ablo pushes the La-Z-Boy into reclining mode. ‘It’s getting hard to sleep around here.’

‘I thought you were getting a place with Fennel.’

‘We’re looking. She don’t want no dark place. The light has to be right. And she’s so busy right now with her new teacher, Vitorio. He’s always making them paint. Vitorio says a true painter either paints or dies. Fenny don’t want to die.’

Gus took the blue pill from Milo without hesitation or recognition. The old man has come to expect the pill when he wakens from his private hell. Maybe Milo shouldn’t give it to him and just let the old man scream his guts out. What will remain? Will the Polish farmer scram, chased out of consciousness by Gus’s demons, his true inner ugly self?

‘Vera don’t look too good,’ Pablo says.

‘She wants grandkiddies and Wallace is not delivering.’

‘Sarah says we have to stop wants. Wants are soul-destroying. I was depressed about Fenny being so busy with Vitorio and everything … ’

‘Is she screwing him?’

‘What kind of question is that?’

‘Why else would you be depressed about her being “busy” with him?’

‘He talks to her about art. I don’t know nothing about art. Anyway, I was feeling sad about it, lonely and everything, and Sarah said, “It’s not up to anybody else to make you happy, Pablo. It’s not up to Fenny. It’s up to you and you alone. Accept and celebrate that you are in charge of your own happiness.”’

References to happiness make Milo uncomfortable. Happy is one of those battered words people use casually, frequently, but he’s never sure what they really mean by it. The pursuit of happiness, what does that actually mean?

‘So that’s what you’re doing here,’ he asks, ‘lying around taking up space, celebrating being in charge of your own happiness?’

‘When did you get so mean, Milo? You used to be nice.’

Four times tonight Milo has been abrasive and callous: to Tawny, Tanis, his father and now Pablo. It’s much easier than being nice.




Guard Number Eight is reading an article about laughing yoga and tries to get Milo, Guard Number One and the Prisoner to laugh big hahaha laughs with him. When they refuse, he dials up Laughter Yoga on the Phone and laughs with a man who lives alone in his dead mother’s house in North Carolina. They share big hahaha laughs for five minutes. After he hangs up, Number Eight looks invigorated.

Dog treats are attached to a trainer dressed in prison garb to induce the dog to jump on him and appear to maul him. Milo has been instructed to crack his whip at the marching prisoners but to not actually hit them. A whipping scene does occur in the movie, according to Number One, who claims to have read the entire script. Milo is hoping that if he does good whip-cracking during the dog-mauling scene, he may be chosen to do the actual whipping, which would mean an extra day’s work. But the whip proves awkward to handle, heavy, and it winds around his feet, tripping him. When he whips a prisoner by mistake, the fight coordinator snatches the whip and hands it to Number Eight, who is still wearing an earring. Number Eight cracks the whip perfectly and winks at Milo. The extras in soiled prison garb, covered in fake blood and bruises, feigning fear and suffering, force Milo to revisit the possible content of Gus’s nightmares. The father he remembers was afraid of nothing, was beyond intimidation. What happens in Gus’s dreams that leaves him trembling?

‘What’s the deal with your boots?’ the fight coordinator demands with jowls twitching.

‘My boots?’ Milo asks.

‘Something’s making noise. I think it’s your boots. Walk.’

Milo walks and, sure enough, one of his too-small boots has begun to squeak.

‘Go to wardrobe and get new boots.’

‘There are no more boots.’

‘Then get them fixed, oiled, whatever,’

‘But I’m needed in this scene.’

‘Not in those boots.’ And just like that, Milo is dismissed and replaced by the earring-wearing Number Eight.

The wardrobe trailer is not its usual hive of activity. Amy, the sullen assistant who lined Milo’s helmet with felt, whimpers into her cell. ‘I thought he loved me,’ she sniffles. Milo stands unnoticed in the doorway. ‘Because he told me he loved me … he did, that’s what he said, he told me he loved me more than he’d loved any of his other girlfriends … he did, that’s what he said … ’ She sees Milo. ‘What do you want?’

‘Umm, my boot is squeaking. They want me to wear different boots.’

‘There are no more boots.’

‘I told them that and they said to get you to oil it or something. They need me in the next scene. It’s kind of urgent.’

‘I’ve gotta go,’ Amy says, pocketing the cell and wiping her nose. ‘Give it to me.’ Her eyes are very red.

‘I’m sorry to bother you.’

‘Just give me the boot.’

He’d prefer not to as, no doubt, it reeks from his sweaty foot. ‘I thought we could try oiling it on the outside.’

‘What kind of squeak is it?’

He walks back and forth a few feet.

‘They look too small,’ she says.

‘No, they’re fine, just a little snug.’

‘Give me the boot.’

It takes him several minutes to unlace the boot, during which he can hear her gulping convulsive sobs. Were he not anxious to get back on set before Number Eight completely usurps his role, he would suggest he come back later. Instead he says, ‘I’m confused about love as well. The use of the word, I mean. People use it a lot. I think it’s probably overused, actually. I don’t think people really know what they mean when they say it. I think some people say it just to make the other person feel better.’

‘Oh, so now you’re saying he doesn’t love me either. You don’t even know him. Give me the fucking boot.’

‘Actually, I wasn’t saying that, it’s just it’s become such a commonplace word. I said it recently, just out of the blue I said I loved somebody and it felt inadequate, like I wasn’t sure it was the right word to describe my feelings for this person.’ He hands her the boot. ‘His mother doesn’t think it’s the right word either. On the other hand, the word feelings makes me uncomfortable as well.’

‘What’s his mother got to do with it?’ Amy flexes the boot repeatedly, listening for the squeak.

‘Pardon?’

‘What business is it of his mother’s to tell you love isn’t the right word for your feelings? You should tell her to fuck right off.’

‘Well, the problem is, I think I might love her too. I’m confused about my feelings for her as well.’

‘You love the son and the mother?’ She rips the insole out of his boot.

‘I’m not sure. You see, most people seem to get by with the love word and the feelings word. They seem to understand them in an acceptable sense, but I find them hard to use seriously. I mean, they’re so … imprecise.’

‘Try it now.’ She hands him the boot. ‘Don’t lace it up, just see if it still squeaks.’

‘It’s pretty uncomfortable without the insole.’

‘Walk.’

He does. No squeak.

‘See, it was the insole.’

‘But there are nails or something sticking up without the insole.’

‘They’re not nails, just nubby things, stitches or something.’

‘Well, they hurt.’

‘I thought you said they needed you on set. Suffer for your art.’ She turns her back on him and starts smearing blood and dirt on prisoners’ stripes. Milo returns to the set and reports to the second assistant director who tells him, ‘Not now.’ Gus would say this when Milo had a question or a suggestion. Not now. Milo knew damn well not now meant never.Not now meant get out of my face. Milo will not tolerate being told not now by the second assistant director. The director himself has shown Milo respect, he is not just another guard.

‘Excuse me,’ he says, ‘but I am in this scene. The fight coordinator sent me to get my boot fixed.’

‘Are you limping?’

‘No.’ The nubby things have been boring into Milo’s foot for twenty ­minutes.

‘Walk.’

‘You’ve seen me march. I’m Guard Number Twelve.’

‘I don’t care what you are, walk.’

Milo takes a few steps, trying not to favour the sore foot.

‘You’re definitely limping. Are you injured?’

Milo can’t admit that the boots are too small and the only remaining boots. ‘No, it must be a cramp.’ He shakes out his leg.

‘Sit this one out,’ the second assistant director says, turning to the continuity girl. And just like that, Milo is made redundant. Bodies move around him with purpose. ‘Move over, Jack,’ a crew member says. Shoulders nudge him, elbows shove him. He hears the crack of the whip as Number Eight herds the prisoners into the gas chambers. ‘Out of the way, asshole,’ another crew member says. Milo limps to the house block, now emptied of prisoners. Coke cans and Styrofoam cups litter the mud where, only days ago, Milo wowed the director with his smoking and whistling skills. How small, how trivial, how unimportant all this is, he is. Still in his helmet, he smacks his head into the side of the building, seeking the relief that Robertson must find when smashing his skull into hard surfaces. A girl prisoner, who’d said hi to Milo earlier, whose soft sandy hair reminded him of Zosia, sees him as she rushes back to the set from a Porta Potty but quickly averts her eyes. Zosia never averted her eyes; she’d stare into him, trying to understand. ‘Explain it to me,’ she’d say. But how could he explain feelings he couldn’t understand? He bangs his head again. It only hurts, offers no respite. He matters to no one.

He rips babies off the mother spider plant and throws them in the trash. Why bother planting them when no one cares, when his jungle has been invaded by strangers. Two of them burst in giggling and flop down on the couch.

‘Gussy’s only got one pair of underwear, Milo. He’s been wearing the same pair for three days, right, Gussy?’ Gus nods, causing a fresh fit of giggles.

‘Maybe he’s afraid of being kidnapped,’ Milo says.

‘We’ve got to get him some undies.’ Pablo digs around in his jeans and pulls out a crumpled twenty. ‘Let’s go to Zellers. Maria always buys Fruit of the Loom for her brothers there.’

‘Not now,’ Milo says.

‘He’s got no clean shorts.’

‘Bielizna,’ Gus nods. ‘On-deh-vare.’

‘Awesome, Gussy, that’s it, underwear.’

‘Vont kofee?’

‘Totally, let’s get us some kah-vah.’ They charge into the kitchen. Milo flings himself on the couch and gropes around for the remote. It’s as though he has swallowed hundreds of cotton balls, cramming his lungs, his guts. Stifled by fluff, his frustration at being inconsequential robs him of breath. He thrashes about like the asphyxiated until a hand smacks his face.

‘Are you having a seizure?’ Tawny asks. ‘When my cousin has fits, we slap him and he gets better.’ She slaps Milo again.

He pushes her away and sits up, feeling a small air passage opening. Why does he care about all this anyway? What’s it matter to him if he matters to these idiots? ‘Who gives a fuck?’ he says out loud.

‘About what?’ Tawny asks.

‘Any of it. What’s going on around here.’

‘What’s going on around here?’

‘Collusion and deceit. Who gives a shit? It’s not my prah-blum.’

‘Who said it was?’

‘I’m a hollow tree, remember? Dead, dead, dead. I’d like to sleep now and this couch is the only vacancy. Good night.’

‘It’s only six o’clock.’

Pablo returns. ‘Where’s Vera?’

‘I haven’t seen her,’ Tawny says.

‘Vera?’ The Cuban bounds upstairs. Where does all that energy come from? Are only the truly ignorant able to thrive in the bog of human existence?

‘Do you have a headache?’ Tawny asks. ‘I’ve got some Tylenol.’

What business is it of his mother’s to tell you love isn’t the right word for your feelings? You should tell her to fuck right off.

‘She’s right,’ Milo declares.

‘Who?’

‘That bitch has no right to tell me love isn’t the right word.’

•••

‘I am here to see Robertson Wedderspoon. I have a letter from his father who is in the hospital and therefore unable to come himself. In the letter Mr. Wedderspoon explains that I am to take Robertson to visit him this evening. It will only be a short visit and I shall return with him forthwith.’ Milo said forthwith in a commercial in which he played a servant to a lord in need of speedy muffler replacement.

Several staff members huddle over the letter. Christopher studied law before he became a financial advisor. Even Milo was intimidated by the legal-speak in the letter. ‘Just a moment,’ a woman in Birkenstocks tells him. Two others, in yoga pants, watch him. He remains standing, even though his foot is still tender from the Nazi boot. Sitting would suggest he is prepared to wait. A small autistic boy wanders into the waiting area, repeatedly patting the wall as though feeling for a secret passage. ‘What are you doing out here, Curly?’ one of the yoga-panted women asks. ‘Come back to the playroom.’ Curly doesn’t hear or isn’t listening. He stops in front of Milo, who is blocking his path. Milo steps aside and Curly resumes feeling for the escape hatch. ‘Curly, let’s go back to the playroom.’ The yoga-panted woman makes sweeping gestures with her arms. ‘Let’s go back to the playroom. There are no toys out here.’

Curly makes it to the front door and begins pushing on it. ‘No, Curly, you have to wait for your mum, she’ll be here soon. Let’s go back to the playroom.’ She tries to take his hand but he pulls away from her. Both yoga ladies corner the boy in what looks like an effort to corral him into the playroom. Curly begins to yelp and slam his hands into the wall. The Birkenstocked woman appears with Robertson who, when he sees Milo, jumps up and down, shouting, ‘It’s Milo, it’s Milo, it’s Milo, it’s Milo, it’s Milo, it’s Milo!’ Curly yelps louder, engaging the Birkenstocked woman. With the jailers distracted, Milo makes a run for it, signalling for Robertson to follow. Giggling uncontrollably, he seems about to hyperventilate. Milo has never seen the boy so red-faced and tries to calm him but Robertson buckles over and collapses on the sidewalk, still gasping hysterically until he notices worms on the rain-soaked concrete. He begins to rescue the worms, picking them up with great care and setting them in the dirt beside the pavement. This could take hours. Milo spots a Baskins-Robbins and tries diversion tactics. ‘How ’bout some ice cream?’

Robertson moves deliberately up and down the counter, scrutinizing the tubs.

‘You go ahead,’ Milo says to a busload of Chinese tourists waiting their turn. Twenty minutes later the boy has chosen one scoop of Mango Tango and one scoop of Jamoca Almond Fudge.

Having blown Christopher’s cash on ice cream, Milo must take the child on the bus and walks with dread towards the stop. Robertson follows unquestioningly, intently licking his cone, and sits on the bench. Ice cream dribbles down his wrist.

‘This is fun,’ he says and Milo realizes that yes, it is fun. Could this be happiness? This tiny blip, this pause between one thing and another, when nothing can be done but wait for a bus? Sparrows crowd into a puddle, flapping their wings, splashing one another, puffing out their feathers and dipping their breasts into the water. Happiness.

But as the bus pulls in, Milo feels himself quivering, so fearful is he that Robertson will refuse to get on the bus. Milo’s plan is to proceed without discussion, to just climb on board and hope that Robertson will follow.

‘A bus. Awesome,’ Robertson says, clambering up the steps.

Milo leads him to the back and offers him a window seat. Robertson bounces in the seat. An old woman in a rain bonnet watches him warily.

‘This is epic,’ Robertson says.

An unshaven middle-aged man, off-gassing beer, eyes a young woman fidgeting with her personal listening device. ‘Do you play golf?’ he asks her. When she doesn’t respond he asks again, louder.

‘She can’t hear you,’ Robertson says in his too-loud voice. ‘She’s got earbuds in.’

‘She can hear me,’ the drunk says, leaning over the girl. ‘Do you play golf?’

‘I don’t think she does,’ Robertson says.

‘Who the fuck are you?’

The girl pulls out her earbuds and says, ‘I don’t play golf.’

‘Oh, that’s too bad,’ the drunk says. ‘I can’t marry you then.’

‘She doesn’t want to marry you,’ Robertson clarifies.

‘It’s a joke, you little fuck.’

‘Settle down,’ a bearded man in shorts says. Milo has noticed Robertson staring at the bearded man’s prosthetic leg.

‘Your fake leg looks cool,’ the boy says.

‘Thank you,’ the bearded man replies. ‘Want to see my stump?’

‘Totally,’ Robertson says. The old woman in the rain bonnet scowls. The girl fits her earbuds back in while the drunk slumps into a vacated seat.

The bearded man unfastens clasps, removes his prosthesis and his stump sock.

‘Fuck me,’ the drunk protests, ‘I don’t want to see this.’

‘Don’t look then,’ Robertson says. The bearded man waves his stump at him. ‘Awesome,’ the boy says. ‘Does it hurt?’

‘The skin toughens up after a while.’

‘Can I hold it?’ He reaches for the prosthesis and the man hands it to him with the tennis shoe still on. The old woman gasps and scuttles to the front of the bus. The girl stares at the leg, apparently unimpressed. ‘Fuck me,’ the drunk says again, covering his eyes. Robertson runs his hand over the prosthesis’s metallic surfaces and grips the shoe, flexing the foot. ‘Epic,’ he says.

‘You should probably give it back,’ Milo suggests.

‘No rush,’ the man says, scratching his stump.

‘What happened to your real leg?’ Robertson asks without looking directly at the man.

‘Motorcycle accident. Never be in a hurry, nothing good ever happens in a hurry.’

Robertson holds the leg up like a telescope and peers into it. ‘This is totally boss. You don’t have to cut your toenails.’

‘That’s true.’

‘I always forget to cut my toenails and they rip my socks.’

‘Can you give him his leg back now?’ Milo asks. ‘We’re getting off at the next stop.’

‘Do you wear it all the time or do you hop around?’

‘I do a fair bit of hopping,’ the man admits.

‘That is so totally badass. You must have amazing balance. I can’t hop on one leg for long.’

‘It just takes practice. I still use crutches around the house.’

‘This is our stop,’ Milo says, unsure if he should try to take the leg from Robertson, worrying that if he does it will cause an episode.

‘Thanks for showing it to me,’ the boy says, handing back the leg.

‘Anytime.’

On the sidewalk, Robertson practises hopping on one leg. Not once has he asked where they are going, so engaged is he in the moment. Milo has never met anyone who doesn’t want to know what’s happening next. Rain splatters them again, soaking Robertson’s T-shirt, but he continues to hop until they reach the hospital doors. ‘I’m not sick,’ he says.

‘I know.’

‘I mean, I’m not hitting or shouting.’

‘I know that. We’re not here because of you.’

‘Are you sick?’

‘No.’

‘Then why are we here? I don’t want to go in, I’m not going in.’ He starts running, leaping off the sidewalk to make room for a wheelchair. A car honks and a driver shouts, ‘Get off the fucking road!’ Milo, with his foot still sore from the Nazi boot, chases after Robertson but the boy, fit from hours on the trampoline, moves at high speed. Pedestrians dodge him and turn around to watch the fleeing child, creating further obstacles for Milo who mutters, ‘Excuse me,’ as he stumbles around them, only to discover the boy has disappeared from sight. ‘Has anybody seen a blond boy, eleven years old?’ he asks as his feet slip in his rain-soaked sandals. ‘A boy,’ he shouts. ‘Please, have you seen him? He was running.’ No one cares. They keep their heads down in the rain, rushing for shelter. The sky darkens and rumbles and Milo remembers that Robertson is afraid of thunder. During storms he seeks out Tanis and stays close to her. She looks forward to bad weather for this reason. Where is she now as the storm rumbles? Is she imagining her son safe in isolation in a soundproof room? Milo has stolen her boy from her. The child she tried to keep safe, that she loves more than breathing – Milo has lost him. A feeling of defeat so massive, so crippling, descends upon him, forcing him to his knees as he calls the boy’s name over and over. He looks in all directions but rain and nightfall make it impossible to see any distance. With each clash of thunder he imagines Robertson cringing, drenched, walking in circles. With no phone booth in sight, Milo shouts, ‘Police, would someone please call the police?’ But there is no one; all have run from the relentless downpour. Milo removes his slippery sandals and scrambles barefoot first one way and then another, calling, until his feet and throat are raw. It’s over, he can’t do this anymore. No matter how good his intentions, he causes harm. Mrs. Cauldershot told him he was nothing but trouble. ‘Nothing but trouble,’ he mutters.

‘What is?’ Robertson asks.

‘Why did you take off?’

‘Why did you take your sandals off?’

‘My feet slip in them when they’re wet.’

‘I don’t like thunder.’

‘I know.’ Again he resists the urge to grab the shivering child. ‘Where did you go?’

‘I’m not going to the hospital.’

‘I was taking you to the hospital to see your dad.’

‘My dad?’

‘Yes, he was in a car accident. He asked me to take you to see him. In the hospital.’

Robertson puts his hands on his hips. ‘Well, why didn’t you say so?’ Right away he is on the march, as though the world didn’t almost come to an end.