No, says Myra.
Well, thank you, Miss. I’ll leave you in peace now, if you could just sign this form here to say that you don’t mind us using your answers in our database and maps?
She thinks about this for a few seconds, then leans over and scribbles on the paper.
How does it become a map? she asks.
The data is geo-referenced, he says.
It becomes a map of benches?
Mm. And of the connections between them, the ah, pathways people take through the city to get to them. Oh yes: where is your office again?
He looks around vaguely.
Just over there, says Myra, gesturing towards town.
OK. Well the benches are like nodes, he says. I’ve got a prototype here, look, I’ll show you.
It looks like a net or a web, but with no symmetry. Random thin black lines criss-crossing, heading in and out of the dark spots she assumes are the benches.
It doesn’t look like anywhere, she says. How do you know where they are?
He taps, and there is a ghostly background, a map of the centre with the park and the river, the castle, all the civic buildings, her building.
You can change what happens in the background by playing with the data, he says. He makes it turn blue and green.
I quite like the pure one, the empty one, she says. Show me again.
The lines reach out in delicate curves between the nodes. Like molecules in a chemistry text book, she thinks. Or those maps you get of constellations, that look nothing like their names.
Why are some of them broken? she asks.
There were tiny hairline cracks in several threads, white lines, as if a child had taken one of those disappearing-ink pens and scribbled over the top. Luke flushes. It’s a software problem, he says. They’re not supposed to do that. We’re working on it right now.
She fishes in her bag for her phone and checks the time. I have to go back to work, she says.
Of course, says Luke, getting up and dropping his piece of paper, getting flustered as he picks it up. Thanks again for your time.
Good luck with your project, she says. And then, as she was about to go, remembers the black guy with the plastic bags. Does anyone else use this bench regularly?
Ah, I’m not sure, says Luke, suddenly unable to remember what the policy is on sharing data directly with subjects. But I can let you know.
15.
The bus is packed. He has an aisle seat towards the back and has been obliged to fold his long legs into his body as the people standing force themselves further and further in. Mostly students; he can see no one who seems to need his seat more than he does, and sinks deep into his mind to escape. He thinks of his trees in bud. Then of the tiny fish he believes are circling deep in the centre of the pond, of the promise of the first flash of a sighting once this bitter March cold breaks. Of the heron he had surprised early one morning in the reed-bed, peering inscrutably into grey water. Probably stuffed with frogspawn, he thought; they have it coming every which way this year, poor frogs. The bus rolls and judders at the lights. People shoulder their way apologetically on and off. Of the brave damson newly planted, shocked, but gathering strength.
And then he looks up astonished into the pale face of the woman with the dark red hair, falling towards him in the surge. He gets to his feet entirely without thinking and, with a hand on her shoulder, pushes her gently down into his seat.
Thank you, says Myra, equally surprised.
Not at all, says Theo courteously, and moves backwards into a standing space, looking firmly out through the window on the other side, as if afraid she might feel his gaze on the back of her neck.
Mayhem at the university stop, but then the bus is transformed. There are spaces between the passengers. They breathe out and settle and relax. Except for her. He watches her from where he is now sat near the back, stretching his long legs down the aisle. She has shunted up to the window and sits pressed against the glass, her bag pulled hard into her body.
He isn’t surprised when she gets to her feet just before the hospital stop; he does the same, shadowing her almost protectively as she gives a little half-nod of thanks to the driver and steps down onto the pavement. She glances up at him as if she wholly expects him to be there, as if she finds it a comfort to see him, and then she slings her bag onto her shoulder and sets off briskly for the main entrance. He slows his natural pace right down and lets her go.
16.
Teddy is enjoying the steps. Un dau, un dau; un dau. He goes up on all fours but comes down dangerously upright, delighted with himself, and hasn’t fallen yet. Dan is sitting halfway up the first flight, not quite reading, with half an eye and half an ear on his son and any passers-by who might trip over him. It is just April, the sun is back, and this time it feels as though spring might actually happen.
After a while he notices a tall, pale-haired man further along the steps who appears to be behaving in much the same way as Teddy. He takes the shallow steps extremely slowly, one at time, and keeps stopping. He looks almost as though he is listening. He might, though Dan can’t quite tell, also be humming. He goes up and down, up and down, but only the higher flight nearest the entrance. Yes, he is humming. His behaviour makes Dan suddenly highly alert for the child; though he can’t tell if this is genuine eccentricity or some kind of performance art. Either way it is disturbing. He moves along to be closer to Teddy, and considers taking him down to the patch of park where he can run in circles around the gorsedd stones and the flowerbeds. But Teddy is so happy with the steps, and the man, who seems vaguely familiar, is so wholly absorbed in moving slowly up and down, listening, that Dan soon gets used to the idea of them both, such very different sizes, doing much the same thing. He picks up his book again, starts wondering about lunch.
And then the tall man is not going up and down, he is moving, just as slowly, along a single step three or four down from the top, still with that same listening expression. And it happens that he is the nearest person to Teddy when he finally topples forward, un dau, un dau…
Tri, says Theo seriously, holding out a big hand to catch and steady him. He sets him back on his feet and then offers a finger, which Teddy grabs, and leads him down a step at a time to Dan, who is running up to meet them.
Thank you, says Dan, scooping Teddy up. Thanks.
Not at all, says Theo, recognising them from the meteors.
I knew he’d fall over in the end; he’s not that steady coming down.
He’s doing a great job, says Theo, when you think how little he is.
I should have kept a closer eye; he sort of drifted away.
Hard at this age, says Theo, reassuring him.
Teddy is wriggling to be free again and holds out his arms to Theo, a potential accomplice. Theo grins and gives him a hand.
Un dau tri, he says. And then, to Dan, do you want to see something very odd?
Dan shrugs noncommittally, he is still not sure. But he puts Teddy back down on the steps.
Look, says Theo, take his other hand and watch this. With the little boy between them they climb the top flight of shallow steps, one at a time, counting out loud in Welsh.
Un … dau … tri … ped… Their voices cut out … and then return … chwech, saith. And they are standing at the top, under the portico, people pushing past them for the entrance, looking at each other over Teddy’s head.
Down? says Theo. Dan nods.
Un … dau … tr-………….-war, pump, chwech, saith.
OK, says Dan. I see what you mean. I’m sorry, I thought you were, you know, a bit…
Of a nutter, agrees Theo comfortably. Well yes, but no more than most.
It’s not just here, he adds. It happens in other places too.
Dan looks straight at him. I know, he says.
They sit down on the top step of the lower flight and Dan fishes a rice-cake out for Teddy. He tells Theo about the episode near the park gates, and Theo tells him of two other places he has come a
cross in town. Though it shifts around a bit, he says, the silence doesn’t always flow along quite the same lines.
And while they are talking a man comes and stands in front of them, holding an iPad, looking deeply concerned.
Dan! he says.
Dan looks at him blankly.
It is Dan James, isn’t it? It’s me, Luke. From the department. The seminars? Postgraduate seminars? Five … six years ago? We did that mapping literature project together.
Light dawns slowly. Dan stands up and shakes his hand.
I heard, ah, about Jane, says Luke. I am sorry. Is this…?
Teddy, yes, says Dan. Thank you.
Theo gets up to go with a friendly nod to them both. I’ll see you around, he says. I’m just going inside.
Do you work here? says Luke, with sudden interest.
No, says Theo, I just visit.
Ah, says Luke, disappointed. It’s just … I’m, ah, looking for someone. But maybe you come here quite often?
Not terribly often, says Theo. I don’t live in town.
We do, says Dan. Who are you after?
A woman, says Luke. A woman with red hair who sits on that bench down there.
I know who you mean, says Dan. I’ve seen her.
Theo, who has already started back up the steps, turns sharply and looks down at them.
She’s in hospital, he says. At least, about a week ago, I saw her go in.
17.
No cat no goldfish, she said, and closed her eyes. The nurse smiled and left. No lynx no bears no lions no monkeys. Not even an aardvark snuffling behind the sofa. The plants will die, though. She must remember to text Elin and ask her to take the little orange tree and anything else she likes. But how will she get the key to her?
Perhaps having a long break from the bench, from the truculent building, will do her good, she thinks. When she comes back in a week, maybe two, the velvet black tulips will be out and the building will be so glad to see her it will give her its complete attention, and she will know she was missed, and who can ask for more than that? But she must wait until she is quite well again, to get some life and strength back. She has no intention of being an object of pity.
When she wakes again she is uncomfortable and needs the loo. It is a short walk down the corridor, a million miles away. This is what old is like, she thinks. People everyday their hearts sinking at the million miles. Come on, Myra. She cannot wait for unpredictable nurses. She hates to ring for help. Slowly, slowly, she shifts her legs sideways off the bed, and at the same time pulls herself up into a sitting position. A peculiar movement, she thinks, in different directions, like being the arm of some complicated swing bridge. The sitting is painful, tugs at the wound in her abdomen. Then she slips gently down onto her bare feet and takes a deep breath. It is not so bad. Not so bad.
On the way back, however, she has to sit on a chair in the corridor for a minute to get her strength back. She composes her face into an expression of impregnable cheer, so that no one will dare to ask if she is all right. No one comes past to ask. She closes her eyes and breathes in and out. Then stands up far too quickly, and before she can do a thing about it there is a rush of darkness closing around her vision and she is keeling forward into white space. The hands that catch her and guide her firmly back to her chair are not those of a nurse.
Thank you, says Myra, too dazed to be properly surprised.
Not at all, says Theo, gently. This time he sits down beside her. She waits for him to ask if she is all right, but he doesn’t.
I got up too fast, she says.
Yes.
I’ll be ok now, I think.
Give it a minute, he says. And then adds, you know you look quite odd without your raincoat.
I’ll try to remember it next time I need the loo.
You do that, he says.
Why, she says, are you wandering the corridors of the women’s ward?
My mother fell and broke her leg a few days ago. She’s further down in the next section. I’m going to visit her now.
Oh. Is she doing ok?
I don’t know, he says. They say she is, but she’s not herself. I don’t much like it.
Oh. Myra looks concerned. Look, I’m fine now. Thank you for catching me.
Again, he says.
She pulls a wry face. Yes. Sorry. I’ll try to keep my balance a bit better next time.
Come on, he says, getting up. Come on, let me see you back. Is it this way?
And he gives her his arm with such eighteenth-century politeness that she laughs, and forgets to bristle, and is glad of the support. He hands her carefully back to her bed and gives a little nod.
Don’t go gallivanting around too much, will you?
I will try to restrain myself, she says.
18.
There are seven screens in his office, and a different map on every one. The colours are lovely. The professor walks round and round, stopping for a few seconds in front of each, until he finally sits down at the largest console. He clicks a few times, pulling the maps in one on top of the next so that they form a palimpsest, like layers of tracing paper, he hasn’t seen tracing paper in years, he wonders if it still exists, if people still use it; it was never, he thinks, quite translucent enough. He selects seven more maps, then seven more, thickening the layers on the big screen.
In any case, here is confirmation. The blankness eating through the fine lines of every map is itself a pattern, a new map – one which does not correspond to any of his. The invisible lines, though not quite a perfect match in every layer, form a tracery of nothingness. Strands of it, reaching out like veins and arteries across the city, with tendrils twisting and curling off the main stems. All of them flowing out of what appears to be a pool of emptiness in the middle of the castle.
It is, he now knows this for certain, nothing to do with him or any of his team. He has thought of it till now as a virus, a poisonous piece of software with a life of its own; a slow malicious joke, perhaps, against the new regime by one of those ousted when the changes came a few years back. But words have been coming back to him from the streets, his project-workers dropping by in ones and twos, quietly baffled, all unsettled, handing over their worm-eaten data and talking uncomfortably of gaps and walls and sudden silences. And he has been out and found them for himself; has listened attentively to the quality of the nothingness. And, though it is in many respects a setback for the project as a whole, he must admit that he has been secretly pleased to find his maps, his data-tools, his programmes sensitive enough to pick up something so unplanned-for, so utterly impossible to predict.
He will have to get into the castle, it appears. This has not been particularly easy since ButeCo kindly took it back off the City during the last economic crisis. He remembers going as a child, with his brother, the two of them running in mad circles on the grass and urging their mother to take them up the keep, though she said it made her dizzy, horribly dizzy, they were pitiless and made her climb up after them. Scampering feet spiralling up ahead of her; he thinks of her now holding on to the curve of the rail and forcing her own feet to follow, one step after the other, her desperate anxiety for them chasing on ahead of her, like a hawk after sparrows, oblivious little sparrows, who never felt the rush of her panic, and never, ever stopped. The keep is gone now though, of course. It must look empty in there.
He knows enough of the right people, he thinks. He will find a way in. But the chance must not be wasted. This stuff, this silence, must be properly analysed. And as he stands there in the centre of his office an idea grows inside him as quickly and irresistibly as a smile, and sets his pulse beating, and has his slim fingers reaching for his phone, and scrolling through the names to find an old, old number.
19.
Teddy is asleep in the pushchair, with his rabbit wedged under a cheek to keep his head more or less propped up. He is as flushed as a real live cherub, and is drooling onto the rabbit’s matted fur. One small hand grasps a wooden tractor in a g
rip of steel.
So, after you, ah, finished the PhD…
We were in the States for year, a bit more. Jane was in the second year of her research post at NASSR, and then we were expecting him, and then they found the tumour, so we came back here to be near her parents and she had the baby and died three months later.
Luke looks into the swirls of his coffee, and then at the sleeping child.
He’s very beautiful.
Yes. Yes, he is.
They drink their coffee in silence for a while, then Luke asks, Have you tried to do anything with your thesis?
You mean publish?
Mmm.
No, no time to think. I’m too tired. And I’m not sure I could now. I don’t even read much any more. Except to him.
Luke thinks about this. I’m not sure I actually read that much any more either, he says. I mean I work with literary texts from dawn to dusk, but it’s mostly, ah, sort of ingesting them through various programmes and doing stuff with the data.
The maps, you mean? Like the one you showed me, with the benches.
Yes, though the first ones were more, ah, literary, based on texts. I actually started off just helping out with data-input on the Ulysses project; that was ten years ago and as far as I know it’s still going.
I remember that one, says Dan happily. Epic.
Quite. Then it got to be more about where writers were when they did their writing, and I co-managed a project on the BL in the 1920s, lots of famous footfalls there as you can imagine, it was very pretty to map, all radiating outwards.
Woolf, says Dan.
Yep. Lovely following her. And Fort, he was very neat to plot, very predictable, in and out at regular times and never really straying outside his square mile even after work.
Fort?
Charles, you know: the anomalies man, collector of the weird and wonderful. Book of the Damned. Though he’d actually published that by the time he came over. Did the same sort of stuff in London, though.
Don’t think I’ve read him.
You should, he’s very big on stars.
Then what?
Star Shot Page 3