Thursday evening
Dennis Breedlove had died under the full moon. Six days later, the moon’s face was nearly half in shadow, but it was bright enough for Oliver to find his way around the side of the house without a flashlight. It was eleven o’clock, after a dinner with all the Swithin houseguests that, despite the presence of the brigadier, had been prolonged and raucous. Oliver had almost abandoned his plan to haul the borrowed stepladder to the rear wall of the Weguelins’ house and try to get proof of his two-are-really-one theory—oddly, the precise opposite of Toby’s Shakespeare thesis. Still, he’d give it ten minutes and then go back and do naughty, naughty things with Effie.
It would also give him a quiet moment to refine his theory of MindSpam, as he’d decided to call it (no space, no hyphen, uppercase S, with a little R in a circle).
Oliver had already noticed that MindSpam seemed to have two distinct and rather contrary attributes. First, it’s irresistible—the facts snag onto the memory, as clinging as the last wet hair that sticks to your finger when you’re cleaning a bath.
But then once there, they hunger for freedom again, as if a little knowledge, a dangerous thing according to Alexander Pope, had to be regurgitated from its host. So they spy through the fabric of social intercourse, searching for a tear to leap through, blurting like a telemarketer at the slightest opportunity, even though you know from their glazed eyes and weak smiles that your audience is already well aware of these dubious factoids, having themselves been infected years earlier. (“Factoids” does sound like a medical condition.) And that’s why you find yourself compelled to declare, “Oh, since we’re talking about Australia, did you know the water runs down the drains counterclockwise?” and “Apropos of nothing, I’ve heard that the Great Wall of China is the only man-made structure that can be seen from the moon, and roast goose is very greasy, and the initial letters of the Beatles’ “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” are
It’s not the pain, it’s the unexpectedness that throws you off, he reflected, sprawling across the metal ladder, which he’d dropped when he fell. Oh well, no matter how much he’d like to stay down here, now that he’d processed the last three seconds, he decided that it made more sense to get up. In case that black-clad figure hit him in the head a second time. Ah no, the attacker was aiming a kick at his kidneys, fortunately only making contact with the ladder.
Oliver struggled to his feet, but a gloved fist again bounced off the side of his head, dislodging his glasses. He landed a weak blow in the attacker’s stomach, reliving the impotent weakness of fights in dreams against too, too solid flesh.
The figure seemed unhurt, but didn’t follow up with another punch. The two faced each other.
“Stay away,” the figure hissed through the mouth opening of the ski mask, the voice strained and unidentifiable.
“No, you stay away,” Oliver riposted, impressed with the wittiness of the retort, given the circumstances. His left ear was numb and was singing to him about it. He touched it. His fingers felt wet, but he dared not take his eyes off his blurry attacker. Where’s a rush of adrenaline when you need one?
“I mean stop poking your nose into other people’s business,” the figure added with a tone of impatience, which Oliver found rather impudent.
The next punch came straight, but Oliver’s cricket-honed reflexes were fast. He caught the fist in his hands, before it made contact with his chin. But he forgot about his attacker’s other fist, which caught him on the cheek. He fell back, letting go. Another slap struck him on his bleeding ear. Oliver punched again, hitting the attacker’s breastbone. He heard a sudden exhalation of pain. The figure dropped back, tripping slightly on the ladder and falling against the kitchen window.
Oliver felt a surge of sympathy, never truly wishing to hurt anyone. He didn’t have the soldier’s ruthlessness that his father would have learned and taught, dehumanizing the enemy as Hun, Bosche, Gooks, Charlie, towel-heads. His opponent was a human being: a single hard, bare-knuckled blow could cause an injury that might never go away, not like the shaken-off punches of television fights. Despite the pain and the blood, Oliver still found himself thinking more in sorrow than in anger.
Then the figure braced his hands against the window ledge and aimed a rapid kick toward Oliver’s recovering groin, and the adrenaline dam broke.
Oliver leaped sideways, slamming into the brick wall of the house. Now it was personal, which made it impersonal. This bugger buggered up my ear, he screamed silently as he flung himself toward the advancing attacker, climbing into the cage of flailing arms, slicing fists hard into sides. You don’t do my ear that violence and get away with it.
He smashed his forehead into the woolen ski mask. His opponent pushed back, and they found themselves locked like two tired boxers, scuffling for advantage. If only Effie were here to play referee, to call out “break!” Or better still, to knock the sod arse over tit with a karate chop. Could nobody inside the house hear the commotion?
Effie! Of course. She’d talked about just this situation—incident readiness, she called it. There were ways to win a fight quickly and decisively. First of all, keep your head, don’t be passion’s slave. Go for the vulnerable parts, one of which was always exposed in the tango of combat. She’d taught him an acrostic: HOMES.
So it’s Head, then Ovaries, then, uh, Medulla Oblongata…
No, hang on, that’s the acrostic for the Great Lakes: Huron, Ontario, Michigan… Shoot, not now, Ollie.
Oh wait, it’s SING. Solar plexus. Instep. Nose. Groin.
Okay, solar plexus, currently pressing against mine—rather too intimate frankly, even if the man was a friend, and he clearly isn’t. A friend, that is, not a man. It had to be a man.
Instep, yes, but is that the bit on top of the foot or on the shin?
Nose, nebulous beneath the cushioning mask, but I could probably make a good guess.
Groin—see solar plexus, worryingly.
And one more thing: Don’t hit anything hard with your fist. As any Saturday night emergency room nurse will tell you, you’ll break your own fingers first. But there’s another body part you can use.
Oliver’s foot scraped down his attacker’s shin and stomped hard on top of his boot. The figure recoiled slightly. Oliver rapidly slid his bent right arm into the space between their bodies and straightened it sharply. The heel of his hand smashed into the underside of the attacker’s nose. Oliver clawed at the mask, which tore but did not come off as the other man careered backwards into the inky cloak of nighttime, whimpering. He did not return.