin Read Online Free PDF Page B

next to the window, under the sheep painting, and turn it around. I try to avoid breathing through my nose.
     
'Get the doctor.'
     
'No.'
     
'I want to get out of bed.'
     
It's not something I would normally let myself be drawn into, but right now his wish suits me fine. I fold back the blankets and the sheet. The fumes that rise from the warm bed leave me gasping. I slide my arms under his body, pick him up and carry him over to the chair. His bony hands grab hold of the armrests. I pull the covers off the bed and take the sheets downstairs. I stuff them into the washing machine with a load of whites and set the temperature to ninety degrees. Then I take a bucket from the cupboard under the sink and fill it with lukewarm water. I fetch a towel and flannel from the linen cupboard and go back upstairs. Father is drooped forward in the chair. Apparently unable to support his own weight with his arms, he must have slid forward slowly and saved himself from falling by grabbing the chair legs. I put the bucket down and push him upright. First I take off his pyjama jacket, that's not too difficult. The grey hairs on his sunken chest are lying flat on his skin. I go around behind him and lift him with one arm under his arm and around his chest. I use my free hand to slide the pyjama trousers off his bum. The trousers are stained. Then he's sitting naked on the chair. His penis is clamped between his legs. Compared to his body and the skin on his arms and legs, it is remarkably large and smooth.
     
'Was Ada here?' he asks, finding it hard to keep his head up.
     
'Yes.'
     
'Why didn't she come upstairs?'
     
'She didn't feel like it.'
     
'Did she say that?'
     
'Yes, she said that.' I look from Father to the bucket and from the bucket to the floor, which is covered with darkblue carpet, and from the floor to the flannel lying on the stripped bed. I'm not getting anywhere like this. I go back downstairs and move a plastic stool from the kitchen to the bathroom.
     
'Cold,' he says.
     
I hold one hand under the spout and turn the hot water on a little more. I haven't planned things properly: I'm still fully dressed and now it's too late; if I let go, he'll fall. We don't want that, a falling father, here on the tiled floor. The stool is up against the wall, in a corner, so I can keep him upright with one arm. He raises an arm to protect his head from the jet of water, just as I'm turning off the taps.
     
'I'm going to wash you,' I say.
     
He says nothing.
     
I lay the flannel on his knee and squirt a good squeeze of bath gel on it. It's called Badedas and smells of menthol. It's not easy, with one hand. I start to wash him. Again he reminds me of a newborn calf, smooth and slippery, jerky. I want to run the flannel over his bum and to do that I have to lift him with one arm the way I did to take off his pyjama trousers, except that now I'm standing in front of him instead of behind him. I'm glad I didn't plan it properly and that I still have my clothes on, otherwise my naked torso would be pressed against his gaunt, naked chest. After running the flannel over his bum a couple of times, I feel his balls against my fingertips through the wet material. I lower him back onto the stool. God almighty, his penis is getting hard. I should really rinse out the flannel, but I use one foot to push his legs apart and quickly wipe his groin, making his penis get even harder. I throw away the flannel and turn on the taps.
     
'Cold,' he complains again.
     
'It's your own fault,' I say.
     
Slowly his penis sinks back down between his legs. After rinsing him off, I wonder whether I need to wash his hair – 'still a fine head of hair' Ada would say. No, enough's enough. I dry him off. He manages to stand on his own two feet for a moment.
     
Poised in the doorway of his bedroom like an old-fashioned bridegroom, I realise I've done things the wrong way round. I still have to make the bed. I put Father, with the wet towel wrapped around his