Nigel’s required to raise his voice. ‘Are you coming down?’ He wants to know if I’m ready. I lean on the ledge and tell him I’m not coming. I’m not feeling in the mood to rename the local nursery. He asks if I’ve taken a paracetamol, and we exchange some words about which painkillers are the most effective. He doesn’t question my honesty, although he would if he were talking to anyone else. He’d tell them to stop being such a baby. He’s unable to say this. Instead, he says I should get some sleep and feel better soon. I can hear some of the others say, ‘Get well soon’. I shut the door and watch them depart through the slit. The taxi firms wait by the perimeter in the hope of giving a lift. Our security team will have vetted each firm.
It’s only when I’m certain everyone’s gone that I emerge into the light. What a relief to be met by silence. My every movement seems audible; I can hear the crunch of stones beneath my feet. The silence is to be recommended. I almost wonder why no one’s thought of it before. The scene is plain and clear – without people standing around, there’s more space in which to move, more time in which to think. There’s a whole island to explore. There’s time and space, which seems like an extraordinary turn of events. I could walk for ten minutes without having to worry about meeting journalists. I’ve got time to think about other people, like Kendal. I’m able to reflect on our town-within-a-town, and whether the people of Birdseye should reclaim their own name. The first plan is to check if anyone’s in the kitchen, which is unlikely but possible. The sound that disappoints me – because it means someone’s there – is the sound of the fridge door opening. Someone’s pulling bottles out of the fridge. Darren looks worried that I’ve found him. He puts down the beer bottle.
‘It’s alright, mate. They’ve gone.’
Darren peers around the corner to see if I’m telling the truth. When he’s satisfied, he takes a swig of beer. He’s more relaxed when Nigel’s not around. When it’s just us two, he can do what he wants. We’re the only two people who feel responsible to each other. I suggest we should go for a walk. Darren agrees. He says the unit base is ‘dry’, by which he means boring. I make Darren put on his coat and we walk uphill. The wind is more of a presence now – it whistles over our heads. The path that leads onto the road isn’t signposted, and isn’t so much a path as a series of rocks you can tread across. There’s a section where we’re not supposed to walk due to the contaminated soil and the occasional unexploded bomb. There’s a moment where I’m obliged to hold onto Darren for the sake of balance. For the most part it’s a manageable climb. At the edge of our encampment is a sign that says No Access. It’s a sign we’ve erected. Really, it should say Don’t step any further because we’ve got no security beyond this point. We decide to walk ahead.
‘I’m getting pissed off with Nigel,’ Darren says. He gives a list of things that make him angry about Nigel. Nigel thinks he always knows best. Nigel puts too much importance on irrelevant things. And no matter how hard Darren works, he never gets any credit. ‘He’s a fucking dickhead, man.’
I try to convince Darren that he’s not a dickhead. He’s just a tired man trying to run a business.
‘Nah, he’s a dickhead.’ He has a funny relationship with language, Darren. He uses what he’s got. He does well to avoid clichés when it would be tempting to use over the moons and at the end of the days. He says what he wants. He raises a couple more objections. Something about Nigel’s glasses. It becomes a long list. ‘I swear, if he carries on, I’m gonna…’
‘What?’
‘I’m gonna quit.’ Almost straight away, he looks worried about how I’m going to react. ‘Obviously, I want you to be safe, yeah? But a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. It’s about time, man.’
I remind Darren that he always says he’s going to quit.
He drags on his cigarette as if the smoke were precious. ‘Yeah, you’re right.’
We walk by the roadside. The further we walk the more isolated it feels. You could walk the full length of Walney Island and see about five people. It’s a shame I’m wearing an expensive shirt. Fashion only matters as long as there are people to see it. Darren’s dressed suitably, in his hoodie and builder’s jeans; I wonder where the flecks of paint came from. Our decision to walk is about curiosity, most of all. It’s about being able to walk unnoticed, without anyone asking where we’re going. The road has a couple of car garages, equipment sheds and a burnt-out pub. With the sponsorship money, we would hope to see the arrival of coffee houses, retail outlets and faux American diners. There’s a billboard selling Birdseye. There’s a road sign that says Birdseye – 1/2 mile. The Birdseye signs have been positioned so high that no one could pull them down. We want maximum brand value – to display Birdseye everywhere we deem worthy of the public’s attention. If we could emblazon the clouds with its name, we would. We should find a way.
‘Do you ever think you’ll be killed?’ Darren says.
‘Quite often.’
I tell Darren that you never feel so alive as when you’re staring death in the face. I wonder what he thinks about the way I talk. I wonder if he thinks I’m a role model, or something to avoid being. We stop at the embankment so Darren can pick up a rock, turn to face the water and throw it far. I gather an empty can and put it in the bin.
He picks up another rock. ‘What are you gonna do, then?’
‘About what?’
‘You look like you need a holiday.’ He aims for the water and throws it thirty-odd feet. It ricochets off another rock.
‘I’ll be fine.’
We’re distracted by the woman standing in the concrete bus shelter.
‘Ain’t that your wife?’
She starts walking towards us, wheeling the suitcase behind. She’s wearing full-on waterproofs, like she intends on climbing Scafell Pike. She doesn’t seem to care that the wind’s blowing her hair back. It seems disorientating that I should see Kendal here, on a remote peninsula, rather than Stella Artois. I don’t understand how exactly this has happened. In her left hand is an empty coffee cup, a relic from the other world. ‘Er… this is amazing!’ I’m not sure what she thinks is amazing. The chimney stacks… the mud on the riverbank… the wind-lashed lamp post that looks like it’s going to topple. None of it seems amazing. ‘I mean, it’s amazing and awful at the same time. Amazing that places like this still exist. Awful that you’re here. Awfully amazing.’ She looks disappointed that I haven’t said anything. She’s invaded our space, and made little attempt to explain the invasion. She’s positioned herself into the middle of our lives – our working hours – without an advance warning. ‘I feel like I’m in a Ken Loach film. Look at that!’ She points at the potholed road. ‘Desolation. I love it.’ She seems to get more romantic the further north she goes. I would hate to take her to Iceland. She puts the folded coffee cup into her suitcase. She keeps her hands in her coat pockets; the only part of her body that’s remembered it’s cold. ‘Do you get a signal here?’
‘No.’
‘Amazing.’ She asks Darren if he’s got a lighter. He pulls one from his pocket and lights the cigarette in her mouth. ‘Come on then, lads. Where are you taking me?’
*
‘Miles, this is hilarious. I mean, it’s horrific – absolutely horrific – but hilarious as well.’ I drop her suitcase in my small container pod. She walks around in a trance. She has marks at the back of her neck from where the acupuncturist has pressed too hard. ‘Oh my God, you have a Frida Kahlo painting. What is Miles Platting doing with a Frida Kahlo painting?’ She marvels at the hanging pendant light with its ridiculous wattage. ‘It’s amazing what you can do with so much dirty money. Wow, a nail file!’
‘We put everything in storage.’ This is my brief attempt to justify my existence. ‘So it will be used again.’
‘Straw man,’ she replies. She opens the drawer and fondles the Ethernet cable like it has some magical quality. She fondles everything, secretly hoping to find a loose hinge or a wonky screw. She raps a knuckle o
n the wall like someone’s hiding behind it. ‘Do you ever feel a bit cut off?’ She scratches the wall with her nail, hoping for it to crumble. ‘I suppose colonisers don’t like mixing with the colonised.’ She starts running her finger along the shelf where the books ought to be. ‘Here we have Miles Platting, a man who’s dedicated his life to the Money God. Join Miles on his quest to discover the true meaning behind eternal mediocrity.’ She talks like a voiceover artist for a movie trailer. ‘Miles was once a young, optimistic English teacher, with hopes of shaping hearts and minds, until he met his beautiful wife, Kendal, who took him down the path of sin. They’d get divorced, if only they could be bothered.’ I sit on the bed and watch as she walks around the room, still intent on touching everything. ‘Join us for the next episode, where he tries to redeem himself and metaphorphasise into a man from an… Ungeziefer.’ She continues to walk as much as the room will allow. She makes an exaggerated sigh. ‘What would Kafka make of this?’ She peers into an unrinsed glass with its hard Solpadeine crust. ‘Anyway, I’ve been thinking about how you can repent. I came to propose something, but I don’t know what exactly.’ She sits cross-legged on the bed. ‘All I know is I’ve come to collect you.’
‘Do I need collecting?’
‘You know what you want. You want to come home.’
‘Kendal…’
‘You hate all this. The halogen lights. The tweed sofas. Come on, Miles. You’re a romantic at heart.’ She tries to engage me in a staring contest. ‘Don’t feel bad about doing a U-turn. I won’t mock you.’
‘You will.’
‘Only a little. I mean, I’m no saint, Miles. I’m not a teacher. I was, five years ago, but I’ve lost the heart. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.’ She looks at me again. ‘And neither do you.’
‘Speak for yourself.’
‘You can’t act, Miles Platting. You think you’re a good actor, but you’re not. You’re B-movie standard.’ She begins to walk again. ‘I think we should do something together. Let’s escape. Let’s find a remote island, named after nothing.’ She seems pleased at her own suggestion. ‘Fuck it. Let’s just go to Costa Rica!’
‘We’d have to learn Spanish.’
‘You could colonise it. You could rename it Newcastle and make them speak like Geordies.’ She smiles as she thinks about our Costa-del-Tyne. ‘We could find a plot of land and open a museum. Or a gallery, or a theatre. Something you love. Doesn’t that excite you?’ I say nothing. She lights a cigarette and opens the door. ‘How about…’ she draws a rainbow with her cigarette. ‘The Percy Bysshe Shelley Centre of Romantic Excellence.’ She turns to face the open door and blows out smoke. She begins to walk again. She comes up with other names: The World of Byron. Byron Burger. The Wordsworth Institute. The Ministry of Silence. ‘We could be the mad husband and wife who run the place. We could be Adam and Eve. Antony and Cleopatra.’
‘Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon.’
‘Kendal and Miles. John and Yoko! Let’s climb under the covers and tell the world how to live.’ She lifts the duvet cover and slides her body underneath. ‘Coming up next, Miles Platting, language killer, transforms into Miles Platting, custodian of language… custodian of life!’ She lies on the bed for a while, looking at the ceiling with her mouth wide open. ‘Unleash your inner romantic, Miles. What would William Blake do?’ She lies for a little longer, always smiling. ‘I love this place. It’s batshit.’ Then she goes downstairs and pours herself a glass of water from the tap marked ambient.
They return in the evening; their mood is upbeat, a glorious homecoming after winning a battle. I can hear them opening cans of beer. Nigel can see me leaning on the metal banister. ‘A great success!’ he shouts. ‘We got the library and the swimming pool. They’re all at it. Not a single dissenting voice.’ He can’t stop smiling. ‘Come and have a beer!’
‘Kendal’s here.’
‘Oh.’ His smile has been reduced somewhat. ‘Bring her down.’
‘Maybe in a bit.’
I step back so Nigel can’t see me anymore. In the pod, Kendal turns away as she gets undressed, which shouldn’t feel weird, but does. She puts on my dirty T-shirt. It feels right that she’s wearing my clothes. It feels right that she smells like me. We light the small cheap candle, then use it to light the others. I look at Kendal and it makes me forget what happened between us. It’s different, looking at her in this light. It reminds me of the old days. Here she is, taking my hand, and guiding me onto the bed. She’s come to see me. She knows that I’m lost and knows where I need to go. She pulls the seam of my shirt, rubbing the cotton. I don’t know what I want, except to see what happens. She guides my hands onto her waist, the warm rubber ring. I allow myself to be held. It would be good if life were always like this – a slow rocking hug. She unbuttons my shirt and throws it on the hard pine chair. She lifts the duvet cover and we go under. Every now and then, there’s the sound of laughter from the courtyard. They’re playing a game of cards or something. We tell ourselves they’re not laughing at us, no matter what sounds we make.
12. DAFFODILS
Eden knew the building well. He had sufficient privileges on his key fob to access most parts of it. He was always the keenest to collect parcels. He knew all the other floors; he was on first-name terms with the women from the travel agency, and sometimes went for drinks with the recruiters. He knew a coffee machine on the eighth floor that had better beans than ours. He knew the names of the security guards, the outsourced electricians and the man who came to fix the leak. He knew how to get on the roof.
I sometimes wonder what it was like for Eden, in the seconds before the fall. It must have been harder in the seconds before than in the actual moment.
I reach out and feel someone’s hand, which belongs to the nurse. She writes a note.
Are you alright?
The lights are off in the hospital ward. I’m in a dark hospital room and I can’t find Kendal. I’m covered in A4 pages with my handwriting. Kendal would laugh at all my written papers, the stream of consciousness hanging off the bedstead. I write to ask if I could speak aloud because I can’t narrate everything by hand. The nurse shakes her head.
When will I be discharged?
You’re not ready yet.
I look at the rest of the bay and get the sense that I’m the only one who’s alive. The other patients are asleep, although you wouldn’t know the difference if they were awake. The air conditioning unit interferes with the silence: it’s the loudest thing in the room.
Have you seen Kendal?
The nurse shakes her head. For all I know, Kendal could be running through the hospital, searching each room for Miles Platting, presumed dead. She could be back in Stella Artois, leading the press campaign in honour of my memory. She could be angry, and never want to see me again. She might have organised a practical joke. She might jump out from behind the curtains and shout: Gotcha! She might have fallen in love with someone else. She might still love me, and not know how to say it. I seem to have overheated.
Can you help me find her? I want to do the Wordsworth thing…
Miles. Go back to sleep.
She doesn’t want to listen anymore. I’m not being a very good patient. I rest my head against the pillow and realise I won’t be able to sleep with all this silence. The only thing I have the energy for is to stay awake. I close my eyes and try to breathe in some kind of rhythm. It’s not going very well.
‘Fuck this,’ I say aloud, to no one, as it turns out. I wipe the sleep from my eyes. I manage to pull myself up. I gather the sheets of paper – hundreds of words detailing my story, sometimes in note-form, and sometimes with a poetic flow that makes me proud to look at it. Well done, Miles. I put on the dressing gown and slippers. I do nothing, on the assumption that someone will accompany me to the toilet. No one comes. I look around at the patients. I don’t think I’d wake anyone even if I pulled out a chainsaw. The cleaner remains on the ward. She mops the floor and appears permanently low, like
some invertebrate that hasn’t developed the ability to stand. The corridor lights flicker. I’m in a fucking zombie film. I don’t want to be in that kind of movie. I want to be in a romantic comedy. I time my walking pace against someone else’s footsteps so that I can avoid detection. In one of the rooms there seems to be a commotion; someone’s shouting, and the nurses say, ‘Shhh.’ All the nurses seem to be gathered there. I hear the pull of a curtain and the door closes shut. I approach the emergency exit. It says the door is protected by an alarm – I push it, and it isn’t. I emerge into a courtyard. Just opposite is another U-shaped block made from cheap red bricks. Only one of the rooms is lit. I wonder if Kendal’s in there, and whether I should throw a pebble and get her attention, like something from my rom-com. I could open out my arms and say, ‘Let’s go to Costa Rica!’ I walk along the paved perimeter, avoiding the wet grass. A blue sign makes reference to Furness General Hospital. The building didn’t seem significant when I first arrived here: it seemed like an ugly brick hospital, built in the seventies, and that’s how it seems now. A few yards in front of me is a man dressed in a robe, holding a candle. He’s followed by a slow procession of robed men and women. I decide to step behind a bush and watch from a distance. They walk along a candlelit path, a gathering of robed men and women. Some of them shake bells. All of them say nothing. A little further ahead is the candlelit summit, a magnetic force drawing them in. The candles lead the way forward. They emerge from the gymnasium. There’s a light from the entrance, where the procession seems to be coming from. I walk to the back exit, which has a lit window. I lean against the door and get the sense it would disturb whoever’s on the other side were I to open it. I pull myself onto a ledge and peer through the window. There’s about fifty people sitting in rows as if it were a school assembly. Some of them have blankets. A light shines from the projector fixed to the ceiling. I can’t tell what they’re watching, but they’re looking at the screen. From the reflection, it looks like a black-and-white film. It has subtitles. The robed men and women are standing against the wall. They watch the audience like exam invigilators on the lookout for cheating. From behind the glass, it’s hard to make out their faces. I look a little closer and it makes no difference. Starting from the back, each row is instructed to rise when it’s their turn to exit. The robed instructor taps each end-of-row at a time. They rise and scrape their chairs inward. The pace quickens; the room begins to empty and it resembles a fire drill. Where’s everyone going? They seem to be heading in the same direction. I think for a moment about what exactly I’m doing standing on a ledge and looking at a gymnasium in the dark. It’s a strange way to spend an evening. From behind me someone blows a whistle and clangs a bell. I turn around and keep my balance. Just below is a white-haired gnome of a man, who wouldn’t look the slightest bit intimidating were it not for his heavy, bronze bell, which could cause some damage. He blows his whistle and points to where he wants me to stand. I jump back down and my slippers squelch on the wet grass. He whistles like he’s discovered me in a hiding place.
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