THE WINDOW HAD steamed up from the inside, making an abstract painting of those who waited. The door opened. A parcel of smell (warm, greasy, thick with memory) unwrapped itself beneath Simon’s nose. He checked his watch. Dinner time. It would be a celebration. That was what Amanda had said when he’d called her. ‘Well done, love. Anything you want for dinner, you choose.’ For Simon though it would be a double celebration. Last night he had passed the point of conscious effort, like a juggler for whom an impossible trick becomes suddenly simple, natural. The dreaming would come easily now, and although he could never tell her, it excited him more than the prospect of a man with a lisp agreeing to reread his screenplay.

Amanda hated fish ’n’ chips. A small snag, negotiable. After all, he hated most of the people she worked with. Small concessions were the hard currency of their relationship. Simon opened the door and walked out of the world of rain. The blackboard menu smiled down on him. A wall-mounted television played rugby highlights over lines of static and an electric blue fly zapper buzzed above a fading chart of Common New Zealand Fish. A customer looked up from his real estate giveaway. Simon smiled.

He pulled out his cellphone and called.

‘Amanda here.’

‘Hi. Me again.’

‘Hi.’

‘How did it go?’

‘Good and bad.’

‘How’s that?’

‘Good information, sort of wish it wasn’t. Hard to explain. I’ll tell you later. I thought you’d be home by now. You get the car?’

‘In the garage.’

‘You were meant to pick it up.’

‘They were meant to have fixed it.’

‘How bad?’

‘Didn’t say. But he did that doctor’s look, like he’s saving you from the messy details because you won’t understand, but basically you should walk more and eat a lot of vegetables.’

‘You wouldn’t understand.’

‘Hey, my first car was a mini. I rebuilt it myself.’

‘You never told me that.’

‘No, well, it isn’t true. But I felt the need to lie. I think people are listening.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Fish ’n’ chip shop. I decided on fish ’n’ chips. What do you want?’

‘Not fish ’n’ chips.’

‘Okay, I’ll ask them if they do that.’

‘You know I hate it. I feel like a salad or something.’

‘I thought this was my choice.’

‘It’s not much of a celebration.’

‘It’s not like you’re staying in all evening.’

‘You know what it does to me. I’ll wake you to remind you of it, at regular dream shattering intervals.’

‘See, this is why I love you.’

‘It’s one of the reasons.’

‘Okay, tell you what,’ Simon proposed. ‘How about I get a scoop for the walk home and you start making us a salad. Actually, do you want to look in the fridge and … Fuck!’

‘What?’

Simon stared blankly at the television screen. Rugby had given way to other news. Pictures of polling booths, people struggling through the rain.

‘What time does voting close?’

A long silence. Plenty of time for Amanda to think of a new way to call him stupid and irresponsible. Nothing came.

‘Seven, I think.’ Pause. ‘I hope.’

‘You forgot?’ It delighted him, more than it should have.

‘I should have written a list,’ Amanda said.

‘Where’s the nearest polling station?’

‘The school.’

‘Okay, how long will it take you to run there?’

‘I don’t run. And it’s raining. I’m getting a taxi.’

‘See you there. If you don’t see me, get them to hold it open.’

‘They won’t do that.’

‘You know this for a fact?’ Simon asked.

‘Everybody knows that for a fact,’ Amanda told him.

‘You need to get out in the world more. There’s more of me than you realise.’

‘Can I hang up now? I’m in a hurry.’

‘Race you.’

Simon looked around at the collection of strangers who to a person pretended to possess no knowledge of his civic irresponsibility. He stared longingly at the board and left the shop.

The wind had eased but the rain was picking up the slack: a constant, depthless screen of wet. Simon huddled beneath the shop front and considered all those options which did not involve being soaked to the skin. He had twenty dollars in his wallet. He could call a taxi. Out here in the suburbs, it would take ten minutes for it to arrive, maybe longer. He would have no change left for chips, or getting home. Amanda would pay their way home. She would not pay for chips. He waited patiently for Plan B. It was a term that was popular amongst sports commentators at the moment. As an accusation. ‘The team doesn’t appear to have a Plan B.’ Simon had some sympathy for such teams. Plan Bs were hard.

The door opened again. The smell almost cost the country a vote. Simon hadn’t decided who for yet. He’d told Amanda he had, of course. He couldn’t keep up, when she talked politics. It wasn’t lack of intellect, it was lack of interest.

‘Now, here looks like a man in need of divine intervention!’

A customer he hadn’t noticed, dressed in black, stood before him, holding a small white dog in one arm, a parcel of fried temptation in the other. The man’s generous jowls made his head appear pointy, and the lines about his eyes had crinkled into a permanent smile. Although his sentence had finished he still appeared to be emitting a sound, a sort of hum of affirmation, although towards what Simon could not be sure. And the final detail, which Simon noticed only when the little dog shifted its head toward its master’s food, was the unmistakable white break in the collar line of the stranger’s shirt. A priest. Or a madman dressed as a priest. Maybe both.

‘Or failing help from above, a ride in a car perhaps, to a voting station.’ And the humming again. ‘Come along then. This is Tartar, he doesn’t bite, well – only heathens, and nuns!’

Clearly mad, probably harmless, and apparently in possession of a car.

‘Um, just to the school, if you don’t mind. I mean, I don’t want your dinner to get cold.’

‘Oh, I can eat while I drive, that’s no problem. Now tell me, have you ever been in an Alfa Romeo?’

‘Um, no, I don’t think I have.’

‘The thing about these cars,’ the priest explained, as they rounded the first corner, ‘is that you have to put yourself in God’s hands. The Italians, you see, are very devout people. And it makes them a little careless.’

Not as careless though, as whoever it was who was responsible for the old car’s upkeep. They accelerated through surface flooding and Simon felt the carpet swell beneath his feet.

‘Do you believe in life after death then?’ the madman continued. ‘No, don’t worry, this isn’t a test. I’m not all that certain of the answer myself.’

Without warning the windscreen wipers, which had been threatening to schlap their way out of their sockets, stopped working, and the rivulets before them thickened, pushed outwards by the speed of the car, which showed no signs of slowing.

‘You see what I mean,’ the priest smiled, now flicking his lights on and off for no apparent reason. ‘Hopelessly devout.’

The wipers leapt back into life.

‘Electrics are a little uneven. Flicking the lights usually gets them back into line. Or it could be the Hail Marys. Have you decided who you’re voting for? Open the top of the chips if you’d be so good, and pass one to Tartar. No, you’ll need to blow on it first a little. He doesn’t enjoy the heat. Hmm, Labour, I’d say. Or Green.’

‘I, ah, I haven’t decided.’

‘Do what I do. Wait until the last moment and say a little prayer.’

‘Did it help?’

‘God told me to vote for Rodney, but I overruled him. Sometimes the voices inside your head are just voices, you see. He likes to challenge us. We’re here.’

‘Well, Father,’ Simon smiled, feeling suddenly a deep sense of gratitude at his health. ‘I’m not the sort who usually prays, but I don’t mind admitting that during that short journey I wavered once or twice.’

‘Excellent. Just the thing.’

There was no sign of Amanda amongst the scraggly line of dripping last-minuters. Simon checked his watch. Five minutes left.

‘Cutting it fine, Sir,’ the scrutineer remarked. Simon shrugged and walked to the cubicle with his papers. He looked down the list, hoping for a moment of clarity. His phone rang. Around the hall people stared at him. He had broken a rule, even if they couldn’t name it. They would listen to the conversation.

‘Hi.’

‘You make it?’

‘Just about to place the tick.’

‘Who you voting for?’

‘Dunno.’

‘Yes you do, vote Labour.’

‘I think I’m meant to decide for myself.’

‘I can’t make it. You have to vote for me.’

‘They won’t let me.’

‘No, I mean use your vote to vote the way I would have. Come on, you know you don’t take it half as seriously as I do.’

‘Not so seriously that you remembered to vote.’

‘Just tell me you’re voting Labour.’

‘Okay, sure.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I was going to anyway, so it doesn’t really count. So why aren’t you here?’

‘Something’s come up with the documentary. We think, well, we think the focus is going to change, and we need to plan out how we shoot the speech again.’

‘You and Greg?’

He knew how it sounded, when he jumped like that, but he couldn’t help it. He hated Greg, for good and simple reasons.

‘What does that matter?’

‘We were meant to celebrate.’

‘We will, tomorrow.’

‘So explain why this last minute change is more important than my career or the election?’

‘He died.’

‘Richard?’

‘No, William. A friend of Richard’s. The guy we saw being beaten up yesterday, he killed himself this morning.’

‘Well, I can’t top that. Sorry, badly put.’

‘I’ll try to get home before the meeting. Promise. Sorry. Love you. Labour okay? Two ticks Labour.’

‘Love you too. Good luck tonight.’

The line went dead. Simon realised a scrutineer was standing at his shoulder.

‘Is everything all right there, Sir?’

‘Peachy.’

‘We prefer it if phones are turned off, during the voting process.’

‘Won’t happen again. Who should I vote for then, would you say?’

The man backed away, as if Simon had just suggested they commit a crime together.

‘I’m afraid I can’t offer any …’

‘No problem, I’ve got a coin.’

He made a show of flipping it. The woman in the booth craned her head to see which way it landed.

‘Heads. Guess that’s Labour.’

He tried to force a smile as he placed his tick, but his heart wasn’t in it. Amanda and Greg. How often had those names been uttered together? How often had people just assumed? Or how many knew for sure, and were laughing at him behind his back? Worse, laughing at him. She was meant to be there. They were meant to celebrate. He’d done it for her. What was the fucking point?

 

 

‘DO WE HAVE to watch this?’ Robyn complained.

‘We always watch the election,’ Luke replied.

‘That’s not a reason.’

‘I didn’t say it was a reason. I just want to see.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘It’s the same thing all night. We can turn back in the ads. There’s a film on the other channel.’

‘It’s halfway through.’

‘I’ll pick it up.’

‘What is it?’

‘Runaway Jury.’

‘That’s a thriller. You have to watch them from the start.’

‘I’ve seen it before. I can explain it to you.’

‘I don’t think I’d like that.’

‘This is about my father isn’t it?’

Luke resisted the urge to struggle. It was like being dumped by a wave. You tumbled, held your breath, waited. Fighting only kept you under longer. He could feel her eyes on him: small, blue and hopeful. Once, when they first started going out, he’d written a poem about them, an embarrassing thing on a birthday card he’d hoped would make her love him more. Of all the things he’d ever loved, being loved was the best of them.

‘I’ve already apologised. Let’s forget it.’ Luke took her hand and squeezed it.

The noise from the television rose and fell: the constant, relentless soundtrack. It had taken a day to buy, eleven stores in all, before they returned to buy the first set they had seen. Widescreen LCD, plus free cabinet. Graphite, to match the lounge suite (wedding present, chosen by Robyn’s mother).

‘You didn’t mean it.’

He caught a glimpse of her mouth, pursed and tight, a valve about to blow.

‘What?’

‘You said you were sorry but you didn’t mean it.’

‘Oh God. Look, please trust me on this. I meant it, okay? If there’s one thing I’m truly sorry about, it’s that I ever said a single word to your family today. Next time, you can Superglue my lips together before we go around. I promise you, I’ll let you do it.’

Hold your breath, Luke told himself. But the self wasn’t listening.

‘See, this is what I mean.’

‘What?’

‘You manage to apologise in a way that makes it sound like it’s their fault.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘Like you’re saying it isn’t possible to have a civil and enjoyable conversation with my parents. That’s what you actually think isn’t it?’

‘Do you think you could give me some sort of estimate of when this might be over? We’ve been going, what, seven hours now I make it, and it’s just going to be a whole lot easier to bear if I can see the finish line, you know?’

‘And making a joke of this is how you’re going to deal with it?’

‘With what?’

‘With the problem we have.’ She made an announcement of it, an Oprah moment.

‘I don’t think we have a problem,’ Luke replied.

‘You don’t like my family.’

‘Your mother’s all right.’

‘My father wants to like you. He tries very hard to like you.’

‘You’re right. Let’s watch the movie.’

‘I don’t want to watch the movie. I want to talk about this.’

‘Robyn, there’s nothing to talk about.’

‘I think there is.’

Luke took a deep breath and reminded himself he had the skills to get through this. It was in the end his job description, to take the best hits hormones could hurl, then quietly, calmly, talk them down. But this was different. It could not, if all else failed, be resolved by a change in the student’s timetable. And there was something else itching at him tonight. Something like anger.

‘Look, your father and me, we’re very different people. You know that. You’ve always known that. It’s never been a problem before. Today I was stupid and I said things I shouldn’t have said. Next time, we’ll all pretend it never happened and go back to being polite to one another. You’ll see.’

‘I don’t want to pretend.’

‘Why the fuck not? Pretending’s excellent. Pretending’s how we get through this shit.’

‘What shit?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Yes you do. What did you mean by shit?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You mean this. You mean me and you.’

‘No I don’t.’

‘You do. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.’

‘Okay, enough of this. This is fucken pointless. I’m watching the election.’

Luke took the remote and increased the volume. His wife’s silence deepened beside him.

On the small screen a panel of experts sat uncomfortably close. There was the same political scientist they pulled out every three years, to make the simple and depressing appear complex and worthy. Next to him was a flamboyantly dressed journalist – whose name Luke couldn’t remember – chosen for her toxic mix of articulacy and insecurity. And the obligatory outsider, a visiting American psychologist who was there for reassurance, to tell us all we’re ‘doing all right’.

‘Okay, let’s just get back to these figures then.’

The host was ill-chosen, a lightweight who scored well with the younger demographic, who would not be spending their Saturday night in front of a television.

‘Look, Tony, there are some real surprises here aren’t there? Let’s just run down through the main party returns again. I think you can see them across the bottom of your screen now, and I need to stress these are still very early results. As we’ve been saying all night, the votes come in last from the biggest electorates, so that can have a significant effect on the outcome, but nevertheless … Labour thirty-six per cent, National forty per cent, that’s closer than most were predicting. Greens, who last week in some polls were as high as nine, have weirdly dropped to five per cent. Mäori party is steady on four per cent, they’ll be pleased with that, but look here, this is the surprising one isn’t it? One Nation: eleven per cent. Eleven per cent! Tony, what’s going on?’

‘Well, as you say, we do have to be cautious about interpreting these figures at this stage, of course, but the big story I think is voter turnout. It’s up, and that’s what One Nation were promising, that they’d mobilise a group of traditionally reluctant voters. Maybe that’s what’s happening here, although of course we can’t know that for sure. But with turnout up, ah, I think it’s seven per cent at the moment, it’s hard not to draw those conclusions.’

‘Jodie, let’s talk about what this is going to do to the coalition prospects. Peter Wilson has said he’s open to offers. Can he do it? Can he be part of the government, or are his views just too far from the mainstream for that to happen?’

‘Well, how can he not be, with these figures? Both major parties would clearly love to govern without him, but if these early trends turn out to be solid, then they’re both going to need him. Labour, Green, Mäori, even if they could stitch that together, is what, only forty-five per cent. That’s not enough.’

‘So he gets to decide the next government?’

‘I think he does,’ Susan drawled. ‘That’s certainly the scenario as I see it.’

‘Well doesn’t that just cap off a perfect day?’ Luke’s anger was swirling, collecting debris.

‘Calm down,’ Robyn told him.

‘It’s all right for you. This is what you want.’

‘It is not what I want and you know it.’

‘So what do you want Robyn?’

‘I want you to calm down. I want you to stop treating me like this.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like a piece of furniture.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means that now you’ve brought me home I’m not worth having an opinion on, because you’re stuck with me either way.’

‘You talk some shit sometimes.’

‘When was the last time we did anything together?’

‘I was trying to watch the election together.’

‘No, you were trying to watch the election while I was here. It’s not the same thing.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘Is it?’

‘I’m tired, Robyn. If we keep talking now, I’m going to say something I shouldn’t. So how about we just …’

‘I’m not one of your students, Luke.’

‘I had noticed that.’

‘I want to talk about this.’

‘Keep your voice down. You’ll wake Alicia.’

Luke would be held here now, like a fish on a line, until she was ready to drag him in. Silence. The beginning of a tear. Had he simply stopped caring? No. If he was asked, that was the answer. No. Yet …

‘Last night, you didn’t try to stop me.’

‘I told you not to go near him.’

‘But, when the glass smashed, you just …’

‘I was watching Alicia.’

‘You never asked how I was.’

‘I could see nothing had happened to you.’

‘After everybody had gone. You never asked.’

‘You never asked me,’ Luke replied.

‘I did.’

He didn’t remember. She was crying, the tears heavy and hopeless. He knew what came next. He would stand, move forward, hold her. Wait for this to pass. Tell her she was wrong. Say the words again and again, until they both believed them.

He stood.

‘I’m going out.’

‘What?’ Her face was empty, disbelieving, desperate to be mistaken.

‘Just to school. There’s some marking I forgot to bring home,’ he lied. ‘I’ll be half an hour. It’ll do me good, clear my head.’ That bit at least held the possibility of truth.

Robyn stood too, her eyes swarming with the sentences fear kept trapped inside.

‘Okay,’ she nodded. ‘Don’t be long.’

She kissed him quickly, uncertain as a schoolgirl. He looked away, before the tears in her eyes could snare him.

‘See you soon.’

Her car was behind his, blocking it in. Robyn stood at the door, and gave a half wave as he whined backwards down the drive.

 

 

‘JUST YOU AND me,’ Ollie’s text had promised. ‘That’s what I want tonight. You know it is.’

Sophie heard him knocking at the front door. It was too cold for the clothes she had chosen, but what were you supposed to do with winter, wrap it in polar fleece?

‘Come in,’ she called, smoothing the lip gloss with her finger, turning to check her reflection one more time, already regretting the trousers.

‘Hey babe, you look beautiful.’ Ollie stepped forward and kissed her, coyly avoiding her eyes, like he’d never pressed on top of her.

‘I should get a jacket.’

‘Don’t worry, we’re driving.’

‘You haven’t got your licence.’

‘Nah, we ah,’ Ollie ran his hand through his hair, squinted up at her as if anticipating a blow. ‘Bomber’s giving us a lift. It’s on the way.’

She considered pulling out, there and then, trading this small disappointment for those that would follow, but she didn’t. Her mother’s daughter.

‘You said it was just us.’

‘It’s just a ride. Too cold for walking.’

‘Just a ride, or I’ll fucking …’

‘I’ve got a surprise. Just us. You hungry? Come on babe. Smile. You’re beautiful when you smile.’

He grinned at her, the big lopsided grin of a puppy, useless, helpless, loveable. She smiled back.

Bomber was pimping his car one panel at a time, so for now it was a comical patchwork of shopping cart grey and drug dealer purple. The suspension had already been lowered – job number one – and the alloys were on a repayment scheme that would outlast the car. The tinting had been done cheap by a mate who owed him, and was starting to bubble at the back. There was something about engine pressure too, but Sophie never really listened. What she saw was an angry man’s car: angry and ugly. No surprise, she supposed, that those things should go so well together.

The rolls of fat on Bomber’s neck reached up to his ears and compressed as he turned to greet her. Dark glasses hid his confusion from the world. Beside him sat the one they called Gash, who smelt of cigarette smoke and leather, and layers of trapped-in sweat. Why do you bother with them? Sophie often asked. Ollie always shrugged, and said, ‘They’re my mates.’

‘Sophie, looking good!’ The back door swung open and Ratchet (Aaron, to his mother) slid across the seat to make room for them. He was smaller than the others, and of all Ollie’s friends the one Sophie trusted least. Like Bomber he had left school earlier in the year. Unlike Bomber there was no word as to what job he was doing, but he was never short of money.

‘How’s it going?’

Ratchet’s teeth were a last minute jumble, sharp and vicious and explaining perhaps his acrid breath.

‘Ollie man, your lady’s made an effort. Hope you’re up to the challenge.’

He made a noise in his throat that sounded like drowning. A snort from the front, catching like an engine, revving into laughter.

‘Just drive will ya?’ Ollie told them.

The car shuddered into life and Sophie felt the anxious call of the big bore exhaust beneath her. Then came the stereo, fast and loud, vibrating behind her head. This was how they were: one moment asleep, the next angry and urgent, at war with the world. The car squealed away from the curb. Ollie took her hand and squeezed it. She smiled.

‘One stop off on the way,’ he whispered, trying to look cool about it, but there was worry in his eyes. ‘Then it’s just you and me.’

‘What sort of a stop off?’

‘It’s sweet. You can stay in the car.’

‘What sort of a stop off?’

‘Don’t ask.’

‘You said it was just a ride.’

‘It is. For you. Not now.’ Ollie spoke low but Ratchet had the ears of a rodent.

‘A little job. Short and sweet,’ he breathed. ‘Hasn’t Ollie told you? Ollie, not like you to be so modest. Our man here has a job on.’

‘Fuck up Ratchet.’

‘Bomber, the lady here wants to know where we’re going.’

‘Didn’t you tell her Ollie?’

‘Your muff got a phone with her?’ Gash leered. ‘She can take a photo for the album.’

He laughed till his lungs were clear.

Trouble always smelt this way, beery and stale. ‘Evolution isn’t progressive,’ Mr Krane liked to say. He wasn’t wrong. ‘Get them to stop the car,’ Sophie ordered.

‘What?’

‘You heard.’

‘Just one stop.’

‘You fucking lied to me.’

‘You going to take that shit from your bitch Ollie?’

‘Fuck up, Ratchet.’

In a moment Sophie would cry. After all the times she could have cried in front of Ollie, should have cried, it would happen here. She looked at him, Ollie whose face she knew better than her own, the expression of uncertainty she had chosen so often to see as torment, but now in the passing street lights showed only weakness. Pretty weak.

‘Get them to stop the car.’ She hissed the words, not trusting her throat to open.

‘What are you going to do?’ He leaned to her, whispered the words in her ear.

‘What the fuck do you care?’

He stared at her, weighing his vulnerabilities. Sophie could feel Ratchet’s warm breath on her neck.

‘Bomber, pull over for a moment will you?’

‘What?’

‘Changed my mind. Not tonight. We’ll walk from here.’

He tried to make it sound casual, but his voice was breaking up. She’d never seen his fear before. For years she’d believed he had none.

The big engine chopped down a gear. Sophie relaxed, took Ollie’s hand again.

‘Bomber, look!’

Ratchet pushed forward between the seats, thrusting his phone’s screen beneath the big man’s nose.

‘Nice!’

The car accelerated.

‘What are we doing?’

‘I don’t know. Bomber, I asked you to …’

‘Action on the Hutt Road.’

‘Ollie, tell him to stop the …’

‘Shut your bitch up, Ollie, I’m getting sick of it.’

Ratchet leered. Sophie glared at him. His eyes slid down onto her breasts. He rearranged himself in his seat.

‘Show time.’

At the lights a 200SX pulled up beside them. Both sets of occupants eyed one another. Bomber gave a little wave of recognition.

‘Who’s that?’

‘Remember Shad? It’s his cousin.’

‘No shit?’

The lights turned green and the Nissan smoked away. Ratchet’s phone beeped.

‘They’re still there, man. By the station. Go. Go!’

Gash whooped. The car burbled for a moment, then spat forward.

‘What the fuck is this?’ Sophie demanded to Ollie’s ear.

‘Some bullshit,’ he shrugged.

‘Tell them to stop.’

‘They won’t listen. You saw.’

Sophie leaned forward and gripped Bomber’s shoulder, dragging herself closer and shouting in his ear.

‘We asked to stop the car you fat fuck. You’re going in the wrong direction now. So stop the fucking car.’

‘Love it when your girl talks dirty, Ollie,’ was all she got. He glanced into the rear view mirror to check on his effect, jowls wobbling.

‘There it is! There it is! Look, they’re running away. They’re fucking running away.’ Ratchet was beside himself, bouncing up and down on the seats. Suddenly the cabin filled with shouting.

‘Where’s Latch?’

‘Fucken dunno.’

‘Text him.’

‘Left man. They’re crossing the …’ 

‘Stay on him Gash!’

‘The bridle path.’

‘… off man.’

‘Watch the truck!’

‘Nip alert.’

‘Little one …’

‘The fucking truck …’

The car slewed and a truck roared by, horn blasting. Ratchet was the one whooping now. Bomber powered on, grabbed at the hand brake and smoked sideways. As the world slid around, Sophie caught her first glimpse of the prey. A lime green Honda, Prelude she thought, had run up over the curb, its three occupants trying to get clear; one making for the steep, bush-clad hill bordering the road, another crouched behind the bonnet, a third desperately trying to wave down a passing car. Terrified. Asians.

Ten metres down the road a red Skyline, front twisted against a lamppost. Someone standing beside it, too far off to make them out.

‘What the fuck’s going on Ollie?’

He didn’t answer, couldn’t answer.

The blaring of horns. Rain slowed in streetlights, the sound of sirens. They were still moving, cutting across traffic. She saw the Asian boy’s face: seventeen, eighteen, it was hard to tell. Still waving, realising too late. Ratchet had his door open. The boy turned, ran back towards his car. Bomber twisted the wheel. A thud. The boy went down. Screaming. Sophie screaming.

His mate came running from behind the Prelude. Swearing at them. The boy was standing again, hobbling, his cheek grazed and bleeding. The car stopped. Gash first out. A punch, a second, the Asian went down. Horns blaring. The sirens growing louder.

Sophie had hold of Ollie’s arm, trying to keep him in the car. He wrenched it away. Sophie followed, felt the cold blast of night. Tried to pull him back.

Ollie lined the Asian up like a goal kicker would a ball. The boy was on the ground again, trying to cover his face with his arms. The boot got through, crunched into his cheek, ripping the head back. Sophie jumped onto Ollie, screaming his name as loud as she could, trying to pull him away. He shrugged her off. She wasn’t there.

Bomber with another one, pushing him against the car. She saw the terror in the victim’s eyes, the pleading. He looked to her, like she could stop this. A head butt, small and vicious. Blood trickled down from the broken nose.

She was crying. Running. Out of here. Forever. For fucking ever.

 

 

LUKE WIGGLED HIS key in the lock searching for the precise movement that would free the door, broken for three terms now, item number twenty-six in an infinite series of non-urgent maintenance requests. The door swung back sharply and Luke started.

‘Oh, sorry, wasn’t expecting anybody to …’

‘I know, Saturday night, get a life.’

Maggie grinned apologetically, her small features contorting about uncommonly large eyes; her red hair framing her like a halo.

‘So watcha doin?’ She didn’t so much speak as bubble over. Her accent – English, southern he thought, but had never asked – completed what was for the students an exotic picture. The more canny pulled deals, forged notes and swapped options to end up in her class.

‘Ah, just left some work here I was going to get through tomorrow, and you know, election was getting depressing.’

‘I know,’ Maggie enthused, bluffing of course. Politics was the domain of the stalled, those whose life was contingent upon a push start. Maggie was too young for such things. She had her own momentum.

‘How about you?’

‘The fossil tour.’

Maggie stepped back to allow Luke into the crowded workroom, revealing Amanda, her partner in crime, sitting at the table, a map before her.

‘Oh right, leaves Monday doesn’t it? Hi, Amanda.’

‘Thought we should know where we’re going.’

The two of them had organised a trip for Year 13 biology students to the Hawke’s Bay, tramping into the hills to visit the site of the discovery that convinced the world dinosaurs were once the taniwha whenua.

Luke moved to his workstation, itself an excellent candidate for an archaeological dig. Layers of books, student handouts, staff handbooks, curriculum statements and administrative missives threatened a landslide. Slow leakage from the fifty hour week. Luke swivelled in his chair, kicking his feet free of the Year 10 lab books he had taken in two weeks ago for marking. His laptop screen flashed blank and blue, refusing to be hurried. He tapped his fingers on the one small square of clear bench top, faking impatience, wishing he was alone. Behind him the preparations continued in whispers. He could picture them, heads together, fingers tracing contour lines, like teenagers planning a New Year’s road trip.

He had been like them once. He remembered a trip to the central plateau. He still had the photos somewhere.

Habit clicked open his emails: seven new messages since he left on Friday afternoon.

All staff: Duty

Just a quick reminder that the double duty system is to remain in place until THE END OF TERM. The daily audit will continue. Please ensure you are out on time, particularly those on the front gate. We all need to do our bit to make this work.

Thanks.

Linda

 

luke.krane: TT5 notes

Hi Luke

Just been checking the file for Courtney Willis, can’t find your notes on TT5 from the incident on Friday. Can you get these in ASAP?

Thanks

Nick

 

Form teachers: MP3 players

A reminder MP3 players are now banned in all classes. Students are constantly reminding us that ‘some teachers let us listen’. This isn’t fair on the rest. Class checks will begin on Monday.

 

All staff: Reports

A friendly reminder that the deadline for comments on junior reports has been moved to this Wednesday, to give the Deans more time for proofreading. No personal comments please, make sure all reports are printed out and checked by a colleague before submitting them. If you are late with these, it puts undue stress on the rest of the staff.

Thanks

Peter

 

luke.krane: Apology

Hi Luke. Cassandra May has written out a full apology and I’ve told her you’ll be administering the detention. Can you put a note on TT5 once the mother has been phoned please? She can be hard to get hold of. I’ve found late in the evening, after 9.30, works best.

Jen

 

Year 11 form teachers: ABSENCES!!!

There are over three hundred and twenty unexplained absences outstanding from last term. The codes are up on the wall outside the staffroom and can be found in the notices drive under absences. Remember, M is now medical, and E has switched from explained to explained but with unacceptable reason. All Es should now be followed up with detentions. Non-medical justified absences are now J. School activities will normally be overwritten automatically but Nigel tells me this isn’t always happening. Please go back and check from your own records. Amnesty on this until Wednesday, then I’m going to be getting cranky.

Julian

 

luke.krane: BIGGER HARDER LONGER!!

Unhappy with your penis?

Luke hit delete and exited Outlook. By Monday the tasks would have become less urgent, pushed back down the list by the necessity of newer worries, to be outlined by the principal at Monday morning’s briefing. Luke stared at the desktop, a network vagrant, loitering without intent.

My Documents

Other

Resignation Letter

 

Dear Board

It is with a mixture of sadness and excitement that I tender my resignation from the position of biology teacher in your school, effective from the start of Term One next year.

Sadness because I have of course enjoyed enormously my time at this school, and have appreciated the support I have been shown and the many opportunities offered to me to develop my skills in what is still a hugely satisfying career.

And excitement for the beginning of a new chapter in my life. I have decided to return to university to complete my Masters. I have been thinking about this for some time and the circumstances are right for me to pursue this.

Thank you once again for the opportunity to work in your school.

Yours sincerely

Luke Krane.

Luke blinked at the treacherous screen. He felt his throat constrict with the memory of Friday afternoon, of the rush of joy that had accompanied the completion of the document. Tears stung his eyes. He could not leave now – Maggie and Amanda would notice, and even if they had the good manners not to mention it (he doubted this) they would discuss them when he was gone.

New Document

Save As

Letter 2

He typed quickly, a childish attempt at self-rescue.

Dear Board

It is with a pleasure bordering upon delirium that I announce my imminent departure from This Fucking Job.

The cliché I know is to say the job has finally ‘become too much for me’ but the truth is the job became too much for me years ago, and since then I have been floating just beneath the surface, breaking the air four times a year for the desperate bouts of hyperventilation we in the profession refer to as our holidays.

There is much I will not miss about this job, and so you will forgive me if I focus only on the most outstanding of my present joys.

I will not miss the minutiae that each day strangles even the most diligent of teachers. The absence notes, the uniform checks, the money collections, the recording of incidents, the preparation of moderation documents, of management documents, assessment documents, planning documents, documents outlining the preparation of aforementioned documents; the meetings that start late and end later, the emails that will not cease, the thousand little things that each day remind me that no matter how hard I might try, I will never be ‘doing my job’.

I will not miss the obsession with the school’s image in the community, the unchallengeable belief that doing well is less important than being seen to do well, that well-documented mediocrity is a goal worthy of pursuit. The need to ring, to report, to meet, to publish, in short to spin, so that we are caught in a frenzy of ‘do you love me’ paranoia that so sadly mimics the lives of those we seek to educate.

I will not miss the parents. I am sorry, but making them feel better about their failed attempts to rear a child does not move me. I do not believe that involving the parents is always the key to educational success: indeed saving the child from the parents is often, sadly, my first priority.

I will not miss the educational experts who, each week, find new ways to describe my failure. I will not miss reading the studies that tell me of those inspirational teachers who have, by following the magic formula, made the difference I myself will never witness.

I will not miss the failure: the bloodied concrete wall of resistance that every day I meet in the classroom, of the student whose will to learn what I have to teach is too small for measurement, and whose disdain for me who would teach it knows no bounds. I will not miss the cohort of pupils who each year leave a little duller, a little less sure of themselves, a little more convinced of their own inadequacies, than they were when they first met us five years before. I will not miss a career where the minimisation of damage done remains our noblest aim.

And most of all, I will not miss the hard knots of anger around which our young tribes form. Anger that explodes into violence, short and sharp, that we may mutter our surprise and concern. Anger that pulls back when it feels us staring, offers apologies and promises. Then simmers. Always simmers.

There are other things I will not miss. I will not miss being sworn at, talked over, spat at, jostled, laughed at and most crushingly, simply ignored. I will not miss irrelevance.

I am not coping in this job. I’m not sure I ever did cope. I know most of my colleagues are struggling, too; I feel them climbing over me, straining for air.

So I’m out of here. So long and thanks for the memories.

Ecstatically yours

Luke hit Close.

Do you want to save the changes to the document Letter 2?

No.

He leaned back and closed his eyes. The silent tears had not stopped. So close he had come to escape. A single sperm, single-minded and selfish, was all that had thwarted him. He believed he could even remember the sex: guilty sex, for it had been a while, and he had been straining to tell her that they were all right. That he was all right. He wasn’t.

It wasn’t depression. To hell with Kirwan. He hated the word. It was just he couldn’t do this. Another year would crush him. And now he couldn’t tell her. He could not possibly have that conversation. Okay, maybe depression. Fuck.

Luke closed his computer, turned abruptly, head down.

‘See you later,’ as he rushed for the door. His voice was broken in two, echoing on itself.

‘Bye.’

They had noticed.

Outside in the car park he took out his phone.

Hi Darling. I’m feeling weird. I need to sleep this off. Don’t worry. I’ll see you in the morning.

He turned off his phone, before she could respond.

 

 

FISH ’N’ CHIPS. A network of memories reaching out, holding hands. Finger-sized holes ripped in newspaper. Greasy mitts dipping in. ‘Give us a chip. Give us a chip.’ The monstrous packages his father carried home, ceremoniously unwrapped at the table, the corners of the paper weighted down with bottles, his mother slapping any small hand that dared move in before the adults. Sauce from a can, the windows steaming up; Simon eyeing the second piece of fish, racing his brothers for it. The too-warm throatfuls, gulping down the Coke his father said helped cut through the fat. He was right. It let you stay hungry, helped you keep up when you were the littlest. Fish ’n’ chips was a meal to be shared.

Simon flicked between channels; same election, same results rising like damp up the country’s walls. He stirred at the chips with his finger, pulled out a piece of fish that was already going soggy. He peeled off an end of batter that still had some crunch to it. One Nation, ten per cent they were saying. The rain detonated against the window and a cold finger of air felt its way beneath the door. They were out of firewood. His fault. There was a list on the fridge of the jobs he had not yet got around to. Just a joke, he knew that, Amanda didn’t mind. She said she didn’t mind. Then again, she said she’d be here tonight. There was a note on the table when he got in. ‘Congratulations Darling, I’m so proud of you.’ Written hurriedly on the back of a supermarket receipt, as she rushed out the door.

‘Just until the documentary’s shot,’ she would tell him. Before that, ‘just until the proposal’s in.’ ‘Just until the funding’s secure.’ ‘Just until the contract’s signed …’

‘Just until I’m dead,’ Simon replied; joking, smiling till she smiled back. Kissing her first.

It was too early for bed. Simon turned off the television. It’d only make him angry, and then how would he dream? Weather slapped at the silence. He was already angry. He walked to the fridge and opened a beer. Just the one. Just tonight. His jeans slipped down as he walked. He needed another hole in his belt. Fuck he’d lost some weight. His mother would complain next week when they visited. She’d be cooking for days, trying to fatten him up.

He found himself standing at the phone. The more his dreams became like life, the more his life became like dreams. He couldn’t remember it being like this before. He. Now there was a puzzle. He’d been warned about this too, down at the university. Dislocation, they called it. He was asked about it, at the last visit. He’d lied, or rather heard himself lie. Now he stood at the phone, watched his fingers push the buttons he knew by heart. He felt the flutter in his stomach; the child at the counter, reaching for the sweets, slipping them quietly into his pocket, safe next to the small change he would save for another day. It rang, once, twice, three times. He thought about hanging up, but told himself not to be stupid. Just a phone call. He called her all the time. It didn’t mean … told himself lies.

‘Hi. It’s Simon.’

‘Simon.’

He liked the way she always used his name, passed it back to him as if giving a gift. He liked the lift in her voice, the energy that hung buzzing at the end of her sentences.

‘Hey, Eve.’

‘How are you?’

‘Good.’

‘What are you up to?’

‘Now?’

‘Yeah now.’

‘Oh, um, not much. Apart from you know, calling you. Bored.’

‘Where’s Amanda?’

‘Filming. You know, the conference thing.’

‘Oh right. Yeah. You been watching the …’

‘Depressing.’

‘Let’s go out somewhere.’

She made it sound inconsequential, the way adults learn to. No big deal. The deal we do and undo, that does us and undoes us. The ideal. The we deal. No big deal.

‘I haven’t got the car. It’s still in the garage.’

‘Wouldn’t ride in it anyway.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘Twenty minutes? I’ll call round.’

‘Ah, yeah, sure. Hey, um, I got through. To the next round.’

‘You’re joking?’ She shrieked her delight. ‘That’s amazing. Fucking wonderful. I knew you would. I told you. That’s settled then. We have to celebrate then. See you soon.’

Simon and Amanda had talked about it only once, and it had ended with him swearing at her. That was just after Amanda first moved in, their first proper argument. Eve had come round for dinner. Amanda was out helping a friend set up lights for a play in the Fringe, but the guy providing the gear didn’t turn up and Amanda came back early. Nothing was happening. It never had. Eve was Simon’s nothing-ever-happened woman. Amanda noticed straight away. The way they tried too hard to include her. The sheer effort it took to make the nothing-happening natural. Three people sitting together in a space set for two. Later, when Eve left, Amanda confronted him.

‘What was happening here?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know.’

‘I don’t.’

‘You weren’t pleased to see me back here.’

‘We were in the middle of a conversation, that’s all. Stuff from the old days. You wouldn’t have been interested. We didn’t want to leave you out, is all, so you know …’

‘I’m not stupid. Why do you treat me like I’m stupid?’

‘I’m not.’

‘I can see when something’s happening, even if you can’t. I can tell, Simon. She wasn’t pleased to see me.’

‘You’re being fucking ridiculous.’

But she wasn’t. They both knew that. Simon promised there was nothing to worry about, and believed the promise as he gave it. He still saw Eve occasionally, caught up for lunch, sent long emails that always received prompt replies. He knew. He’d always known. Ever since they first met.

That was just after Simon bought his first car, a beat-up Nissan from a friend of his uncle, a taxi driver looking to offload it. He was taking it up to Auckland, an excuse for a road trip, and a mate from work (the storeroom days) knew Eve was looking for a lift. She offered to pay the petrol in exchange for a ride. It was summer and he picked her up from the beach at Waikanae, where she was renting a little bach with a shed out the back for her paintings. They were shit, but he was nineteen and easily impressed.

The conversation was polite for the first thirty kilometres. Growing up, Simon hadn’t had a lot to do with Chinese, and even though Eve was third generation, her vowels nasal and blunted, her clothes in those days showing more than a touch of bogan, he found himself treating her like a tourist. Passing through Levin she took control of the stereo and somehow talk of music led to talk of school, of growing up, and in the way of a journey with a clearly marked exit point, a wistful sort of intimacy developed. They talked for seven and a half hours, with a five minute toilet break in Taihape, not long enough to gather his thoughts.

It would have been ridiculous to have admitted he had fallen in love with her in under six hundred kilometres, so he didn’t. They exchanged phone numbers, and over the next ten years contrived reasons to stay in touch. Now Eve was his oldest friend. She claimed the same. She’d married, divorced, travelled, had an abortion, kept him informed. She’d been back in Wellington for six months, after another stint in Dublin. A lawyer, she always paid for their meals.

Ten minutes later, Eve knocked on the door. Simon’d barely had time to change. His nothing-ever-happened woman hugged him at the door. This was a new development. There had been an unspoken rule between them, a careful gap maintained, a place to throw words and laughter. Eve was shorter than Amanda, not as broad at the shoulders. She stepped back and handed him a bunch of flowers he somehow hadn’t noticed. Simon tried to read her expression beneath the strands of jet black hair that fell carefully over her face.

‘Congratulations. You’re going to be a star. Come on, follow me. Time to party.’

‘Wait a sec. I’ll just grab my phone.’

Simon paused at the kitchen table, and beneath Amanda’s hurried note scribbled his own.

Just gone out for a drink with Eve. I’ll text you. Hope filming went well.

He looked at his handwriting, messy beneath Amanda’s neat hand. Punch and counter punch. An accidental, instinctive collision awaiting its apology. Tomorrow, after the dreaming.

 

 

RICHARD OBSERVED THE quiet tremor of his hands. Palms down, fingers spread: thick for an academic, built for grasping tools, digging holes, tightening wires. But his father had always been proud his son had chosen an academic path. Never once had he suggested Richard stay on the farm.

‘You’ll do important things,’ he’d said, and part of Richard had always believed him. That when he too sat propped up in the hospital bed, when family and friends filed in, to make small talk, to hold his hand, to do all they could to hide their bewilderment, the still-living would say, as they walked away through disinfected corridors, ‘He was an important man, you know. He did important things.’ It was enough, in the end, to be able to imagine that.

Time, though, was running out. A lifetime of the urgent crowding out the important, of the actual never being substantial enough to secure the possible. Belief and experience drifted tectonically apart, and each day the leap became harder to imagine. Was that it? Was that why William went out kicking at the air? Was hope in the end the problem?

Richard’s hands trembled. As if the body knew of his decision first. Had he been the sort to write out speeches or prepare PowerPoints there could be no such illusion. Folded in his suit jacket pocket or jammed onto his flash drive there would be the map of his life to come. But Richard preferred the unplanned moments, everything oozes. He straightened in front of the mirror of the staff toilets, a three minute walk to the lecture hall where he would deliver his keynote address, and tried to force a decision from his reflection.

‘Come on you old bugger, show some backbone, make a call.’ He searched his eyes for an answer and found only the question staring back at him, flat and disappointing. Tonight the self had floated free. He followed it down the corridor to the elevator, his hands still gently shaking.

The lecture hall was packed, a full muster of the well-dressed and well-meaning. They would be an attentive audience. Academics relaxing on a night off, wealthy benefactors collecting on their investment, here to partake in the collective assertion of cleverness. And a few keen students from the lab, post-grads slowly feeling their way towards a ritual of their own.

Richard had avoided the front entrance on the mezzanine floor where later the guests would mingle and drink and keep a fearful eye on the large screen and its election news. He’d come in the side door and it was only now, as he leaned forward to acknowledge the offered hand of a mathematician he’d not seen in over a decade – Franz the Cyclist they called him, an obsessive vegetarian who specialised in hyperspace topography – that he was noticed. Someone halfway back started clapping. Richard tried to calm them with a dismissive wave but it was too late, others were joining in and a ripple of sound chased its echoes around the room.

Jed Carter, an Institute up-and-comer and chair for the evening, skipped to the microphone, grinning widely as if he was the reason for the outburst. To Richard’s great satisfaction the clapping finished and Jed’s smile was caught stranded in a moment of silence. Jed was, Richard supposed, cleverer than he had ever been. Elizabeth told him it was a trick of ageing, that everything now appeared brighter, faster and shinier, but in this case at least, she was wrong. Beneath Jed’s brashness there was the type of confidence only brilliance could provide. He was one of those rare beasts that could cope with the smallest of details and the biggest of pictures simultaneously, resolving discrepancies between the two in a feat of real time iteration Richard could only envy. In meetings Jed was consistently the first to realise the implications of a new finding, and the first to suggest a means of clarifying a puzzling result. Intellectually his credentials were beyond question, the sort Richard should have had no trouble trusting. Yet Richard didn’t trust him, had never once considered sharing the secret with him. Insecurity perhaps, professional jealousy almost certainly, but there was something else too. It was the very quality of the man before him, short and slender, restless, an attention-fuelled reaction in need of constant feeding. Ambitious, dismissive; too clever by half.

‘… but ladies and gentlemen, you are not here to listen to me’ (and didn’t he resent that?) ‘and you hardly need me to summarise the credentials of the man who remains synonymous with The Institute’s finest achievements. Ladies and Gentlemen, there is simply no better person to mark the climax of this weekend’s celebration than Richard Bradley.’

They clapped again, rising this time from their seats to make clear the extent of their goodwill. Richard edged quietly towards the microphone. Up the back of the theatre he saw the liberated Amanda standing beside her cameraman, whispering instructions.

‘Thank you, Jed. I am of course both humbled and honoured to be here, and troubled too. Standing here on a night that marks so many things – for The Institute, for the country, for myself personally and professionally – I realise how inadequate my powers of communication are. How, no matter which words I choose, I will fall short of conveying to you the message that strains to be heard. I suppose I should have paid more attention in school.’

Richard could feel it happening, the linguistic unfolding that was his habit, as the message itself assembled in the wings, taking its last minute breaths, tingling as the cue approached.

‘We all, I suppose, as we grow older, experience a sort of coming apart. A fragmenting of self, you might say. This phenomenon has come as some surprise to me. I imagined that as I made my way through life the version of Richard Bradley I carried in my head would become more coherent. Growing to know oneself, or some other such revolting phrase. I remember well starting out in this career, possessing the naïve confidence required to leap from one position to another, trying each on like a shopoholic in a clothes store, confident that eventually I would emerge if not fully satisfied, at least fully clothed. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed this about the way your elders dress, but as time goes by we trade coherence for comfort. Although we may never lose our taste for the new idea, we find it harder and harder to discard the old favourite. Sartorially and intellectually we become layered creatures, and there are days we can hardly bear to look in the mirror. To make this sad state respectable, we embrace paradoxes as a hallmark of wisdom, confusion becomes a badge of membership, to be worn with false humility.

‘It is the custom at events like this to recycle the older thoughts, the tried and the true expositions. We become signposts on the journey which must in turn be taken up by those like Jed, who have not yet drifted apart entirely. I can assure you I have such a speech prepared ladies and gentlemen, a retrospective which will make both myself and The Institute appear fully worthy of this most generous celebration. My problem is this. I am not at all convinced I should deliver it.’

Richard paused: not for effect but to acknowledge the tightening in his throat, which would now need to be carefully managed.

‘Yesterday a very dear friend of mine took his own life. I have had in my possession for quite some time a gaudy new jacket which I have been too frightened to don in public. In memory of a good friend and a respected colleague I offer you, with some considerable hesitation, a story not of the past but of the future. I would like to unveil tonight the preliminary results of a piece of research which I have not yet shared with another living soul, and which until this morning I was convinced I would take with me to my grave. So good friends and supporters brace yourselves, for you will no more like hearing this than I will enjoy delivering it.’

Richard looked out over the faces, taking the time to return the gazes of those who would meet his eye. Others looked away, or exchanged glances with one another. There was a quickening in the pulse of the room. Jed sat straighter in his seat, suddenly interested. A man Richard did not recognise fished about in his suit jacket, producing a notebook. At the back of the theatre Greg sharpened his focus.

‘If we lived in a world where the human being was afforded only the dignity of the humble lab rat, genetics would be a considerably simpler proposition. That we don’t is of course one of the lasting achievements of our civilisation, but nevertheless there would be few amongst my colleagues who hasn’t wondered what we might discover, were we able to switch the genes of a developing foetus on and off with impunity, in order to study their effect. We harbour many deep suspicions and intuitions when it comes to the role certain genes play within our development, but are frustrated at every turn by our inability to devise the controlled experiments necessary for the testing of these hunches. Up until now, as you know, most of the evidence we have comes from the study not of function but of malfunction.

‘We seek out patterns of inherited deformity and illness, and from there look for telltale genomic variations, inferring from their existence the function of that version which presents in the nonsufferer. It is for this reason the genetics of disease tends to progress more quickly than the genetics of development. Now, thanks to the fact that you and I do indeed share much of our development platform with the aforementioned rodents, and our ethical flexibility when it comes to those of the scaly tails, we are not entirely without research options. But, when it comes to those features which many of us would regard as uniquely human – namely the complex and confusing twists of the human brain – our ability to construct worlds from language, such analogies become quickly strained.

‘Perhaps it is this absence of hard data which has allowed such strong orthodoxies to take hold. The development of the human brain, genetically speaking, remains something of a last frontier, and many, myself included, have grown comfortable beneath this veil of secrecy. I have always valued our ability to retain, in our thinking about thinking, the sort of flexibility that reductionist science does not allow. Here, more than with any other physical artefact, we confront something which exists primarily in the terms in which it is viewed. Our mind in the end is whatever it chooses to be. As has been oft mentioned, using the mind to define the mind invites a vicious sort of circularity; and from this fine philosophical point grows the interpretative freedom our Institute has always celebrated.

‘But what will become of us when the veil finally slips? Are we ready for it, or has our denial of the very possibility left us hopelessly unprepared for the realities of tomorrow? That I suppose is the question I wish to pose tonight, and not just in the abstract, for the future is closer than we might imagine.

‘What, for example, will we do when we reach the stage of genetically identifying not just susceptibility to disease, but also to criminality? It is not at all clear how a criminal justice system will or indeed should adjust to what is in essence a radical reframing of the principle of free will upon which our social contracts are framed. And what will we do when the capacity for intellectual development can be read in the genome of a developing foetus? Many claim that the human brain is too complex for such simple conclusions to ever be drawn, and until the results started to come in from my last piece of research, I would have been one of them.’

The silence between his words was absolute. The devil, his audience knew, was in the detail, and they, like he, could not look away. Richard breathed in, allowing them a moment to become aware of the room’s quiet. The disquiet.

‘My story starts three years ago, when a colleague who I am sure would prefer not to be named in this context, presented me with a set of sequences collected from one hundred and twenty subjects who suffered from, or were related to people who suffered from, a very specific form of learning disability. In particular the sufferers experience a difficulty with the interpretation of symbols, and this affects amongst other things their reading, writing and mathematical ability, while leaving the development of spoken language relatively unscathed. The controversy my colleague was embroiled in surrounded the genetic nature of this phenomenon, with many detractors claiming that no good evidence of heritability existed, and that the geographic pattern of the sufferers supported the alternative hypothesis of some environmental effect.

‘My contribution then was to be a simple one. Could I find a genetic marker unique to the sufferers, which would therefore provide strong support for the genetic case? Thanks to a recent advance in gene expression technology, and some strongly suggestive neurological studies which were able to pinpoint the affected area of the brain for us, the task, whilst still daunting, no longer carried the whiff of impossibility.

‘So I did what any enterprising Institute leader does: disguised the nature of the task and set a team of hard working post docs loose on it.’

Here there would normally have been laughter, out of politeness if not amusement, but tonight none was so brave. Many in the audience had already anticipated the next step, and those who hadn’t could nevertheless sense the tightening all around them.

‘Sure enough, within time three prime suspects emerged: two of them a single transcription error, the third a simple repeat. There was some initial confusion; it looked as if the key would lie in the way these variants were interacting and yet there wasn’t a sufficiently clear pattern to allow my students to draw a ready conclusion. I however had the advantage of context and was quickly able to dismiss one of the three nominated stretches. What I then noticed was that within the unaffected members of the tested population, there existed a third variation of one of the genes in question, so that rather than having a disruptive and normal version of the gene, there appeared to be two distinct non-disrupting variants out there in the general population. And of course, given this, the obvious question is whether these two variants have any further impact upon the area of development in question: that of symbolic thinking.

‘I suspected the answer in this case would be no, and indeed considered the existence of these two variants strong evidence in favour of the gene not being crucial to this aspect of development. To confirm my hunch I arranged for the collection of data from a second group, in this case a UK study of a cohort of students entering their college years, who were part of a longitudinal study on aptitude and achievement. And I have to report to you today, that going on the preliminary results, I was quite wrong.

‘Variants A and B were both present in the sample group, and furthermore, when I examined the standardised test scores of the students, it appeared that on average the possession of Variant B of the identified gene is worth approximately five IQ points, which is a remarkably strong signal to be emerging from such a small variation within what is the most sophisticated structure in the known universe. So strong, I hardly need tell you, as to be barely credible.

‘The next step of course is to see whether we can trace the source of the Variant B. In this case the signal itself is tremendously strong, owing to the fact that it appears to be, in evolutionary terms at least, a remarkably recent interloper. Indeed, every piece of data I have thus far been able to examine suggests to me that Variant B emerged only five thousand years ago, and since that time, presumably as a result of strong selective advantage, it has spread rapidly from its geographical centre. So yes, ladies and gentlemen, working in direct contrast to every orthodoxy currently held about the evolution of the human mind, what this research appears to be pointing us towards is a strong racially-based characteristic to intellectual architecture; for Variant B first emerged, as far as we can tell, in Northern Europe… I suppose some of you may have questions.’

It had been spoken. Richard could feel the beading of sweat above his eyebrows. He gripped the edges of the podium to arrest the shaking of his hands. The silence took on a two-tone quality, pulsing inside his head. His chest heaved but his breathing was shallow, as if there was a part of himself he could no longer access. He looked down at the podium, an arsonist unable to view his handiwork. He heard the first seat slap back as somewhere out in the world a member of the audience stood. A throat cleared. Whispers started, filling out into mumbles. Then came the movement, the rearranging of a resting herd, each individual preparing to move with the group, the group itself beginning to pop and crackle.

‘You treacherous bastard!’ Richard recognised the voice. It had been over fifteen years but it was unmistakable. He hadn’t noticed her in the audience, but now seeing her standing before him, dead centre four rows back, it seemed impossible he had missed her. The once dark hair was streaked with grey, and the fall of her skirt hinted that beneath the anger and the protest, hers had been a life of easy living, but her eyes shone as bright and furious as ever. Susan Russell.

Someone began to boo, and other voices joined him. Then the hissing started, that sinister sibilance of the seventies Richard had assumed dead. For a confused moment he wondered if it wasn’t Susan they were objecting to, but one glance confirmed his fear. Bewilderment was melting into hostility. That thing which had kept them all together through the years, the common enemy, was rising again before them. A second heckler stood and began the chant.

‘Racist! Racist! Racist!’

And as was befitting such a celebration, they were transported back in time: to thirty years younger and angrier, thirty years more certain. Excitement sparked and then ignited, and the few moderates did what moderates always do, watched and prepared their stories. Richard caught the eye of Mary, a young woman whose Ph.D. he had supervised. She was a good student, more patient than brilliant, but possessing the scientist’s prime attribute: intellectual bravery, a willingness to be wrong. There was desperation on her face, as if she felt called to act in defence of her mentor, but had no idea what form such heroism should take. Richard smiled at her and shrugged, as if to say ‘this will pass’, though he doubted it was true.

‘Racist. Racist.’

 

 

HOTEL ROOMS LOOK better in the movies. Whether shabby or extravagant, illuminated by chandeliers or shadowed by a single naked bulb, the hotel room makes the commonplace exotic. In the movies. In life the sheer kitschness of the everyday permeates all.

Luke sat disappointed on his very ordinary bed, which was neither too hard nor too soft, chosen for its qualities of compromise. The duvet too had been carefully selected to go unnoticed, that it might be killed by age not fashion. The carpet, once thick, was the only clear mistake, a dark mustard which dirtied the room.

There was a knock at the door.

‘Room Service.’

Her uniform was crumpled, her face tired and disinterested. A university student traipsing the corridors, that she might afford beer and petrol. Or perhaps still at school. Nature had cruelly roughened her face and thick make-up had been called upon to hide the damage. She handed over the tray, and produced a docket for signing.

‘Your meal, Sir.’

‘Thank you.’

Luke tried to think of something else to say, a comment that would lighten her evening and make her think well of him. Nothing came and the moment stretched. She didn’t move. Perhaps she was waiting for a tip. Luke didn’t check his pockets. He knew there was no money there.

‘Ah, sorry, I just …’

‘My pen, Sir.’

‘Oh, right, I thought …’

‘Enjoy your meal.’

‘Thank you. I will.’

He didn’t. The corn chips were cheap and over-flavoured, the guacamole was from a jar. His five dollar Coke carried the metallic taste of its can. So this was how it was to be, his grand act of rebellion: alone in a disappointing room he could not afford, tetchy and tired, betrayed by nachos. The television provided the room with its focal point and Luke flicked through the channels as he’d known he would, feigning nonchalance in an attempt to deceive his watching self. Election, election, sport, sport, world news, Adult channel previews blocked, refer to guide.

Luke referred to the guide.

If you wish to view a movie from our adult selection, you will be charged $12. This charge will show on your hotel bill as ‘movie’. To view the movie, press Enter from the menu screen, and then 1 followed by Enter again to confirm your selection. By pressing Enter for the second time, you are confirming you have accepted this charge. Your selection will then start playing. You can watch your movie as many times as you like for this single charge. Should you wish to have this channel blocked, simply dial 0 and speak to reception.

Luke pressed Enter, 1, toggled through the four offered titles before settling on Naked Ambition, then Enter again. ‘Selection confirmed’ flashed in blue against the darkened screen. He chewed his way through a soggy chip. The beans were salty and there was little sign of chilli. He moved the plate to the bedside table and took a last draught from the can. He waited. The screen remained blank. He referred again to the guide and read the instructions through slowly, lest he had missed something. He flicked back through the channels, hoping in this way to sneak back up on his pornography dessert, but still the screen was blank.

The disappointment was profound. Why was life so set on betraying him? Was it so unreasonable to want these things – a job he enjoyed, a wife he could love, twelve dollars of sex when he ordered it? He doggedly repeated the procedure. Enter. 1 to confirm. Enter. Same message. Same failure to deliver. Luke’s heart was caught in the hopeful, throat-bothering rhythm of the thirteen-year-old. He picked up the receiver. They didn’t know him here. It was ridiculous he should even care. Why would anyone care? How dare they care, when it was they who offered the service? He cranked up his belligerence, by way of cover.

‘Reception. How may I help you?’

A woman’s voice. It would be, wouldn’t it? Luke hesitated. How could she help him? He wanted to see naked women. How to put it?

‘Um, yeah, I’ve just been having trouble with my television, I’m in room …’

‘Five-oh-four.’

There was no hiding from them. They knew who you were, what you watched, what you thought, how you left the toilet seat.

‘Yes.’

‘What sort of trouble, Sir?’ As if she couldn’t guess.

‘I’m just trying to watch a movie, and the screen’s blank.’

‘A pay channel?’

‘That’s right.’ His voice was shrinking, the adult pushing the adolescent down.

‘All right, well just let me check whether … was it a blocked channel, Sir?’

She emphasised the word blocked, said it in the way a plumber might. Here was the problem, the distasteful thing which must be dealt with. She would humiliate him. This was the compensation she claimed, as one of the uniformed, the underpaid. As a woman.

‘What?’

‘The channel you selected, Sir, was it one of the adult movies?’

She wielded the word expertly. Adult. A small pause first, clearing out the debris, letting it stand alone, exposed. Did they joke about these calls later, leave cryptic notes on the guests’ files? Of course they did.

‘Yes.’ Luke winced at the confession. But she did not know him. That was important. He needed only to breathe through this, remove himself from the conversation, and it would pass. He would have his moment, his flesh, his fleeting hit of power. She couldn’t understand.

‘All right, well your set does not appear to be locked. Check the connections at the back of the set, running from the decoding box. I can send someone up to have a look at it, if you would like…’

The thought of porn rescue arriving at his door was too much for Luke. That he could not breathe through.

‘No, no it’s fine. I’ll check the connections. I wasn’t really … it doesn’t matter. Thanks for your help.’

The connections were not loose. Luke tried the procedure one more time, but the result was the same. He was vaguely aware he might have incurred thirty-six dollars of charges, and knew that on checking out he would not query them. He returned to the minibar and surveyed the overpriced stock. The anger that had brought him to this place returned: a dark sense of the inevitable. He found himself pacing the room like a prisoner. He reached the door for a third time, switched the light on then off again. Once, twice, three times. He felt fear, a sudden surge of clarity. Was it possible a mind could be lost so easily?

The woman on reception watched Luke walk across the foyer. Surely it was she who had answered the phone. He avoided her eyes, put his head down in the manner of one in a hurry and lengthened his stride. He felt her watching him all the way to the door. She wouldn’t understand.

Luke did not check the bar before he entered it. The blast of warmth and music was enough of a reason, and the bouncers did not stop him. It was like the movies again. The outsider repairs to a bar, strikes up a conversation with the barman, is introduced to an interesting stranger. The talk comes easily, they are witty and refined. Cigarettes and cynicism, cool observations and charming replies. They do not go home together, it is enough that a connection has been made, that they understand they are not alone.

But the barman looked sixteen: overweight and pimpled, perspiration glistening through his crew-cut as he danced between the demands of the drinking and the drunk. Luke pressed amongst the thirsty and bought himself a beer. He worked his way back through knots of laughter, making for a darkened corner. He would find a seat and spend a while watching others. That was interesting wasn’t it? You could film it.

He did not see her, sitting on the other side of the table, lost in shadows.

‘Hello.’

Too late. He was already sitting.

‘Oh, sorry, is this seat …’

‘Help yourself.’

It wasn’t until she grinned that he realised. Out of uniform they looked so different. Fuck.

The moment presented itself. He could stand awkwardly and back away without explanation. Just a small thing, a small coincidence in a small city. They both understood this. But if he did not take the gap, if he sat here and let it close over, that was not a small thing. She watched him. The decision was his alone. He raised the bottle to his lips, concentrated on the simple business of tasting, met her eyes.

‘So where are all your mates then?’ She sipped the last of her drink through a straw that was too long for its stumpy glass.

‘Just popped in for a quick one,’ Luke told her, lamely holding up his bottle as if all things could be explained this way. ‘How about yourself? Who are you with?’

It came out wrong. He blushed, thankful for the darkness. This was ridiculous. His mouth went dry and he drank a thirsty denial. Sophie. Year Twelve Biology. A good student. An interesting student. Bright, but pulled back to bogan by a force bigger than the both of them. She smiled again. A great smile. Dimpled and broad. He’d melted for less. Those were the days.

‘You know, just popped in for a quick one.’ Taking the piss. She held up her empty glass. ‘Or two, if you’re buying.’

‘I’m not sure…’

‘I won’t tell if you don’t. Bourbon and Coke. Thanks.’

Clearly he should have walked away.

When he returned she’d moved over, so that there was room for him to sit beside her on the bench seat at the end of the alcove.

‘I like it here. You can watch people.’

Luke could smell her shampoo. She rearranged herself on the seat, moving closer. Her thigh was firm against his. He pulled back slightly and she followed. He couldn’t tell if it was deliberate. Her face was all innocence. Of course he could tell. He saw them practising this every day. Fucking hell.

‘Seen anything interesting then?’

‘A guy who starts a new beer before he’s finished his old one.’

‘Where? Oh, I see. Yeah. Just a little …’

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Been a long night.’

‘What have you been doing?’ She was leading the way, making it normal. He told himself he was simply inhabiting the space she cleared for him, no more than that.

‘Nothing much. Just watching the election.’

‘I voted today.’

‘You’re not old enough to vote.’

‘I’m not old enough to be here either. Ask me how I did it.’

She pushed at his arm to prompt him. His body became acutely aware of the contact. He wanted her to do it again. Less than five minutes’ walk from here was a hotel room. The key was in his pocket.

‘How did you do it?’

‘I pretended to be my mother. She doesn’t vote.’

‘Why?’

‘Why not?’

‘I mean why doesn’t your mother vote?’

‘You’d have to ask her. You shouldn’t though. She’s dangerous, around men. You’re safe though. Married right?’

‘For now.’

So obvious. But that was the point of the game. Her skin was smooth, in the dim light flawless. He wanted to touch her.

‘Bad day?’

She asked it in the manner of an adult, like they do on television.

‘No, I always come drinking alone at night,’ he said, enjoying the chance to over-dramatise.

‘Sorry, am I in the way?’

‘No, of course not. Good to see you.’ So obvious.

‘Want to talk about it?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘How come you teach?’ She sucked at her bourbon, like a child at a birthday party. He wished he’d bought her a drink without a straw.

‘Man’s got to earn a living.’

‘You don’t seem like a teacher to me,’ she told him.

‘That’s okay. You don’t seem like a student to me.’

‘Well no, I didn’t think you’d have bought me a drink otherwise.’

She would. He saw it. This was not a game. If he asked, she would follow him. And so he wouldn’t ask. Mustn’t ask. But … fuck.

‘You want another one?’

‘Not yet.’

‘So why don’t I seem like a teacher?’

She gave the question due thought, her smooth brow creasing with the need to get the answer right. For a moment he thought she was going to give up on the task.

‘Sometimes I watch you in class and you seem like you’re not sure why you’re there.’

‘That’s not teaching. It’s life.’

‘How do you mean?’ She had this well sorted, listening like she was interested. He wondered if she knew what she was doing. Or was she the sort who years later would protest that life had made a victim of her, that it wasn’t her fault she’d always attracted the wrong sort of man?

‘I don’t know. Well, just that if you ever stop and wonder if you’re where you’re meant to be, the answer’s always no. Sorry, that makes no sense does it?’ He smiled apologetically; painfully aware now how much he needed her to like him. To show him that she liked him.

‘No, I know what you mean I think.’

‘So the trick then is simple.’

‘Don’t stop and wonder.’

‘Precisely.’

‘What beer’s that?’

‘Macs.’

She leaned across and took the bottle from his hand. Or rather took his hand, then gently worked the bottle free. She held it to her lips and tilted her head back.

‘Nah, don’t like it.’

‘That’s because you’re a child.’

‘And you’re such a grown-up,’ she smiled.

‘Can I tell you a secret Sophie?’

‘Shoot.’

‘I’m fucking miserable.’

‘We’re all fucking miserable.’

‘He’s not.’

Luke pointed to a long-haired man who stood at the bar, swaying in time to the music, a liquid smile dribbling off his face. Sophie gripped Luke’s arm and laughed harder than she needed to, leaning forward so that her breasts presented themselves. Luke looked away, as he was conditioned to do. Saw, enjoyed, looked away.

 

 

‘I THINK IF we take one question at a time,’ Jed shouted into the microphone, ‘this will all go a lot more smoothly.’

Richard had to admire the depth of his colleague’s optimism, for if there was one thing this evening would not be it was smooth. The outraged stood waving for attention. Susan, tired of being one voice amongst the many, took the initiative and clambered down across the desktops to stand alongside the two professors. Jed backed away, allowing her access to the microphone. Not democratic perhaps, but at least this way held a promise of order.

Susan leaned in to the microphone, owning it, and waited for silence. Academically speaking, she was one of Richard’s oldest friends, and it was oddly comforting that tonight she should be the face of the enemy.

‘Normally Richard, in the circumstances, given your loss, I would allow you considerable leeway. But I’m afraid this time it’s just too damned important.’

She pulled her head slightly back, by way of punctuation, and rode the applause.

‘And so my question to you is this, and it’s in two parts so bear with me.’

As if he had a choice.

‘First, given the findings at this stage are so clearly preliminary, how confident are you that what you have presented to us tonight is anything more than pure speculation? And second, given the speculative nature of your findings, what in God’s name are you doing presenting them? What exactly were you hoping to achieve?’

Her nostrils flared, as if inflated by the second round of cheering that burst from the rally. For this is what it had become now, a rally. Here was the moment Richard had constructed. His creation, and so his responsibility. He edged towards the microphone. He knew how this worked as well as any of them.

‘Science is by its nature speculative. I have spent my whole career speculating, and have stood many times before you with nothing more than the hint of a research programme. Sometimes these hints prove fruitful, other times they waste entire careers. Such is the roulette of discovery. One must never apologise for speculation. Every research programme needs its catalysts, just as surely as it needs its lab workers, its statisticians, its master communicators or its securers of funding. But you would not have intended to ask me a question with such an obvious answer. What you really want to know is not, why have I speculated, but why this speculation? And so I will, if you allow me, offer an answer.’

Richard spoke quietly, letting the amplifier do the work, carefully imitating the voice of reason. The booing had stopped, and those who had been queuing for their turn to hurl stones had taken their seats again. Here was the claim Richard had relied upon his whole career, that curiosity was a stronger force than dogma.

‘First let me thank you in advance for listening. When the first results came through I spent three weeks rechecking them, before I would even allow myself the possibility they could be correct. Then I wanted to burn them, and then I decided to bury them. But I didn’t. Because I couldn’t. By that I mean a very simple thing. If these results turn out to be accurate, if what is now no more than a highly suggestive study turns out to carry weight, then I can not bury it because it will grow back. The first rule of managing any scandal is “control the story”. Get the information out there yourself, put your spin on it, don’t allow your hand to be forced.

‘For the people in this room, the results suggested here are indeed shocking. And part of the reason The Institute exists is that we know there are many who do not feel this way, who indeed have been waiting a long time for results just like this, that they may abuse them. There is a story out there, a reprehensible, destructive story being told by those we would call our enemies, that needs these results. I am aware of this. William was aware of this. How could anyone not be aware of this?’

‘And so you’re going to hand it to them?’ Susan interjected. Others shouted their support of her question. Richard moved back in front of the microphone and waited for the noise to subside. There was no hurry, no panic. He had been through this argument so many times he knew its shape from every angle.

‘No, I’m handing it to you.’ Richard lowered his voice to highlight the contrast. ‘And as you say, it may be that these findings, these suggestions, will in time be disarmed. We may find the flaw, explain the discrepancy and package them neatly away, another successful diffusion. Such has been the history of every other study in this area, and such I hope will be the history of this one. I am not here to tell you that you are wrong, for I very much hope that you are right.’

He had them back, not on-side perhaps, but listening. And that was all he asked. All he could ever ask.

‘But eventually there must come a time to question what has become the great liberal complacency, the superstitious belief that it will always be thus, that each and every one of these studies can simply be denied, because the truth will not betray us. From where do we draw our confidence that the evolved world will only ever behave in ways we find acceptable? That nature should demonstrate such manners; now there’s a wild speculation.

‘When we started this institute we nailed our colours to the mast of scientific endeavour. You were there Susan, and well I remember our discussions. Well, science is a demanding ally. It is only by denying us the comfort of certainty that science can offer us the possibility of progress. One day our most cherished notions of human evolution may well be challenged. Perhaps that day has arrived. Perhaps not. But when it comes our stories had better be ready. The instinct to deny the unpalatable has dealt to institutions far stronger than ours. By denying Galileo, the church opened the door for The Enlightenment. Those faiths that closed their ears to Darwin confined themselves to recruiting simpletons. The truth is a formidably persistent opponent.

‘When was it decreed our stories of equality must depend upon stories of sameness? Nobody insists race is nothing but a cultural construct when it comes to developing medicine. We understand that susceptibility to certain conditions has a racial profile, as does the response to certain treatments. Nor are we shocked to find that all of the ten fastest one hundred metre times in history have been run by black athletes. This is a fact of the world we have comfortably accommodated. Cast an eye over any first fifteen rugby match in New Zealand and note the disproportionate number of early developing athletes from the Pacific Islands. There is more to this than culture. And again we cope. You have not felt the need to boo me as I pointed out these characteristics of our racial landscape. Different peoples are on average represented by different genetic packages. This may not be true of our future, but it is true of our present. This should not, must not, does not, lead any of us to draw conclusions regarding the worth of the individuals within those populations. What is it then about the ability to manipulate abstract symbols that frightens us so, and demands this skill be treated differently from the ability to run fast, resist Malaria, or execute a bone-crunching tackle?’

Richard headed now for the peroration, which he would present in the form of an accusation. Give the buggers something to do. Edelman, wasn’t it?

‘What if we are the problem here? What if the unspoken assumption which fuels your rage is the belief that your ability to succeed in a world of symbolic abstractions has made you cleverer and more worthy?

‘What is it you believe sets us apart as a species? For my part I believe it is empathy: that ability to imagine ourselves into the lives of others, to see the other as an extension of the self. It is empathy that allows us to rise up above the genetic imperative, to value kith alongside kin. It is empathy that gives us a welfare system; that draws our eyes to humanitarian crises in lands we have never visited; that forces us to see our planet as the sustainer of future generations. Extending the circle of our concern is the closest thing to progress humanity can claim, and it is the great project not of the intellect, but of the spirit. And after empathy I would rank creativity, and after creativity I would rank social grace, and after social grace curiosity, and after curiosity our capacity for humour – and so my list continues. And where does IQ come? I have no idea. I’ve never managed to extend the list that far.

‘And so I have come to the conclusion we have nothing to fear from this research. And yet you hound a man to death. I speak and you try to shout me down. Why? The trouble with us liberals is this. We think we are smarter than the others, and we think this makes us better than the others. This is the contradiction which in the end will destroy our Institute.’

Silence hovered over the room, as if deciding whether or not to land. Susan stepped forward. There were tears in her eyes.

‘You’re wrong,’ she told the microphone, her voice breaking. ‘You couldn’t be more wrong.’

 

 

THE BAND HAD started and Sophie had to shout into his ear to be heard. She rested her hand on his shoulder and leaned into him.

‘What?’

‘I said is this too loud for your old ears?’

‘What?’

‘The music. Is it too loud?’

‘Yeah, good.’

He gave her an uncomprehending thumbs up and smiled. She laughed. He made her laugh. She didn’t know why. The drinks he’d bought her, she supposed; that was part of it. But only part. He wasn’t trying. He didn’t have to try. With Ollie, it was like he was always heading somewhere else, to a place he thought he was meant to be. You never got Ollie, you got Ollie’s latest version of Ollie. And then there was Sophie’s version of Sophie too, with Ollie. She’d spent three years trying to work out where it was she was meant to take herself, the place Ollie would take himself, so that they might collide. This made no more sense now than it had five minutes ago, when she’d tried to explain it to Mr … to Luke. With guys, you were chasing shadows, your shadow and theirs, so even when you met … Ah fuck it, it made no sense. It didn’t have to make sense. His hand was on her shoulder now, she was leaning in, to hear. With him she was just what she was, suddenly comfortable with the forces throwing her about, like the bumper boats her dad took her on once when she was little. Whatever it was, it had something to do with that. He was trying to tell her something now. She watched his mouth for clues.

‘Can’t hear you,’ she pointed at the band. He looked, as if trying to work out her mime.

‘Nah,’ he shook his head. ‘I don’t dance.’

‘Wasn’t asking.’

The song finished to polite applause. She wouldn’t tell Ollie. She wouldn’t text him either. She felt the decision slam into her and spun with it.

‘Let’s get out of here.’

‘And go where?’

‘Somewhere we don’t have to shout.’

‘Any suggestions?’

She could trust him too. That was the thing. He wasn’t a guy like that. He was married, a teacher. They were playing a game, and the game was safe. It wasn’t all about getting her drunk so he could feel her tits. She could relax. Loose, that was the word. Not that sort of loose, but… ah, fuck it, words. Just words.

He held up a key.

‘I’m staying just round the corner. The hotel, you know, The … something beginning with H.’

‘Why?’

‘Complicated. It’s quiet though, if the …’

The band started and she lost the rest.

‘Does it have a mini bar?’

Sophie stood and felt a head rush, tripped into him as they tried to negotiate the table. His hand brushed against her arse as she steadied herself, but he didn’t grope her. A gentleman. She draped her arms around his neck, felt his breath on her. Laughed again. They were dancing, sort of dancing. Shit, she was more drunk than she realised. Never mind.

‘Get your fucking hands off her!’

Out of nowhere, a hand on Sophie’s shoulder in the half dark, pulling her back hard so she felt her neck wrench. Suddenly right there, larger than life and beery breathed, right in Luke’s face.

‘Ollie, what the fuck are …’

‘It’s okay, I’ve got the fucking paedophile now.’

Ollie came forward so their noses were almost touching, his and Luke’s … Mr Krane’s. Sophie felt embarrassed for Ollie, for herself for knowing Ollie. She tried to pull him back.

‘It’s nothing. He was just in here, that’s all. We were having a laugh, that’s all…’

Mr Krane had his hands up, like there was a gun pointed at him. He looked suddenly out of place, as if he’d fallen through some hole in time and had just only realised. There was a hand around Sophie’s waist. She turned to see Ratchet, his face broken in two by an ugly grin. The band was getting louder. All around people were dancing. The movement spilled over, jostling and pushing. Ratchet let himself fall against her.

‘It’s okay Sophie,’ he whispered. ‘We’re here now.’

‘Calm down Ollie, I’m just in a bar, having a drink, I saw Sophie, you just need to …’

Mr Krane was having to shout to be heard, and Ollie was just smiling at him, nodding his head, waiting for the moment. Out of it. He was definitely out of it, now she looked. She needed to warn Mr Krane. He wouldn’t get that. He’d think they could talk about it, like it was at school. He needed to back away.

‘Ollie! Fucken listen to me!’ Sophie screamed.

‘I’m dealing with this cunt. Fuck up.’

‘Come on now, you don’t need to talk like …’

Ollie pushed him hard, two hands on the chest. Mr Krane stumbled back, caught off balance, looking soft. Sophie tried to break free but Ratchet wasn’t letting go. She saw Bomber, back near the bar with Gash, watching, ready to block the way if anybody tried to get involved.

He stood again, Mr Krane, hands still out in compromise.

‘Ollie, I just …’

Ollie was bobbing from the waist. He came again, leading with his head. Maybe it was luck, maybe skill, but Mr Krane weaved and Ollie tumbled. He reached out for support as he went down and caught hold of a dancer’s hair. The woman screamed, stepped back. Asian.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’

Ollie glared up at her.

‘Let me fucking go,’ Sophie hissed.

‘Settle love, you’re making me hard.’ Ratchet took a handful of arse and squeezed.

Ollie didn’t apologise to the dancer, just smiled a leery smile and blew her a kiss. The guy she was dancing with pushed forward.

‘Fuck off mate.’

‘No, leave it Simon,’ the Asian girl told him. ‘Come on, it’s okay.’

He was tall: an Islander by the looks of it, clean cut, a big bastard. Bigger than Ollie. A lot fucking bigger than Ollie. He didn’t have to leave it if he didn’t want to.

‘Just back off mate, okay?’

Like magic they were beside him, Bomber and Gash.

‘This nigger giving you trouble?’ Bomber demanded. Ratchet pressed forward, loosening his hold of Sophie’s waist. She slipped away and reached out for Mr Krane’s hand. He was her responsibility. She’d get him out of this safely.

The band hit the chorus and the crowd began to sing along. Welcome Home.

‘Come on, let’s go.’

Mr Krane looked at her like she was using the wrong language. Why were people always the most useless when they could least afford to be?

‘Look here, you fat fuck.’

That was the Asian, raising her voice, making it hard for all the people pretending they hadn’t noticed.

‘Eve, leave it.’

‘Yeah, that’s right you fucking Nip, listen to your nigger.’

The four boys pressed forward as one, like they had so many times. Sophie was pulling Mr Krane towards the stage. They could get round the back and out the door on the other side. He was resisting. Like he thought there was something he could do about this. Fucking school teacher. Through the dancing Sophie could see the bouncers, leaning on the door, sharing a joke with a barmaid who’d gone out for a cigarette. But they’d be there once the punching started.

The Islander stepped forward, trying to push his way past Bomber. The Asian had his hand. They were just trying to get out of there. They weren’t making trouble. Ollie launched first. Sophie got a clear view of it. Out of nowhere, a straight punch, but the guy moved and it only grazed his chin. It still hadn’t started. Then Ollie went again, losing it this time, arms flailing. The bouncers were already moving when the first clean punch landed. The Islander caught Ollie hard on the nose and he fell like a kid, crumpled. A pressure wave surged through the crowd as the bouncers tried to push people aside. Bomber was in there, landing his big fat punches. The Asian was screaming. Gash was laughing, dancing about, his black eyes tripping out.

The noise pushed in on her. There was no room. That was the problem. No room for dancing, for escaping, no room for making choices, for being either in or out. No room even for a proper fight. Just one room, one noise, everybody part of it, and the noise growing louder. One scream rising above all the others: above the swearing, the grunting, the demands, the crazy beating from the drummer who was playing through it all.

Sophie saw it. Saw Gash looking down at his hand, saw the flash of metal, the blood.

 

 

‘YOU’RE WRONG!’ SHE screamed it at him, and somehow as the noise began to rise around him, Richard found himself screaming back.

‘I am not wrong.’

This is what it had come to. Thirty years of posturing to be resolved in a playground fight. It was personal now, him and her. The audience just happened to be there. There just happened to be a microphone between them, and a camera running.

‘Of course I don’t trust the people,’ Susan screamed at him. ‘I’m one of the people, and I don’t trust myself.’

‘I can see why,’ he retorted, but they were well past being cute.

‘Forget Rousseau,’ she told him, leaning right into his face like she was calling him out in a bar. It was farcical, he knew it was farcical, and yet he wasn’t stepping back. Couldn’t step back. ‘We’re not noble savages. We’re not noble anything. You want to know what we are? We’re stories. Layers and layers of stories, all the way down. The Institute was never built on science, and I’m sorry if that’s how you remember it. The Institute was built on story. We recognised a responsibility, to be part of the stories of the next generation. And this, this …’ she flailed her arms about. If only he’d used PowerPoint, she’d have had something concrete to accuse. ‘This story doesn’t belong here. Who do you think lives out there Richard? You think they all spend their lives sipping Pinot and reading Proust?’

‘I hate Proust.’

‘You hate people.’

‘That’s outrageous.’

‘What do you think the newspapers are going to do when they get hold of this, you pompous old fool? Run a four page feature on the theory of social contract, or lead with a headline that reads “Smart Gene found in Europeans”?’

‘People aren’t as stupid as you think.’

‘People are as stupid as the stories they tell each other.’

‘You can’t hide from the truth.’

‘So why won’t you listen when I tell it to you?’

 

 

‘YOU GETTING THIS?’

‘What do you think?’

It was better than she could have imagined.

‘Tape, have you got the tape in?’

‘Of course I’ve got the tape in.’

‘Just, you know …’

‘Unbelievable.’ He smiled at her.

‘Go closer. Go on, down the stairs.’

Amanda pushed Greg forward. He was shooting through the audience who were cheering for their side like it was a rugby match. All she needed now was for Susan to hit Richard. Or he could have a heart attack. She’d settle for a heart attack.

Amanda’s own heart was racing now. This was it. This was her breakthrough. You could plan, you could deal, you could attend all the courses, all the meetings, but in the end it came down to this. Right place, right time. It came down to luck.

 

 

THE FIRST THING Simon felt was the coldness of the steel. There had been a thump, like being punched, that was all. One of the little freaks having a go at his body. He’d get to him soon enough. Then he saw into his attacker’s eyes, and they were dark and gleaming: growing wide. The skinhead looked down. Simon felt the blade coming out, the pressure it took to pull it, the resisting suck of his muscles.

A new coldness came over him. It shivered up his body, he felt it tingling at his temples. The music was growing louder. He saw feet all around, legs moving. He’d fallen.

Screaming. In the distance. Far away.

He was flying. He concentrated on the flying.

A white wave breaking over a coral reef. He soars, swooping in low over the village.

Pigs, chased off the road as a bus ambles by, pink, yellow and green. Kids calling out through glassless windows.

Someone smiling. He goes in closer, tries to smile back. Wants to smile back.

Straightening up from the lawn: a brown body never looked so good. A machete dangles at his side, loose and natural.

Uncle Tala, but too young. A bright blue tarpaulin flapping behind him. Must be raining. Funny, he can’t feel the rain.

Somebody screaming. Faint and distant. A sound from another world. Uncle doesn’t notice. The thick warm air, sweet with frangipani.

There are no smells in dreams.

Simon pulls up. The Pacific breaks beneath him. He cries out. The pain splits him in two.

Then, nothing.