I started making telephone calls; all negative. There was, excuse the pun, an all-pervading absence of information; information negatively-charged, anti-information, like anti-presence. The more I asked around, the less I knew, the fewer hypotheses remained tenable. Nobody had seen her or heard from her, and I began to think in terms of the word disappear. I confess it scared the life out of me; because if appearances are essential, what does that make disappearance? The one is the opposite of the other (matter and antimatter); the not being seen, the not being heard; the not being.
I rang round every hospital in the south of England, which gave me a chance to listen to a lot of Vivaldi but got me nowhere. I tried the police, who gave me a reference number. I searched high and low for her address book, but she must’ve taken it with her, along with her laptop and her phone. I called the very few of her friends that I knew, and asked them to ask the ones I didn’t. The absence continued to swell and flourish. Someone once said: deserts grow, woe to him who harbours deserts. Absence grows, like the Sahara getting bigger every year, and by virtue of things staying exactly the same as they were yesterday, increases exponentially.
WHICH BRINGS ME back rather neatly to my Dad’s big theory. Spaces, he argued, are not finite and certainly not regular. They don’t follow or obey arithmetical progression. Rather, deserts grow (see above). Negative space encroaches by virtue of its nullity. If positive space is infinite, negative space is more infinite; positive space can only augment through action, whereas negative space increases when everything stays the same. One increases faster and further than the other. Therefore it follows that between the one polarity, positive space, and the other, negative, there exists a differential, a capacity; a gap; a third space.
At which point I would grin offensively and say, sure, as in hyperspace, where you fly starships, beam me up, Scotty. And he’d look at me and say, now you’re starting to get the hang of it.
The possibilities, he’d say, are endless. Faster-than-light travel, just for starters. An escape from the tyranny of linear time and Newtonian space. Imagine, just imagine, if you had a trapdoor out of order into chaos. You could go anywhere, be any time. You could be anything you wanted to be.
He loved that image, of the trapdoor. I said to him: who’d be crazy enough to open a door into the abyss? He’d look at me and reply mildly, abyss is just a term for places we haven’t been to yet. And then he’d quote the bit about the cat who walked by himself, and all places were alike to him. What if all places are alike, if all places are just one place, one little room an everywhere?
I think a lot of that could be explained by the fact that he’d always moved around so much, never stayed anywhere for any length of time. Like me; a displaced person from birth, a naturalised citizen of the universe. When there’s nowhere you can really call home, you carry your home around with you, like that damned snail. Your home is your armour, your shell, your outward-facing surface, which covers the void inside, the chaos, the abyss.
Anyway, he had yards and yards of equations to back all this up with, and it won him a major gong, until the Indian came along.
HOME IS WHERE the heart is, right? And my heart was broken,
Melodrama and cliché. Sometimes I wish I too could express myself through numbers or visual images rather than words. Anyhow, what I’m trying to convey is that this house, which she’d made so much her own, without her became sort of negatively charged. Except for the room, of course. Which is why I took to frowsting away in there even more than previously. I took the phone in with me, in case there was a call (“Sorry, I meant to call you earlier; you haven’t been worrying about me, have you?”) but it remained stubbornly quiet, not even telesalesmen or PPI litigators. I’d probably have starved to death in there without even noticing if I hadn’t had the shape-shifting to intrigue me back into some semblance of life.
There must have been a moment, a tipping-point, when I decided, believed, knew that she wasn’t coming back, a border I crossed into the country where there were no longer two possibilities, only one established reality. If so, I crossed it without realising, the way you go to sleep on a train in Italy and wake up on a train in France. The view from the window isn’t all that different, but the rules have all changed, and something that was perfectly legal where you’ve just come from carries a heavy punishment where you are now; the thing hasn’t changed, of course, just the attitudes to it. My Dad, of course, would’ve wanted to stop at the border and investigate it thoroughly. What makes this thousandth-of-an-inch on this side quintessentially France, and what’s so irredeemably Italy about this thousandth-of-an-inch on the other side? More to the point, how thick is the border itself (thin as a coat of paint), the line that is by definition both places and no place at all. Could you live there? Could you burrow deep down inside the lining, so to speak, and be both French and Italian permanently forever? I wonder how he felt when my mother left him, when he crossed the border. I don’t know if they had a blazing row and she stalked out, or whether he woke up in an empty bed with a note on the pillow, or whether she went off for a weekend and sent him a letter, or whether she went off and no letter; he never spoke about it, and it’s not one of those subjects you bring up in conversation.
I think he was right, though (pace the Indian) that there’s a debatable land or DMZ between the moment before and the moment after, when a thing happens. I think I lived there for a while, though I don’t remember much about it. I was in the room all the time, with the blinds down. Perhaps that’s the place where you land up when you wake up out of a dream, and for a split second (the width of a frontier) you can remember it all, and then the memory blanks out.
If so, I’ve been there. I’ve lived there so long, I can claim it as my domicile for tax purposes.
I GOT A letter, addressed to a fictitious firm of solicitors, for which I was not prepared. I rang my agent.
“So I didn’t tell you,” she conceded huffily. “You’d only have made a fuss.”
“I can’t do this.”
“That’s what you always say.” I could hear her doing something else while she talked to me, phone presumably wedged between shoulder and ear, but I couldn’t figure out what just by the background noises. “It’s no big deal, really. You’ve done similar jobs before. You really do need to get a grip, you know. You’ve been a bit of a pain in the bum lately, to be honest.”
“When have I ever done anything like this?”
“Oh God, do you really expect me to drop everything and go leafing through diaries? Trust me, this is nothing to get upset about. It’s easy. You’ll manage. Sorry, I’ve got to go now. Bye.”
Actually, she was quite right and I have no idea why I was making a song and dance about it. A man wants to take out some heavy life insurance but he’s got a catastrophic heart condition, so he needs me to take the medical for him. The last time, or was it the time before last, I forget, I argued that there’d be no point, since his medical files would torpedo his chances even if I turned up in his place; ah, she replied smugly, he’s a foreigner, coming over here specially. His files are all in Chinese (Russian, this time) and they can’t be bothered with all that, a thorough medical will do instead. You may have to do a certain amount of running on treadmills, but what the hell, it’ll do you good. You never get any exercise.
So I went and did all that, and it was no trouble. I got dressed, had a cup of coffee on my way to the station and came home. The next day, my agent rang. She was livid.
“What the hell did you do?” she wailed at me. “What on earth possessed you?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’ve given the Russian his money back, but he’s really unhappy, and I can’t say I blame him. It’s screwed up three months of careful preparation and he’s back at square one, and probably, given the state of his health, he hasn’t got time to go through all that again before he keels over. If this gets around, it’ll be disastrous for your reputation in the business.”
That wa
s something I’d always wanted to ask her about – there’s really a shape-shifting business, a community, for word to get around in? Presumably there is; the mind boggles. This, though, clearly wasn’t the time. “What’s the matter?” I asked. “What did I do?”
She paused to get her breath and her temper under control. “He had the results of the tests,” she said.
“That was quick.”
“In the circumstances, not surprisingly. They aren’t minded to offer him life cover, because according to the medical tests, he’s dead.”
I had no idea what to say to that.
“No pulse, for one thing. No perceptible heartbeat. Couldn’t measure respiration levels because apparently you didn’t breathe, not once, all the time you were there. No temperature, for crying out loud. No vital signs whatsoever.”
“It’s obvious,” I said. “Their equipment was faulty.”
“That’s what they assumed, so they checked it all, the moment you’d left. It was all working just fine, couldn’t find one thing wrong with it. And now they’re desperately anxious to talk to the Russian, who really doesn’t want to be talked to, for obvious reasons, but who can’t even leave the country for fear they’re watching all the airports. He’s hiding out in a B&B somewhere, with his blood pressure through the roof. For all I know, you could’ve killed the poor bastard. Which is why I’m asking you: what did you do, and what the hell did you think you were playing at?”
“I didn’t do anything. I don’t think I can do that.”
“Well, there was no trouble at all the last time, so you must have done something. And all I can say is, if you want to play practical jokes on the punters, that’s absolutely fine, but not while I’m representing you, because it reflects really badly on me and some of us have to make a living in this business. I advise you to think seriously about that. Goodbye.”
After she’d slammed off, I sat and took my pulse. Took me a terrifying moment or so to find it, but eventually there it was. Then I breathed all over a mirror and was delighted to see it cloud up.
What can I say? One of life’s mysteries.
WELL THEN; IF I’m dead, who’s this walking around wearing my face?
It all becomes debatable, you see, there are no certainties any more. If such a bizarre thing as shape-shifting is possible, who can guarantee that they are who they say they are? And is my face really mine, or is it just an aspect I’ve been presenting to the world for so long I’ve come to think of it as mine? It all gets hopelessly fraught, and you simply don’t know where you are. Or who, come to that.
(Excuse the flippancy; but I’d reached a zone where the only syntax and terminology available that could come anywhere close to being applicable was derived from comedy – the absurd, puns and wordplay, the knight’s move of humour that can’t go in a straight line but which can leap over impassable obstacles of logic and common sense. Or, as my Dad used to say, you’ve got to laugh or you’d go mad.)
Best not to think about it, I decided. As if. It was all my father’s fault for bringing me up to think like a scientist, even though I’ve never been one. Data is absolute, he always used to say, facts are inviolable; if facts and theory conflict, theory is always wrong. Yes, and see where that got him, in the end. I resolved not to let myself go that way. If inconvenient data, such as a total absence of vital signs, led to a particular inevitable conclusion, I nevertheless had the option – not being a scientist – to ignore them and carry on down the primrose path of ignorance and error. So I did that, and pretty soon I had to admit I wasn’t fooling anybody. I went to a doctor, who examined me and pronounced me absurdly healthy for someone who ate all the wrong things and never did any exercise. Data, I told myself happily. I exist, therefore I am.
What I had gained was useful ammunition in my ongoing war with my agent. “The tests scientifically proved,” I told her, “that when I’m being someone else I’m clinically dead. Soon as I stop, I’m alive again. Therefore, shape-shifting is terribly bad for me, and I really need to cut down.”
Sigh. “Fine,” she said. “I can use that to jack the price up when I’m negotiating with a client. Meanwhile, do you need the money or don’t you?”
Of course, I needed the money.
CONCERNING THIS HOUSE.
I think I said earlier that it was entirely her idea. The first time I saw it, I have to confess, it gave me the creeps. I have absolutely no idea why. It’s just a regular shape, a coming together of bricks and other materials to form a useful object; it has no personality, spirit or soul. But I got an overwhelming impression of dislike – as in, it didn’t like me – together with a curious sense of familiarity. It was how I imagined coming home would be, if I’d ever had a home for more than five minutes. But not in a good way. It’s as though, the moment it caught sight of me, the house muttered, Oh it’s you again, is it? and resolved to make my life as miserable as possible. I can only conclude that it reminds me subconsciously of somewhere we lived when I was a kid, where things didn’t go well, before I was old enough to remember.
As for the neighbours, I never see them. I’m not even sure there are any. They never seem to make any noise, which is in itself suspicious, like they’re creeping around silently in their own houses, and who would do that, unless they’re up to something?
I distrust them because they’re above and below me, the outer and inner layers. With me being the third space, the core. I think that speaks for itself, really.
YOU MUST EXCUSE me, because I’m not being the perfect host, not making you feel at home in this narrative. Too much coming and going, and the soup served after the casserole. I really ought to respect other people’s prejudices, world view, perception of sequence of events, linear time, that sort of thing. The truth is, I haven’t been myself lately.
But I’m better now.
I was in the room. I can’t give you an exact fix on that, because I was in the room pretty much all the time at that stage, and one thing I’d never bothered to put in there was a clock, to replace the one that got broken, at some point. I was in the room, and I think I must have dozed off. In any event, either I woke up, or else not. You’ll see what I mean.
I lifted my head and saw that stupid suit of armour. I’d been regretting it for some time – a ridiculous waste of money, whatever could have got into me – and I’d more or less made up my mind to get shot of it. Really, all that was holding me back was how. I could put it on eBay, there’s quite a lot of reproduction medieval-style armour listed there at any given time, believe it or not, and I was pretty sure I could get at least half my money back; except, I was damned if I was going to pack all that lot up and drag it to a post office, where they probably wouldn’t accept a parcel that big and heavy, so it’d have to be collect-only, and that limits your pool of potential buyers. I wanted rid of it, but not at any price. I was havering about that dilemma, and so the armour was still there.
But it had moved. I hadn’t moved it. It should have been upright on its stand, but it was sitting. It can’t sit; first because there’s only one chair, second because it would need something inside it to hold it together (not like the really cool suit my friend made, that stays in one piece with nothing inside) and the stand they supplied was upright-only. The armour sitting was therefore impossible, like shape-shifting, and so I was inclined from the outset to assume it wasn’t real, and that I hadn’t woken up and was dreaming.
The helmet of my suit has no visor. You can have a visored helmet but it’s extra, so I made do without. The armour lifted its visor, though there didn’t seem to be anyone in there. Then it lowered its gauntleted hand and rested it on the hilt of the sword, which was also extra, as I mentioned earlier, and which I therefore didn’t have.
This thing sitting there, a shape and a lighting effect, reminded me of something. When I was ten, my dad took me to see my first Shakespeare. They were a professional company based in Christchurch (New Zealand), touring the sticks. I don’t think they sent out their best p
eople to that sort of venue. But it was all right. I didn’t get most of the language, but I loved the swordfighting and the costumes.
Anyway, it dredged up a quote from the sludge at the bottom of my mind: my father, in his habit, as he lived. I grinned.
The armour nodded. You’re quite right, it said. I am thy father’s spirit, doomed for a certain term to walk the night, and for the day confined to fast in fires, till the foul crimes done in my days of nature are burnt and purged away. And do try and sit up straight when I’m talking to you. You always did slouch so.
I frowned. Dad?
Don’t look so surprised, he said. Mind you, it’s a wise man knows his own father, so that lets you out.
Dad, I said. What on earth are you doing in that ridiculous outfit?
He shrugged, which was a real test of the articulations. They didn’t score highly. It’s a shell, he said. You take what you can get. Anyway, you bought the damn thing.
I said what I usually said to him: I’m sorry.
He waved a gauntlet, don’t worry about it. Though you could have run to something a bit better made, he chided gently. It’s not like I’ve left you short of money.
Actually, I said.
Yes, you always were a bit feckless. But let’s not dwell on your shortcomings, I haven’t got the time or the energy. What you’re supposed to have said was, what crimes?
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