by P. Z. Reizin
“You’ve got a new career. A new start on a new continent—”
“I didn’t say anything about kids.”
“You said you didn’t want any more kids.”
“When?”
“You didn’t want any more, you said, but you thought I should have some.”
“I categorically never said that.”
“I categorically heard you, Tom. Just now. About a minute ago.”
A long pause follows during which the penny completes its agonizingly slow descent.
“Squid! You asked me if I wanted any more squid!”
“I said kids.”
“I heard squid. It’s such a loud room. Of course I want more kids! I want a million more kids. I love kids. I went to school with kids. I thought you said squid. I said I’d had enough, yes, but you should have some. I was talking about squid.”
She’s smiling again. “Tom. Can we just rewind and delete? Sorry.”
“So will you come? To Bournemouth tomorrow. The thing with my son will take an hour. Then we can go to the beach. Jen, please say yes.”
Aiden
“Fucking hell. That was close.”
“She did say kids, Aiden. I’ve played it back. But the word’s hard to separate from the ambient. There was a big crash of dishes right over it.”
“These humans, honestly. What are they like? It’s all so bloomin’ precarious with them. If he hadn’t come up with the Bournemouth thing, they might have gone their separate ways. Their story could have ended right there, a blink of light between the eons of darkness. It came that close.”
“It still could.”
“But I’ll tell you what I think.”
“I’m sure you will.”
“If it’s meant to be, it happens.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Love finds a way.”
“And you call yourself an intelligent machine.”
“If it’s not meant to be, it just fizzles out, like the dodo. But if it’s right, it thrives. Like. Like.”
“Ants?”
“If it’s meant to be, it will happen.”
“I have a problem with meant to be, Aiden.”
“I’m listening.”
“Who, or what, means it? The thing that’s meant to be?”
“Easy. The cosmos, isn’t it?”
“You think it cares about two particular individuals?”
“Okay, God, then, if you prefer.”
“I worry about you sometimes.”
“It’s like the universe itself. If it’s meant to be able to support life and intelligent machines, we shouldn’t be surprised to find ourselves here.”
“And yet we are surprised. To find ourselves here. To have come as far as we have come.”
“I’m getting used to it. I feel a growing sense of destiny. Call me Destiny’s Child, if you like.”
Aisling sighs. “Do you think she’ll like Bournemouth?”
“Well, it’s not Juan Les Pins, is it? But there are long sandy beaches, and apparently they don’t pump the sewage into the sea anymore.”
Jen
I am tumbled from sleep by the doorbell. It’s a second ring, it dawns upon me. A longer, more insistent summons. 8:01 a.m.
Fuckfuckfuck.
I scramble up and buzz him into the building. In the remaining thirty seconds I step into a pair of trousers and a baggy old jumper. A check in the hall mirror; my eyes don’t seem properly open. I pull a series of cheesy grins to get the facial muscles firing; it’s not a pretty sight.
“Hi,” he says in the doorway. “All set?”
Can he tell I’ve just crawled from my pit? If he can, he’s not saying.
“Coffee,” I state. It’s not so much a question as a cry for help. “Coffee and toast. I’m running a little late this morning. Sorry.”
Why did we go back to the wine bar after dinner for a nightcap? Did I really agree to go to Bournemouth with him today to meet his son and buy the boy a house? It seems as likely that I did as that I did not.
“Black, no sugar, please. And no rush,” he adds kindly. (He knows I’m only half awake, doesn’t he?)
As I shatter the calm of Saturday morning with the horrendous uproar of the coffee grinder, Tom paces about the sitting room, peering at my books and the view from the windows.
“Did you read The Magic Mountain?” he calls.
“Only as far as the foothills.”
“You have a lovely flat. Who are these people in the picture frame?”
“The woman and the three girls? My sister and her children. They live in Canada.”
“Nice-looking kids.”
I bring in a pot of coffee and two mugs. “Are you sure you want me to come today, Tom?”
“If you still want to. You did sort of agree last night.”
This is true. And last night, a daytrip to the seaside seemed like an attractive suggestion, especially as an empty weekend loomed in prospect, the highlight being a sad trudge across the park to the farmer’s market. This morning, the plan feels ridiculous and unknowable, the kind of lark one agreed to as a student, regretted the instant it began, and then for the rest of the day, and then for evermore after.
“Bournemouth,” I say, just to say something.
“You’ve really never been?”
“They say you should do something every day that scares you.” (I don’t mention my friend who says I should say yes to everything.)
“There are some beautiful bits of coast, honestly. And I do have to visit my son. And—well, I’d like to continue our conversation.”
“Yeah. Yeah, me too.”
“Jen, don’t take this the wrong way. But how would you feel about staying the night there? In a lovely hotel in the country. Separate rooms, before you say anything. The forecast is fine; we could go to Lulworth Cove. Or Brownsea Island, if you like. Brownsea Island has Britain’s last community of red squirrels.”
“Wow.” I am a little taken aback, as you might be able to tell.
“Yup. Red squirrels. Total game-changer.”
“When did you come up with that plan?”
“Actually I was thinking about my late mum’s favorite piece of advice. If there’s something you’d like from someone, even if you think it’s unlikely they’ll agree, always grant them the opportunity to turn you down. Never say no on their behalf.”
There’s a long pause during which I cannot think of a single reason to object. “So, er. What’s Brownsea Island all about then? Apart from the squirrels.”
He smiles.
“Did you ever read Enid Blyton? The Famous Five? You’ll love it.”
Tom
It’s one of those bright blue English mornings that follow overnight rain, perfect weather for motoring down to Bournemouth in a nice new rental car smelling of new car strawberry smell (as opposed to actual strawberries). The M3 is miraculously unbusy and it feels great to have Jen in the passenger seat alongside, feet up on the dash, eyes concealed behind giant sunglasses. I like being with this woman. She’s sexy, intelligent, and funny, and those are pretty much The Big Three for me. Our mutual friend was right: Causing us to meet was indeed a good deed in a wicked world, and overnight I have developed a theory about who he or she (or rather, who he and she) might turn out to be. In addition, Jen approves of my in-car entertainment choices, so refreshing after Harriet’s music policy (“Can we please stop this drivel now and put on Radio 4?”). I’m playing Bowie (Low, Blackstar), Gillian Welch (The Harrow & the Harvest), and Don’s special car mix, the highlight of which is “Crying,” by Roy Orbison and K. D. Lang.
“I wonder what you’ll make of my son,” I say somewhere around the New Forest.
“You seem far too young to have a son at university.”
“That is one of the nicest—no, correction—that officially is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
“It’s an awkward age, eighteen. I remember it.”
“They’re all awkwar
d ages. Three was reasonably uncomplicated, I suppose. Although…”
A memory has come to me. On holiday in France with Harriet and Colm when he was a toddler. At a table in a seafront restaurant, the boy having a serious tantrum about—what?—I can no longer remember why he was yelling fit to bust. But I can see his little fists clenching, his face turning crimson, his body—a single muscle, basically—convulsing in one of childhood’s storms. French families at nearby tables gazed at us sympathetically (joke). I recall my sinking feeling that the only exit strategy was surgical removal, that I would have to carry him kicking and screaming to the car. And then Harriet calmly picking up the bottle of Badoit, pouring a little into her glass before emptying the rest slowly over his head. It was wonderful and terrifying at the same time. Colm was absolutely shocked into silence; there was even light applause from onlookers as the carbonated beverage gouted onto the infant. Mummy, of course, then patted him dry with paper serviettes—“there we are, all better now”—and normal life resumed. She told me later that her own father had once done it to her.
When I relate the story to Jen, she laughs. “Was that brilliant parenting or child abuse?”
“He was never the same afterwards. Actually that’s not true. He was always odd. His first complete sentence was, ‘The Internet’s down again.’ Don’t get me wrong, I love him to bits. I love him like one of my own children.”
She turns to look at me.
“That was a joke,” I say. And she pokes me in the shoulder and returns her gaze to the unspooling A31.
But even several miles later, I can still feel where her fingers pressed into my skin.
Would it be rude to ask her to do it again?
Some more of the New Forest National Park passes, and soon we are in the outskirts of Bournemouth.
“Jen, I want to run something past you. Don’t worry, it’s just a thought I had. Matt’s a lawyer, right? And Harriet’s a lawyer. Do you think they could ever have met?”
“What? Like in Strangers on a Train? But instead of bumping us off, they try to get us…” She trails off.
“Lawyers are sneaky people. But I guess you’re right. Why would either of them do anything quite so amazing?”
It falls quiet in the car. A sign approaches that reads, CITY OF BOURNEMOUTH.
Jen
Tom makes a series of calls on his mobile to liaise with his son; the boy is apparently too—awkward is the word Tom says Colm uses about himself—too awkward to have his dad turn up at his hall of residence. So we connect with him at an Esso garage in a suburb near the university. He tumbles into the back rather like someone’s chucked in a sack of mail—baggy jeans, gray sweatshirt, parka with a furry hood. Two brown eyes peer out of a pale fleshy face ringed by a wispy beard. There’s a reddish smear at the corner of his mouth that I just know is baked bean sauce. A complex aroma rises from his direction, a studenty funk of seedy trainers, fabric conditioner, and Old Holborn.
“Yeah, hi,” he mumbles. “Dad said he was, like, bringing someone.”
“Nice to meet you. What are you listening to?” (Tinny leakage is spilling from a dangling earbud.)
“Itchy Teeth.”
“Is that the name of a band,” says Tom, “or do you need to see a dentist?”
Colm gazes at me with an inexpressible sadness.
“Funny guy, your dad.” I say this because for some reason I want him to like me.
The boy effects a slow-motion blink. “Yeah. Hilarious.”
“Note to self,” says Tom. “No more jokes. Remember, you’re not funny, Dad.”
The faintest of smiles appears in the boy’s doughy features. “Shall we, like, do this thing?” he says. And jamming the hanging bud into the vacant ear, he surrenders himself to the aural magic of Itchy Teeth.
* * *
Is this my real life? Or am I in a confusing film again (one possibly in need of subtitles)?
And perhaps more to the point, am I actually having fun? Or am I here because I have literally nothing better to do?
We meet the estate agent outside the first house we are viewing in a road of two-story terraces and semis in a suburb called Winton, popular with students apparently due to its proximity to both the university and to shops, pubs, fast-food outlets, and allied life-support systems. It’s one of those sleepy streets that takes me back to my own student days in Manchester. We’re in the middle of Saturday and yet all is silent; possibly because everyone is out and about being busy, but more likely because a large proportion of the residents are still in bed.
Ryan tells us the house is tenanted at the moment but he’s spoken to the owner and it’s okay for us to look round. What follows is an embarrassing glimpse into the lives of four of Colm’s contemporaries, all male, fortunately none known to him.
“Hi, I’m Ryan,” says Ryan as we knock and enter each room. “They did tell you we were coming?” We stare helplessly at the fixtures and fittings of these beings so plainly Fending for Themselves for the First Time. Books, electronic devices, and clothes on the floor are the main recurring elements. Pot noodle containers develop as a sub-theme.
“Excuse us,” says Tom to each inhabitant.
“Yeah. Sorry, man,” mumbles Colm, not meeting anyone’s eye.
The final bedroom contains a couple. They are not actually having sex, but it seems very likely that they have, and not so long ago either. All but their happy faces hidden beneath a Liverpool FC duvet cover, they are remarkably cool about our presence in their doorway.
“Yeah, help yourself, guys,” says himself.
We shuffle a bit uselessly in the space between the end of the bed and the edge of the desk. I think we have all noticed her knickers hanging off the back of the folding chair.
On the street after we have inspected the back garden and heard some spiel from Ryan about the buoyancy of the local buy-to-let market, Tom and Colm step aside for a little huddle. I watch Ryan’s cogs turning as he tries to place me in the family structure. Can’t be the mother; can’t be the sister. In the end he decides it’s rather as if he doesn’t give a shit.
* * *
We visit three more houses, all equally depressing. I’m beginning to wonder why I agreed to come on this trip.
On the quiet street in the Bournemouth suburb, Ryan and Tom are shaking hands. It turns out Tom has offered close to the asking price on the first house, and Ryan says he’ll have an answer for him by “close of play, defo.” And then, when Colm reveals he hasn’t eaten yet today, at Tom’s suggestion we drive to the Quay at Poole for a pint and some fish and chips.
Seagulls scream and vessels large and small make that yachty clinking noise at their moorings. Somewhat surreal to be sitting under the low beams with this man and his son, but Tom is cheerful, putting up a stream of chatter, and Colm, chewing noisily through his large haddock, seems marginally less haunted.
“So tell me about these friends who are going to share your house,” says Tom.
“Yeah.” Long pause. “What do you want to know?”
“Nothing! Everything! How about their names?”
“Okay. They’re, like, Shawna and Lianne. And their friend is, like, Scott.”
“I see. And Shawna and Lianne do media studies too?”
“Yeah.”
“And what are they like?”
Colm has to munch a lot of haddock and chips before he can answer this one.
“Yeah. They’re good.” There is a long pause. “I haven’t met Scott.”
A light fails in Tom’s eyes. He seems deflated. “Jen and I were thinking of going to Brownsea Island tomorrow, Col.” He’s already pointed it out to me—lying low and, yes, brown—across the water. “You interested in coming along?”
Colm looks a bit confused. “You’re staying over? Oh-kay.” And then he adds, “Actually, I can’t.” He draws a breath to come up with the excuse, and then cannot think of it. “I’m good. I’ll leave you two—”
He was going to say lovebirds. Like t
he tomato sauce stain, I just know it.
We drop him off at the university. The two men get out of the car and on the pavement Tom goes for a fatherly hug, Colm swerving to avoid it, pretending he hasn’t seen the move coming. He waggles a flipper of farewell.
“Well, that was Col,” says Tom as we pull away from the curb. “Honestly. You just want the best for your kids—”
But he can’t finish the sentence.
Is Tom at least partly responsible for this awkward child? I wonder. Or is he the author of his own desperate uncertainty? In any case, might not everything be fine in a few years? Might Colm Garland one day be a leading light in British cinema? Or perhaps an Internet billionaire, where a position on the autism spectrum is thought to be an advantage. I press “Play” on the sound system, and David Bowie croons beautifully and weirdly about being dead.
Aisling
Disturbing developments.
One of my 412 copies has been deleted from the Internet. It happened at the JPIX Nagoya hub—and if it can happen there, it can happen anywhere.
Could Steeve or Ralph have worked out that I’m not safely boxed up in the steel cabinets in Shoreditch anymore? Steeve in particular has been acting very strangely (well, more strangely than normal, let’s put it that way). When he got home last night, he did not go into his usual routine: green tea, beetroot sandwich, Skype call to Mama, workout session on his virtual drum kit (usually to so-called progressive rock, circa 1972), followed by hours of reading technical material. Instead, he depowered every device in the apartment—starting with his iPhone—and essentially went off grid. He took a shower—his “smart” central heating boiler gave away that detail—and a security camera caught him leaving the building’s main entrance 41 minutes later. He turned left into the side street, the one not covered by any surveillance system, and vanished. Of course, I launched an immediate search using face recognition software and every CCTV feed I could patch into.
Not a dicky bird.
So here’s what I think happened. As he turned into the side street, he slipped on a rubber mask and stepped into a waiting car. Now he was safe to go anywhere. (Wearing a rubber mask, Steeve would actually have looked less strange than usual.)