The Extremes

by Christopher Priest

  She reached into the glove compartment and took out the automatic pistol that was there. While she drove she checked it was loaded, then laid it on the seat beside her. She switched on the radio: the Duke Ellington Orchestra was playing ‘Newport Up’.

  She stretched back in the seat, drove with her arms straight and her head lying back on the rest, the radio on, the sun blazing in on her, and the wonderful rumbling slow traffic of 1950 gliding past and around her.

  Moments later she saw diversion lights ahead, and a police roadblock. Most of the traffic was peeling off to the left, going around the diversion, but she slowed and signalled to the right, heading straight for the police line. Teresa resisted. She wrenched the steering wheel to the left and swerved across the traffic lanes and away from the roadblock. One of the cops, who had stepped towards her car as soon as she signalled right, raised his arm and shouted something after her.

  Teresa accelerated away, seeing hills ahead, yellow and brown and dotted with dark trees, shimmering in the hot day. In moments, the police diversion was behind her. She kept her foot down, letting the large, quiet-engined car pick up speed at its own pace.

  She looked down at herself, realizing that she was wearing some other woman’s clothes. She was fat! She was wearing terrible clothes! She had runs in her stockings! She glanced up into the rear-view mirror, leaning across to see herself; an elderly black woman’s face, full of mild concern, looked back at her.

  ‘Hi, Elsa!’ Teresa said aloud, smiling at her own reflection.

  The road became straight. There were no buildings on either side of it, and flat, featureless ground, dotted with scrub, stretched away on both sides.

  She drove for several minutes, peering ahead with interest to see how the landscape would develop, but now she was away from the edge of the city there was little to look at. There was no other traffic. On either side of the road the gravelly ground and the grey-green scrub sped by in a blur. In the distance she saw mountains and white clouds. The sun beat down on her, so high that it seemed to throw no shadows.

  Eventually Teresa realized that there was no more landscape for her to find.

  She swung the steering wheel to the right, trying to skid off the road, but the car merely moved a few feet to the side. It spun along as smoothly as ever, the tyres apparently moving across the rough ground without touching.

  In her rear-view mirror, Teresa could see the buildings of San Diego clustered against the shoreline. She remembered the meaning of the acronym LIVER.

  She arrived in San Diego on a blisteringly hot day, and went to the silver-and-blue Chevrolet parked diagonally against the sidewalk. She got the key into the ignition at the first try.

  A few moments later she was driving north along 30th Street, and at the intersection with University she took a left. The car had already moved into the right-turn lane, but Teresa swung it across the traffic, forcing it to go the other way. Horns blared around her. The sun was now in front of her, and she lowered the visor to reduce the dazzle in her eyes.

  She reached into the glove compartment and took out the automatic pistol that was there. While she drove she checked it was loaded, then laid it on the seat beside her. She switched on the radio: the Duke Ellington Orchestra was playing ‘Newport Up’.

  She glanced up into the rear-view mirror, straining to see herself; an elderly black woman’s face, full of mild concern, looked back at her.

  ‘Hi, Elsa!’ Teresa said aloud, smiling at her own reflection.

  Apartment blocks had been built on both sides of the road, partially screened by rows of tall palm trees, and these flashed by uniformly. Ahead was the ocean, placidly shimmering. After several minutes of driving, in which the ocean came no closer, she remembered the acronym LIVER.

  Teresa spent the rest of the day learning to use the computerized catalogue of available ExEx titles. The first useful information she gleaned was that the Elsa Durdle shareware had been written by an outfit called SplatterInc, based in a town called Raymond, Oregon. She asked Patricia if she knew anything about them.

  ‘More likely to be one person than a business,’ Patricia said. ‘Some kid working out of a back room, perhaps, who downloaded the imaging software from the internet? Anyone can do it, if they’re packing enough computer memory.’

  ‘And there’s no way of telling where the scenario images came from?’

  ‘Not from the information we have here. I suppose you could call them, or write to them. Is there an e-mail address?’

  ‘Just a Post Office box in Raymond.’

  ‘Have you tried running a web search on them? They’ll have a site.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Teresa went back to the scenario database, and keyed in the search parameters. A moment later, SplatterInc’s list of titles scrolled down the screen. Teresa read through it.

  She located the Elsa Durdle scenario, and from this logged the group and category in which it was filed: Interactive​/​Police​/​Murder​/​Guns​/​William Cook​/​Elsa Jane Durdle.

  Learning as she went, Teresa worked backwards through the hierarchy of sub-categories. Alternatives to Guns were Automobiles, Bombs, Clubs, Hands and Knives and from each of these there were hyperlinks, presumably to other software producers.

  Alternatives to Murder were Arson, Hostage Taking, Mugging, Rape and Sniper. Again there were hyperlinks.

  Police was in a long list of categories, which flooded the screen: the alternative offerings from SplatterInc included Arts, Aviation, Movies, Sex, Space, Sport, Travel, War.

  Idly she clicked on Sex, and was astonished at the number of options, all hyperlinked, that unfurled rapidly before her: Amateur, Anal, Astral, Audient, Backsides All, Backsides Big, Backsides Close-up, Backsides Small, Bestial, Bondage, Breasts All, Breasts Big…and so on, for dozens of screens.

  She clicked it away, and glanced furtively across the room to see if Patricia was watching her. She was working with another customer on the far side of the room.

  Teresa moved up a level to Interactive, and here found the list of main options: Active, Collective, Interactive, Intruder, Non-active, Observer, Passive, Perpetrator and Victim.

  Teresa browsed through the various levels, quietly amazed at the extent of what was there to be found. All of it the product of a single outfit called SplatterInc, from Raymond, Oregon. Where the hell was Raymond, Oregon, and what else went on in that small town?

  She waited until Patricia looked over in her direction, then asked her to come and advise.

  ‘You still with SplatterInc?’ Patricia said, obviously amused.

  ‘I’m trying to see what they’ve made available,’ Teresa said. ‘It’s incredible how much there is.’

  Patricia glanced at the screen.

  ‘Yeah, they keep busy,’ she said. ‘But they’re just a medium-small. You should see the catalogues put out by some of the co-op groups in California or New York.’

  ‘These headings—are they just used by these people, or are they general?’

  ‘Everyone uses them. You can download the complete index, if you want to see the extent of it.’

  ‘And it’s all shareware?’

  ‘The SplatterInc programs are,’ Patricia said. ‘Are you specially interested in those people? Or are you interested in shareware generally?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Teresa said. ‘I’m just browsing at the moment. Trying to find what you have.’

  ‘It’s a lot.’

  ‘I’m learning.’

  ‘You know, you might do better to stay away from shareware. It gets expensive, because nearly all of what you pay us for is machine time. What most people do is buy into one of the commercial packages, then use shareware as a supplement. You know, what I was showing you the other day. One of the TV networks, or the big software companies, or our own modules, of course. Or do what you did the other day, choose a category then randomize on an anthology basis. We’ve got a whole catalogue of sampler scenarios.’

  Teresa tu
rned away from the screen. ‘The truth is, I don’t know where to begin. It’s confusing.’

  ‘Maybe you should take home some of our brochures? There’s a pile of them out at the back there.’

  ‘I’m wasting your time,’ Teresa said. ‘Is that what you’re trying to tell me?’

  ‘No…but I only deal with what the customers select, and want to use, and make sure the equipment functions properly. I see a bit of what they are interested in, but I don’t see the whole picture. You need Mr Lacey or one of his assistants to talk you through some of the sales packages we have on offer. Most people don’t really know what they’re looking for until they find it.’

  ‘I’m beginning to see why.’

  ‘I thought you were interested in guns. We get a lot of people who are.’

  ‘Mine’s a professional interest.’

  ‘Then why don’t you buy the comprehensive shooting course? That includes target-practice use, interdiction and arrest scenarios, you can choose terminal or non-terminal, and you get full access to the scenarios. That sort of use is our bread-and-butter business.’

  ‘And for that I would have to talk to Mr Lacey?’

  Patricia said with a smile, ‘I’ll arrange it for you.’

  ‘OK. Thanks.’ Teresa looked back at the screen, with its almost obsessively detailed arrays of scenario subjects. ‘Do you mind if I go on browsing?’

  ‘Help yourself.’

  CHAPTER 21

  Nick was serving behind the bar when Teresa came in halfway through the evening. She asked him for a club soda. He passed her a glass with ice cubes, and the syphon. She sloshed the water into the glass, then gave him a direct look. He wondered what was coming; when Amy looked at him like that he was usually in trouble. He thankfully noticed another customer approaching the counter, so moved adroitly away to serve him. Teresa obviously got the message, because by the time he finished she had taken her drink to one of the tables. Sitting alone, she read the book she had been carrying.

  The bar gradually emptied, and half an hour before closing time there was hardly anyone left. He collected glasses and empties, washed them, wiped the bar counter. Teresa saw this, and came back and settled on her stool. There was no avoiding her any more.

  ‘Do you mind if I ask you something, Nick?’ she said.

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  ‘I guess not. Why don’t you or anyone else ever talk about the Grove shootings?’

  ‘What is there to say?’

  ‘Not a whole lot, it seems. It’s like it never happened. OK, I know.’ She took a sip of her drink. ‘I’m a brash American and I’ve no right to ask any questions at all, but most people here have nothing to say.’

  ‘I’m another of them,’ he said.

  ‘But why, Nick?’

  ‘In my case, I wasn’t actually in town when it happened. I was—’

  ‘No, you told me that before. It’s just an excuse, and you know it. You might not have been physically present in the town when it happened, but the fact you stayed on afterwards suggests that you’re a part of it, just as much as if you’d been living here.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘No, dammit. If you think that, why don’t you get out?’

  Nick said, thinking how often he had gone through this in his own mind, as well as with Amy, ‘Because this was my parents’ business, and I owe it to them to keep it going, and this town was my home—’

  ‘And you dated Amy when you were kids, and she’s here for the same reason, and you can’t leave because something’s holding you back.’

  Nick stared at her, reluctant to admit that she might be getting close to it, and wondering how she knew.

  ‘That’s right, isn’t it, Nick?’ she said.

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Look, just once, can I ask you some questions about what happened that day? As you know it.’

  He said again, ‘I wasn’t here. I didn’t see anything.’

  ‘No one saw it all,’ Teresa said. ‘Many of the people who did were killed. Even those who survived, they only saw their bit of it. Everyone’s got the same excuse: I didn’t see much. A lot of the surviving witnesses have left town. But everyone who’s still here knows exactly what happened.’

  ‘There you go then.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a reason for this. I’m trying to work something out, because there’s a big inconsistency somewhere. I’ve analysed, timed and placed everything that Grove is supposed to have done, and it doesn’t add up. Can I run it by you, compare it with what you know?’

  ‘It sounds as if you already know more than anyone else.’

  ‘I need to straighten this thing out.’

  Nick could feel himself backing away from her in his mind. Why should that be? It was true that for him the Grove shootings would always have a third-hand quality, but that obviously wasn’t everything. He had been profoundly shocked by the way his parents died, and the depth and extent of his tormented feelings had been a revelation to him. He had lived away in London long enough to start believing he might no longer feel close to his parents, but that had turned out not to be so.

  And there was a darker psychological level, one he rarely touched. That was something to do with the collective trauma in the town, the sharing of a shock that made everyone bury the memories they could cope with least well.

  He plunged around in his mind, trying to find the words.

  ‘Amy’s out this evening,’ he said. ‘I’m on my own in the bar.’ He indicated the rest of the room vaguely with his hand.

  Teresa glanced around; the only other customers were a couple sitting at one of the corner tables, and two young lads playing pool. She gave him another direct look.

  ‘We can break off if you have to serve someone. Anyway, it’s not going to take long.’

  He moved to the beer pumps, and drew himself a pint of best. He made a production of filling it carefully to the brim, not spilling any, aware all the time that Teresa was watching him. He went back and placed it on the counter between them.

  ‘I’ve established what Grove was doing that day before he started shooting,’ Teresa said. ‘In fact, I can trace his movements right up to mid-afternoon, when he drove away from the Texaco filling station. He left there at twenty-three minutes to three. That’s an exact time because I’ve been through the police log, and that was when the police received the emergency call from the cashier. I can also trace him from the moment he began shooting. According to the police, and one of the eyewitnesses, he fired the first shots in London Road at four minutes to five. So the first thing I want to know is, what was he doing for those two hours in between?’

  ‘But you surely know where he was?’

  ‘I know where he was for part of the time,’ said Teresa. ‘He went to the ExEx building in Welton Road. Is that where you meant?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He was only there a few minutes. They keep a record of everyone coming and going, and the police have a copy and I’ve seen it. Grove was in the ExEx building for less than fifteen minutes. Then he left and he walked down the hill into the Old Town. I’ve done the same walk myself: even going slowly, it took me less than half an hour. Grove was carrying his guns, but even if they were heavy, and he had to rest for a bit, it still wouldn’t add up to two hours.’

  Two customers came into the bar from the street, and Nick broke away to serve them. When he went back to her he refreshed her ice, and she put another long shot of soda water into her glass.

  ‘I gather you’ve been up at the ExEx place yourself,’ he said to her.

  She nodded, but looked surprised. ‘How do you know that?’

  He said, ‘Small town. People notice these things. Virtual reality is still a novelty. Someone visiting the town who uses it is worth gossiping about, I assume.’ In fact, Amy’s brother-in-law Dave Hartland had mentioned the other day that he had seen Teresa there, but Nick had no reason to suppose that she would know the man.

 
; ‘It’s not that much of a novelty any more, is it? There are ExEx facilities in most cities in America. One of the bookstore chains over there was starting to sell franchises when I left. And they’re opening all over the place in this country.’

  ‘Maybe, but ExEx is still new,’ Nick said. ‘Most people don’t appear to understand what it’s used for. I’m not even completely sure myself. You presumably are?’ Teresa’s expression gave nothing away. ‘Since the branch here has become associated with Grove, some of the locals say it should be closed down.’

  ‘If he’d been renting X-rated videos they’d say the same.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘OK,’ Teresa said. ‘Let’s get back to Gerry Grove. Do you know what the police were doing during this time?’

  ‘Presumably looking for the killer of Mrs Williams and her little boy, and the man who shot up the filling station.’

  ‘That’s the second thing I don’t understand. The police say they reacted promptly and efficiently, taking all the problems into account. I interviewed the station superintendent last week, and he maintained the police operation had been cleared by the enquiry. That’s broadly true, and I’ve read the enquiry report. But I think they really screwed up. They weren’t anywhere around. They had more than two hours to figure out there was a gunman on the loose, and yet when Grove started shooting it took them completely by surprise. A patrol car had gone out to the Texaco station but until emergency calls came through from the town there were no extra police on duty. Just the local force, and most of them were on normal duties around the town. Since last June most of the officers involved in the shooting have transferred to other divisions. For a body that’s been given a clear, they’re sure acting like they want to cover something up.’