by Neil Cross
‘That’s what the anxiety at the end of the century was actually about. We were scared to confront the truth about ourselves.
‘Of course, we’ve buried that fear. We inhumed it within a series of secondary concerns to make us feel good about ourselves—not least of them our sudden concern for what we call the environment.
‘Environmentalism is the referred guilt of serial murderers. Conservationism is a deliberate misconception of nature. It’s an attempt to redraft the planet the way we wish it was: an idyllic, paradise garden. But natural selection does not conserve. It changes and modifies with absolute, unceasing savagery; with utter disregard for suffering and pain. Earth isn’t a paradise garden. It isn’t fixed. There’s nothing to conserve. Continents collide, mountains are rammed into the sky, are scoured flat over millions of years. It gets hot, it freezes for millennia. In some form, Earth will endure until the sun goes cold: no matter what we do to it, or to each other. If you want to know about climate change, talk to a dendrochronologist. They’ll tell you that there’s been climate change and catastrophe the like of which we can’t begin to imagine. And life always bounces back.
‘We come, we go. We don’t mean a thing. But we’re all we’ve got. Each other and this little bit of time.
‘And we don’t care!
‘The millennial year was arbitrary. It was utterly without meaning. Think for a moment about the sheer scale of that hubris: imagining that God might work according to a faulty, unhistorical, human calendar. How typical of us.
‘So, what was our millennial anxiety about?
‘I’ll tell you.
‘What if, by some small chance, God did come back? What if there was a hell? Well, then: it wouldn’t be the hungry people, and it wouldn’t be the dispossessed, and it wouldn’t be the tortured, the forfeited and the ruined who were burning. It would be us.
‘We are the greatest evil at large in the world today. And, secretly, we know it.’
The single light over the podium dimmed. In the half-light, Dryden took his place with the other guests in the semi-circle of chairs.
When the lights came back up, Geoff was still referring to the sheaf of notes he had been struggling to read during Dryden’s speech. He looked up, shuffling the papers like a newsreader. The small error of timing would be edited to make him appear icy and professional.
He leaned forward. He rested his chin on his fist.
‘Rex Dryden,’ he said. He sounded concerned. ‘That’s a very disturbing world-view.’
‘Well, that’s sort of the point,’ said Dryden. ‘That’s the point I was trying to make with Illumination.’
‘Illumination being what you called,’ Geoff referred to his notes, ‘your epistemological installation.’
‘Yes.’
Geoff looked challenging.
‘But it’s a point you could only make with—if you’ll excuse me—a bunch of fruitcakes in a big house on the Sussex Downs?’
Dryden smiled at him.
‘The best art leads to what you already know,’ he said. ‘So does a good joke.’
‘But isn’t it rather a bleak joke?’
‘Perhaps humankind really can’t bear very much reality.’
‘Aha,’ said Geoff, as if he had spotted a hole in the argument.
He lifted his chin from his fist. ‘Sylvia Plath.’
‘T. S. Eliot,’ said Dryden.
Geoff smiled indulgently and nodded as if, being wrong, he was making a subtle point of his own. He turned to Julian.
‘Julian Grammaticus,’ he said. ‘You’re familiar to many of our viewers as a very public face of modern science. How do you respond to Rex Dryden’s point?’
‘Well,’ said Julian. He seemed to be exaggerating his Estuary twang for the benefit of the cameras. ‘I have to say, I don’t entirely agree with Rex’s analysis.’
There was polite laughter among the group, including from Dryden.
‘My own deductions wouldn’t be nearly so bleak,’ said Julian. ‘Perhaps that’s just because I’m an optimist. But I tend to believe it’s actually because I’m a scientist, rather than an artist.’
‘Or indeed a transcendental comedian,’ said Geoff.
‘Quite,’ said Julian. ‘Now, it might sound trite, but to science knowledge is more relevant than Truth—’
‘Oh, come on,’ said Dryden, as if Grammaticus were delivering a blow lower than was worthy of him.
Geoff furrowed his brow.
‘Please,’ he said to Dryden. ‘Let him finish.’
Dryden sat back in his chair. He knotted his hands in his lap and grinned that Julian should continue.
‘—but that doesn’t necessarily make a scientific position any more comfortable than Rex’s,’ said Julian. ‘A lot of what we’ve learned about ourselves in recent years has confirmed what many had long suspected to be true. We’re driven by urges similar to those of other animals—territoriality, status, sex. But it’s important to remember that urges is all they are. We’re not slaves to these drives, or to our genes. Or to anything else. We’re conscious beings, and it’s in the conscious control of these unconscious drives that we best exhibit that humanity—’
Dryden interrupted with an index finger. He sat forward.
‘The Milgram experiment was set up,’ he said, ‘in such a way that the subject could hear what he believed were the dying screams of the so-called learner, the man whose learning ability he thought was being tested. Sixty-five per cent of the subjects still pressed the switch marked DANGER: SEVERE SHOCK. Even though they could hear the hysterical pleading of innocent men. A lot of them carried on pressing the switch, even when they believed the learner was dead.’
‘Well,’ said Julian. ‘Quite. But I have to say, the Milgram experiment is no longer thought to be quite as absolute as we once imagined. It’s not certain that Milgram’s subjects actually believed they were delivering electric shocks to innocent people. It’s possible they’d intuited the nature of the experiment, and didn’t want to ruin it. They were still playing to expectation, but to an altogether different set of expectations than people imagine. But that’s beside the point. What I was going to say is that, actually, we learn more every day about the evolutionary mechanisms that underlie altruism and selfless behaviour patterns.’
‘That altruism is based on reciprocation?’ said Dryden. ‘That I can get what I want by being nice to people who have it?’
‘It’s a bit more complex than that.’
‘It always is. But isn’t that what it boils down to?’
‘Not exactly, no. That’s rather a tabloid exposition.’
‘It’s not exactly one in the eye for Nietzsche, though, is it?’
‘Well, actually, I’m not sure,’ said Julian. ‘It’s a scientific means to clarify and justify the mystery of human goodness; it tells us definitively that goodness is a kind of strength. That seems like a worthwhile endeavour to me. And one in the eye for Nietzsche, incidentally.’
‘It’s a Wonderful Life,’ said Dryden.
‘Well, yes,’ said Julian, warily. ‘It certainly can be—’
‘No. The movie. Have you seen it?’
‘That’s the one with Jimmy Stewart,’ said Geoff.
‘That’s right,’ said Dryden. ‘Jimmy Stewart wishes he was never born, and an angel called Clarence grants his wish. He gets to see what the world would’ve been like without him in it. It’s my favourite film of all time. My absolute desert island movie.’
Geoff nodded. He said: ‘Are you going somewhere with this?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Dryden. ‘Listen. Jimmy Stewart plays George Bailey. He lives in Bedford Falls, the archetype of small-town America. Or the Hollywood dream of it. George Bailey dreams about getting out of Bedford Falls and seeing the world. But George Bailey runs the Building and Loan. He’s the only ma
n who stands between the poor people of Bedford Falls and the evil Mr Potter. So he stays, and he watches his life pass him by. One Christmas Eve, disaster strikes: some money goes missing. The authorities think George Bailey’s to blame. For George, with all his crushed dreams, in his draughty old house with his adoring wife and his beautiful children, it’s all too much. So he decides to kill himself.’
Julian’s smile had stiffened somewhat. He said: ‘I don’t see where this is leading us.’
‘Bear with me,’ said Dryden. ‘Now, Clarence the angel rescues George Bailey from suicide and shows him what life in Bedford Falls would’ve been like, if he’d never been born. And it’s terrible. Bedford Falls is called Pottersville because of course, without George to stop him, evil old Mr Potter is the most powerful man in town. Pottersville is like Sodom and Gomorrah, except nobody’s having a good time. Everyone George knows and loves is unhappy. All his friends are broken people. Because George wasn’t around to help them, you see? George’s goodness has touched so many lives. And if he’d never been born …
‘Well, George decides to face his problems. He begs Clarence to be allowed to live again, and he runs home through snowy old Bedford Falls, to face the music. Except there’s no music to face. His friends—the entire town, all the people he’s been good to, all the people whose lives he’s changed—have turned up at midnight on Christmas Eve. They’ve all brought all the money they can afford to bring, to get George out of trouble.
‘I love that film. I cry every time I see it. Every single time, without fail. It makes me weepy just to think about it, the way George kisses his wife and hugs her like she’ll burst and wishes her a merry Christmas, and her eyes glisten with adoration, and the bell rings on the Christmas tree and we know Clarence got his wings, and George’s brother the war hero turns up after being given a medal by the president, and the whole town sings “Auld Lang Syne”.
‘But I cry because it’s not true, Julian. If it was true, we’d see the friends of George Bailey crossing the road to avoid him. George Bailey has no friends. We’d hear them gossiping about the trouble he’d got himself into. We’d hear them saying they’d always thought he was too good to be true. We’d see them turning their backs on him when he needed them most.’
Julian smiled with one side of his mouth.
‘You see,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure that’s true, Rex.’
‘Of course it’s true,’ said Dryden. ‘If a little goodness goes such a long way, if it touches so many lives, then why is there so little of it?’
Geoff interrupted.
‘At this point,’ he said, ‘I’d like to bring in another guest.’ He turned to face the camera. ‘Earlier this year, John Smith (as we’ll call him) woke from a nightmare. That evening, he’d seen a news bulletin reporting the disappearance of Joanne Grayling, a young Bristol student he’d never met.
‘John Smith was an ordinary man: hard-working, law-abiding. Yet that night he believed that, somehow, he had learned psychically of Joanne’s whereabouts. So, the next day, he did what he believed was the right thing: he called the Bristol police and told them what he knew.
‘In fact, despite John Smith’s best efforts, Joanne Grayling was tragically killed. Although it is a matter of public record that detective William Holloway is wanted for questioning in connection with her death, this terrible case remains unsolved. So: John Smith, in your own words, tell us what happened the day William Holloway lifted the receiver and took your call.’
Shepherd tried his best. By now he had recounted the incident a dozen times. On each occasion, it sounded progressively more absurd.
While he spoke, the others leaned forward in their chairs. They watched from under raised eyebrows. Geoff furrowed his brow with cultured gravitas, resting his chin on a fist. Despite the heat of his mortification, Shepherd’s voice broke when he described watching the news the day Joanne’s body was discovered.
Patricia interjected.
She leaned over and squeezed his knee. The snout of a camera lens swivelled to follow the movement.
‘I can see a young woman,’ she told him. ‘She’s standing at your shoulder. She’s smiling. It’s a very beautiful, very peaceful smile. She’s happy. She wants—yes, she wants to thank you. She wants to thank you for everything you tried to do.’ Patricia smiled. Eccentric English teeth: yellow, crooked and tea-stained. The colour of old, brittle sellotape. ‘This is not our home,’ she assured him. ‘This world is an illusion. Our true selves are vibrations in the astral plane. We are creatures of light, creatures of God.’
‘But Satan was the bringer of light,’ said Dryden.
‘Satan was an angel, too,’ she told him, with a smile.
Geoff and the others listened to her benevolently.
Geoff said: ‘So, in a sense, we’re all angels?’
‘Exactly!’ said Patricia.
By then Shepherd knew he was lost.
Back in the Green Room, Brazilian Tony handed them each a glass of tepid Chardonnay. Geoff thanked them in turn, but his on-screen lustre had faded. He seemed smaller, hunched and rumpled and weary. Rather than wine, he took a small glass of whiskey and water.
Patricia was brusquely coquettish with Dryden. Julian was peppery for being upstaged. They huddled in an awkward group. Nobody spoke to Shepherd until the first glass of Chardonnay was finished.
Then Dryden turned to him. Shepherd’s skin burst into gooseflesh. He felt the bumps race up his spine. His scalp went tight, as if sunburned. The hair on his forearms stood on end.
‘You all right?’ said Dryden.
‘Yes,’ said Shepherd. ‘Someone just walked on my grave.’
Dryden clapped his shoulder companionably. He was half Shepherd’s height and twice his width. Shepherd sensed tremendous physical strength.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Dryden said. ‘People dance on mine. And I’m not even in it yet.’ He cackled, his frog-wide mouth set with too many milky little teeth. Dryden knit his brow and examined Shepherd’s expression. He put his pumpkin head on one side. Then he jabbed Shepherd playfully in the sternum.
His voice had darkened, but he didn’t lower the volume. The others turned to look at them. Brazilian Tony put his hand on one hip and pouted.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Dryden. ‘About what anybody says. Don’t give it a thought. You were wrong. So what? At least you were trying to do a good thing.’
Shepherd didn’t answer.
Dryden said: ‘Are you worried about the programme?’
Shepherd hung his head. It didn’t seem possible to tell Dryden a lie.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I am, a bit.’
‘Well, don’t,’ said Dryden. ‘Don’t worry. It’ll be watched by a few thousand people who don’t give a toss about what’s being said, and who won’t remember it in ten minutes.’
Shepherd wanted to believe that.
‘Then why are you here?’
‘Because I’m selling something,’ Dryden said. ‘I’ve got a book coming out and I’m going on tour in a month or two.’
‘I don’t even know why I came,’ said Shepherd. ‘I didn’t want to.’
Dryden winked. He chortled. He clapped Shepherd’s shoulder and let his hand rest there.
‘Maybe something told you to come,’ he said. ‘Maybe some power brought you here, for some higher purpose.’
He fixed Shepherd with his laser eyes.
Shepherd was possessed of the odd sensation that his feet had unlatched from the floor. He imagined he was floating to the ceiling like a helium balloon.
A girl who looked like Chloe but who was not Chloe put her head round the door. She announced that Dryden’s car had arrived. He thanked her and tossed the remains of his wine down his craw.
‘Don’t you worry,’ he told Shepherd. ‘It doesn’t matter how you handled yourself or what you said: they�
�ll edit the programme the way they want to, anyway. That’s the name of the game. And then it’s broadcast—’ he rippled his fingers like seaweed. ‘And for a few minutes, it’s on a few screens in a few corners, in a few houses in a few cities in a small country nobody gives a toss about any more, and a few people might pay some passing attention to it. And then it’s gone, and, once it’s gone, it’s nowhere, forever.’ He looked at Shepherd with his head tilted to one side.
‘Anyway,’ he said. He offered his spadelike hand. ‘Nice to meet you. Keep in touch.’
Shepherd shook the hand, once. His skin crawled. He wiped his palm on his thigh. Dryden seemed not to notice. He kissed Patricia, shook Julian’s hand and left. Brazilian Tony showed him the way.
Like an afterimage of the sun, the sense of his presence lingered. It rendered them silent. When it had faded, they were left embarrassed in each other’s company. The light seemed to have dimmed. Their muttered voices echoed as if from hospital walls.
Shepherd waited until he was confident that Dryden’s car had safely departed, then he sloped over to Brazilian Tony like a head-hung yeti and pleaded quietly to be allowed home. Brazilian Tony seemed to think this was an exceptional idea and gambolled down the corridor, his clipboard clutched tight to his bony chest.
15
Shepherd was glad to get home. This time he didn’t bother to thank the driver, who still didn’t seem to give much of a shit either way.
Shepherd slammed the front door behind him and stomped upstairs, to the lodgers’ bathroom next to the unlet room on the third floor. The experience had been worse than he’d expected; worse than handing himself in at the police station. Hardly worth the £500.
He stepped into the bathtub and ran the shower hot. He shampooed his rasping head and sweaty beard with menthol Head & Shoulders. Then he washed his hairy body with Dove Cleansing Lotion. He turned off the shower and ran the bath, getting out to clip his finger- and toenails while the tub filled. He polished a squeaky portal in the steam on the bathroom cabinet mirror; trimmed the hairs in his nostrils and ears with a pair of scissors going rusty at the hinge. He stepped gingerly into the hot bath and, as far as he could, stretched out. His knees stuck out like pale, conical islands. He listened to the portable radio.