Acid Song

by Bernard Beckett

  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 c
loser. 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.