Acid Song
Page 22
The Islander stepped forward, trying to push his way past Bomber. The Asian had his hand. They were just trying to get out of there. They weren’t making trouble. Ollie launched first. Sophie got a clear view of it. Out of nowhere, a straight punch, but the guy moved and it only grazed his chin. It still hadn’t started. Then Ollie went again, losing it this time, arms flailing. The bouncers were already moving when the first clean punch landed. The Islander caught Ollie hard on the nose and he fell like a kid, crumpled. A pressure wave surged through the crowd as the bouncers tried to push people aside. Bomber was in there, landing his big fat punches. The Asian was screaming. Gash was laughing, dancing about, his black eyes tripping out.
The noise pushed in on her. There was no room. That was the problem. No room for dancing, for escaping, no room for making choices, for being either in or out. No room even for a proper fight. Just one room, one noise, everybody part of it, and the noise growing louder. One scream rising above all the others: above the swearing, the grunting, the demands, the crazy beating from the drummer who was playing through it all.
Sophie saw it. Saw Gash looking down at his hand, saw the flash of metal, the blood.
‘YOU’RE WRONG!’ SHE screamed it at him, and somehow as the noise began to rise around him, Richard found himself screaming back.
‘I am not wrong.’
This is what it had come to. Thirty years of posturing to be resolved in a playground fight. It was personal now, him and her. The audience just happened to be there. There just happened to be a microphone between them, and a camera running.
‘Of course I don’t trust the people,’ Susan screamed at him. ‘I’m one of the people, and I don’t trust myself.’
‘I can see why,’ he retorted, but they were well past being cute.
‘Forget Rousseau,’ she told him, leaning right into his face like she was calling him out in a bar. It was farcical, he knew it was farcical, and yet he wasn’t stepping back. Couldn’t step back. ‘We’re not noble savages. We’re not noble anything. You want to know what we are? We’re stories. Layers and layers of stories, all the way down. The Institute was never built on science, and I’m sorry if that’s how you remember it. The Institute was built on story. We recognised a responsibility, to be part of the stories of the next generation. And this, this …’ she flailed her arms about. If only he’d used PowerPoint, she’d have had something concrete to accuse. ‘This story doesn’t belong here. Who do you think lives out there Richard? You think they all spend their lives sipping Pinot and reading Proust?’
‘I hate Proust.’
‘You hate people.’
‘That’s outrageous.’
‘What do you think the newspapers are going to do when they get hold of this, you pompous old fool? Run a four page feature on the theory of social contract, or lead with a headline that reads “Smart Gene found in Europeans”?’
‘People aren’t as stupid as you think.’
‘People are as stupid as the stories they tell each other.’
‘You can’t hide from the truth.’
‘So why won’t you listen when I tell it to you?’
‘YOU GETTING THIS?’
‘What do you think?’
It was better than she could have imagined.
‘Tape, have you got the tape in?’
‘Of course I’ve got the tape in.’
‘Just, you know …’
‘Unbelievable.’ He smiled at her.
‘Go closer. Go on, down the stairs.’
Amanda pushed Greg forward. He was shooting through the audience who were cheering for their side like it was a rugby match. All she needed now was for Susan to hit Richard. Or he could have a heart attack. She’d settle for a heart attack.
Amanda’s own heart was racing now. This was it. This was her breakthrough. You could plan, you could deal, you could attend all the courses, all the meetings, but in the end it came down to this. Right place, right time. It came down to luck.
THE FIRST THING Simon felt was the coldness of the steel. There had been a thump, like being punched, that was all. One of the little freaks having a go at his body. He’d get to him soon enough. Then he saw into his attacker’s eyes, and they were dark and gleaming: growing wide. The skinhead looked down. Simon felt the blade coming out, the pressure it took to pull it, the resisting suck of his muscles.
A new coldness came over him. It shivered up his body, he felt it tingling at his temples. The music was growing louder. He saw feet all around, legs moving. He’d fallen.
Screaming. In the distance. Far away.
He was flying. He concentrated on the flying.
A white wave breaking over a coral reef. He soars, swooping in low over the village.
Pigs, chased off the road as a bus ambles by, pink, yellow and green. Kids calling out through glassless windows.
Someone smiling. He goes in closer, tries to smile back. Wants to smile back.
Straightening up from the lawn: a brown body never looked so good. A machete dangles at his side, loose and natural.
Uncle Tala, but too young. A bright blue tarpaulin flapping behind him. Must be raining. Funny, he can’t feel the rain.
Somebody screaming. Faint and distant. A sound from another world. Uncle doesn’t notice. The thick warm air, sweet with frangipani.
There are no smells in dreams.
Simon pulls up. The Pacific breaks beneath him. He cries out. The pain splits him in two.
Then, nothing.
About the Author
BERNARD BECKETT is one of our more provocative and inventive writers. He has won many awards for his fiction and his latest novel, Genesis, has been highly acclaimed both in New Zealand and on the international stage.
In 2005 he was awarded a fellowship at the Allan Wilson Centre for Molecular Evolution where he found himself looking for ways to combine his passions for science, philosophy and storytelling. Acid Song is one of three writing projects he started during that time.
Bernard lives in Wellington and teaches at a secondary school in the Hutt Valley.
Also by Bernard Beckett —
FICTION:
Lester 1999
Red Cliff 2000
Jolt 2001
No Alarms 2002
Home Boys 2003
Malcolm and Juliet 2004
Deep Fried 2005
(with Clare Knighton)
Genesis 2006
NON-FICTION:
Falling for Science: Asking the Big Questions 2007
Copyright
First published with the assistance of
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission from the publisher.
Bernard Beckett asserts his moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
First published by Longacre Press, 2008
30 Moray Place, Dunedin, New Zealand
© Bernard Beckett
ISBN 978 1 775530 61 9
A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of New Zealand.
Book design by Katy Yiakmis
Cover design by Nick Wright
Printed by Astra Print, Wellington
www.longacre.co.nz