by Luke Kennard
‘It’s Stu,’ said Genevieve. ‘Karl, it’s Stu.’
‘Yep,’ said Karl, looking up to see a tall man with a Mohican approaching the podium.
‘Why is it Stu?’
‘Shh.’
‘Is he the boss or something?’
‘Genevieve, shh.’
Stu put his hands on the lectern, cleared his throat and looked at the big glass screen which was hanging to his right, seemingly without support. It flickered and a white oblong, off centre and barely a quarter of the size of the overall screen appeared. It was a clip-art image of a man with a briefcase taking a big step. Stu looked at the screen. Slowly the words WHAT’S STANDING BETWEEN YOU AND SUCCESS? appeared in Comic Sans by the side of the clip-art businessman, who had a perky smile. There was a wonky blue parallelogram behind him.
‘What’s standing between you and success?’ said Stu.
Karl, to his surprise, felt disappointed. To the extent that he yanked the corner of his anorak free from his neighbour, who looked startled. It doesn’t matter how you dress it up and how good the free coffee is, the medium is the message and the medium is fucking PowerPoint. It was a dismal feeling, like the moment when a delayed train is finally cancelled.
But then the lights went out completely and the clip-art businessman smeared and flickered into a dance of glitches up the glass screen. Karl’s knee-jerk delight at something boring going wrong was hijacked by an orchestral overture via invisible speakers, and a long, low cello improvisation. As the soundtrack dissolved into electronic pops and gurgles, the image left the screen, a jagged mess of pixels, and bounced over the panoptic window, bursting into smaller copies of itself, a screensaver taking over the world; it covered the whole room, morphing into clip-art houses, clip-art office cubicles, cups of coffee, ties and cufflinks, clip-art strong, independent women, clip-art harried-looking commuters. The seats by this point were vibrating and Karl’s laughter was distorted, like a child in a play fight. The images seemed to peel off the glass and float along the rows. The room was swimming in obsolete icons and logos, slogans and mangled business-speak – push the change, be the envelope – clip-art Filofaxes and aeroplanes, shoes and computers duplicating, fanning out like cards, whirling and distending, blittering into fragments. The cello piece was melodic, abrasive, fearfully attractive, and the windows resolved into operating systems and programs Karl remembered from childhood, a museum of dead technology, single ribbons of green text, and then the music stopped and darkness was complete – until a spotlight picked out Stu adjusting the point of the second spike of his Mohican.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘Bit gimmicky.’
Karl was one of the first to start clapping.
‘All right, all right,’ said Stu. ‘There’s no getting away from the fact that this is a lecture, and I know there’s not a single couple in the room who’s chosen to be here so you can’t blame me for falling back on special effects. I don’t know if you’ve had a chance to talk to anyone else yet?’
Silence. Aside from discussing the scene with their partner, none of the couples had exchanged more than a resigned nod, a hello which could have been a hiccup.
‘You all have something in common,’ Stu smirked. ‘I’m kidding. It’s true, though. You’re all feeling a little bruised, I’m assuming. You’re all here under duress, expecting to count out the minutes, endure the insult to your intelligence. You were probably expecting …’ He rubbed his right eye. ‘You were probably expecting something like a speeding awareness course, right? I know what they’re like – I’ve been on three.’ He looked at the floor in mock contrition then glanced up. A ripple of laughter. ‘Well, I’m biased because I love this company, but it’s more like being given a new car. Take out your tablets.’
A mass shifting in the orange chairs. Karl slipped the computer out of its fur-lined pouch. It was a black sheet of glass, eight inches square. The words HELLO, KARL! in the middle. He looked at Genevieve, who was already moving a glowing white orb around hers with her index finger.
‘Your copy of the Transition handbook is on there,’ said Stu. ‘It has everything from the FAQ – constantly updated – to the history of the scheme, to the complaints procedure, which we hope you won’t be needing. But aside from that, you just write on them like a slate. Try it. Write Hello Stu.’
Clusters of Hello Stu!s appeared on the screen behind him.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘We’re going to look at three articles. Use your tablets and just write down your reactions. Whatever comes into your head. Be completely honest.’
The screen faded into a photograph and a long headline. A young woman in an old-fashioned floral-print dress posed by a spiral staircase. The headline: WHEN THIS DESIGNER’S FAMILY GREW SHE BOUGHT THE APARTMENT DOWNSTAIRS AND MADE THEIR HOME A DUPLEX. After ten seconds she was replaced by a man with a beard stirring an orange crockpot: HOW GREG’S POP-UP RESTAURANTS BECAME A PERMANENT CHAIN AND MADE HIM A PROPERTY MAGNATE. Next a shiny man who looked about twelve adjusting his tie in the mirror: WHILE PLAYING WITH HIS TWO-YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER, THIS TWENTY-SIX-YEAR-OLD HAPPENED UPON AN IDEA WHICH REVOLUTIONISED THE WAY WE SEE PUBLIC RELATIONS OVERNIGHT. All three appeared together with their headlines.
‘I remind you that this is a completely anonymous process,’ said Stu. ‘We’re interested in your frank, knee-jerk opinions. You have ten seconds.’
Gradually the magazine clippings disappeared from the screen and a selection of comments scrolled across the glass and around the windows:
I want to kill them all.
HOW A PRIVATE INCOME AND MASSIVE INHERITANCE MADE ALL THESE ASSHOLES’ DREAMS COME TRUE!
oh fuck off just fuck off fuck off fuck off
seriously a designer who can make enough to buy TWO FLATS fuck you what does she design nuclear weapons?
‘Good,’ said Stu. ‘This is all good.’
Karl watched as his own comment – what kind of a monster would bring a child into this world? – performed a loop-the-loop off the screen and landed on the window to the east.
‘Okay,’ said Stu while the last of the two hundred comments disappeared into a spiral behind him, as if going down a plughole. ‘I’d like to welcome to the stage Susannah, Greg and Paul.’
The trio walked onto the stage in unison, dressed exactly as they had been in the projected magazine articles. Susannah’s dress, Karl noticed, actually had a Russian-doll motif. They stopped in the middle of the stage and turned to face the audience, who were quiet. Karl shook his head. Genevieve had put her hand on his knee. The bearded chef folded his arms and looked up, bashfully. The designer and the PR man smiled with a hint of defiance. Karl’s temples pulsed. A lone voice yelled ‘BOOOO!’ which caused some brief, relieved laughter, shared by those on stage.
‘Susannah, out of interest, what do you design?’ said Stu.
‘Patterns for mugs and tableware,’ said Susannah.
‘And maybe you could tell the ladies and gentlemen of the audience what exactly you were doing two years ago today?’
‘This time two years ago,’ said Susannah, pointing into the crowd, ‘I was sitting in that chair, that one, fourth row. I was sitting in that chair writing shitty comments about the three people onstage because they were more successful than me.’
‘We know what it’s like out there,’ said Stu. ‘The landlord puts the rent up every six months. We know. Let alone saving, it’s hard to meet the bills and reduce your debts once you’ve stumped up the rent. We know. You never expected to be earning the salary you’re earning, but on the other hand you never expected to have to think twice about whether you could afford a new pair of socks this month. You’re trapped. The debts keep growing. We know. You’re overqualified for everything except a job that doesn’t actually exist – a historian or something. We know. This is the most expensive house in London.’
A moving image of a hallway covered in dust and rat droppings appeared behind Stu. The point of view tracked inwards towards a grand, sweepi
ng staircase with moss growing on it.
‘Uninhabited for twelve years. A giant, house-shaped gambling chip. None of this is fair. We know it’s not fair. There’s no changing that. So what can you do? You can throw in the towel, eat cereal straight from the box, watch internet porn and wait for death, if that’s what you want. Or you can be part of the solution. You can get into a position of power and wield it with a little more responsibility. That’s what this is about.’
6
JANNA AND STU’S house was the second in a row of four Georgian terraces, elegant sandstone buildings with high ceilings and multi-pane windows. The cherry tree in the front garden was in early full blossom. Karl was used to seeing such houses occupied by the offices of accountants or solicitors. It was a secluded street culminating in a Gothic Anglican church, apparently deconsecrated – there were no noticeboards or signs – but well maintained. Even the paving slabs felt antique, broad as tombstones, a ‘superior sole-feel’. Karl and Genevieve stood in the shade with their rucksacks and looked up.
‘I could just sit at the window writing long letters to my detractors all day,’ said Karl.
‘Why did they choose us?’ said Genevieve. ‘I mean really, of all the couples we saw yesterday …’
After Stu’s overture they had been separated into breakaway groups and had to share their origin story – how they became Bankrupt Man, Fraud Girl – and then their aspirations. Karl said he wanted to write video games. Genevieve said she’d only ever wanted to teach, but that she’d like to be solvent enough to have children. Although Stu had warned the groups that all the disclosure might feel a bit American, Karl had found it strangely cathartic to hear from other bright young things who’d used loan sharks to pay off loan sharks, or shoplifted cheese, or owed tens of thousands in council tax, or got busted for growing hydroponic weed in their attics. There was a free buffet lunch: big dressed salads, grilled fish, roasted vegetables and complicated breads. Janna gave a final speech, practical stuff. They learned there were to be six meetings in the Transition HQ, one per month of the scheme. The rest of the time the young couples would live with and learn from their mentors without formal intervention.
A single petal fell from the cherry tree now and landed at his feet.
‘I don’t know that we’re any worse than the rest,’ said Karl. ‘Maybe they liked my face.’
‘Your face,’ said Genevieve.
‘I have a very symmetrical face.’
‘Are you two just going to stand there?’ Janna leaned out of the first-floor window. ‘The door’s open – Stu’s made drinks.’
‘Stuart,’ said Genevieve.
‘Stu,’ said Stu.
They were sitting in the first-floor living room with gin and tonics. The upper branches of the cherry tree touched the windowpanes. It was beautiful.
‘Stu. Are you and Janna in charge of The Transition?’
‘Oh no, no, no,’ said Stu.
‘Ha!’ said Janna.
‘We’re lieutenants, at most,’ said Stu. ‘Department heads. All of the mentors have a managerial role within the institution – keeps things democratic. We take turns doing the talks. I just like the sound of my own voice, so …’ he shrugged.
‘So is there, like, a CEO?’ said Genevieve. ‘Who’s in charge?’
‘There’s a committee,’ said Stu. ‘If you mean who thought up the whole concept it came out of a think tank called Bury the Lead. That was twelve years ago. It started very small. There’s a chapter in the book about it. It’s on your tablet.’
‘I’ll read it,’ said Genevieve.
‘It’s an interesting history,’ said Stu. ‘Not without a few skeletons in the closet, but we’re in a good place now. We’ve managed to avoid attention, thanks to the whole confidentiality thing – we don’t allow our graduates to acknowledge the scheme in interviews. Why should they? You earned it – The Transition is just a leg-up. Most of them end up successful enough to be interviewed, which is the important thing. Generally they’re only too happy to move on – they’ve earned their right to a fulfilling life, we just gave them the means to start the journey. All we ask is you keep in touch, maybe come back to talk to a future year group.’ He got up. ‘Come on, you must want to see your quarters.’
Karl and Genevieve’s attic was not completely self-contained – cohabitation was stipulated in The Transition’s terms and conditions – but Stu had installed a small but luxurious bathroom with grey granite fittings. The shower head was the size of a frying pan.
‘Ooh, it’s like a hotel!’ said Genevieve. She tried the taps. The bevel was gentle and heavy like a volume knob and the water poured out with calm insistence.
They weren’t labelled.
‘Are you just supposed to know which is hot and which is cold?’ said Karl. ‘I can’t live like this. I have no memory for things like that.’
The rest of the attic had been divided into three rooms, one with a double bed and a small flat-screen TV on top of a chest of drawers; one with a sofa, a side table with a bowl of oranges and a print of Klimt’s Forest framed on the wall; and the last was a study with an old school desk and a new office chair, based on the audience seats in The Transition’s mezzanine. A little bookshelf had already been stocked with Karl and Genevieve’s library of twentieth-century fiction and poetry, the only possession The Transition’s removal service had had to contend with. A tall, bronze anglepoise lamp lurked in the corner like a prop from a steampunk movie. Next to it a blue Wi-Fi router blinked fitfully.
‘This is actually really thoughtful,’ said Karl, propping the second cardboard box of clothes on top of the first.
‘No more damp,’ said Genevieve. ‘I’ll have my fur coats taken out of storage.’
Each room had a Velux window and the view from the bedroom was of a tree-lined green with a wrought-iron fence and a locked gate. The four tall houses overlooked six parallel streets of Victorian terraces, the ornate and defunct public baths, a cordoned-off area of scrubland promised years ago to a major supermarket, and a hill with a busy road that wove down to the valley. Standing behind Genevieve, Karl put his hands on her waist and rested his chin on her shoulder.
‘We’ll manage, won’t we?’
He started working her skirt up and she pulled it down again.
‘I think so.’
By the end of the scheme, as long as they carefully followed the financial regimen, the young couple should have saved enough for a five per cent mortgage deposit on one of the new-build estates that sponsored the pilot scheme, as well as having developed the skills and responsibilities necessary to meet repayments. He kissed her neck.
‘You don’t even notice the Mohican after a while,’ said Genevieve.
They lay on their new bed, a firm mattress that yielded just enough to make you feel like you were lying in mid-air when you closed your eyes. The bed in their flat had felt like a giant bag of spoons and Karl was accustomed to arranging his internal organs around them when he slept. He lay on his back, speechless, while Genevieve took her square tablet out of her rucksack. She started to read the History.
‘“Everything was temporary,”’ she read. ‘“Because they could be moved on at any time, nobody felt like a stakeholder in their community, so the very idea of community had started to erode. Once, we gathered round the piano in the pub or the town hall to sing songs together in harmony; now we sang at one another in cold-lit karaoke bars, a lonely imitation of the fame we felt was our only possible escape.” That’s by Hannah Eldridge – she was part of the think tank ten years ago.’
She stopped reading out loud and Karl closed his eyes. Both of them were drifting into sleep when they heard Janna at the foot of the stairs.
‘Um … guys? Food’s ready.’
Dinner was roast squash, pumpkin seeds and rocket leaves with fresh bread and yoghurt. Stu explained that they weren’t vegetarian, but that they only ate meat twice a week. Janna opened a bottle of Rioja.
‘He only ever bu
ys wine wrapped in a wire cage,’ she said. ‘He thinks that’s how you tell if it’s good. Look, we’ll talk through some basic rotas and stuff tomorrow, but tonight let’s just have a drink. We’re very happy to have you here. Cheers.’
‘THEY SEEM REALLY LOVELY,’ said Genevieve. ‘I think we’re very lucky.’
They were drunk on red wine, lying in each other’s arms.
‘I think we’re going to be okay,’ said Karl. ‘This could actually be the best thing that’s ever happened to us.’
Very suddenly, Genevieve started snoring.
Karl slept lightly and woke up at what his tablet told him was 4:26. He could hear a faint, uneven squeaking noise. It sounded like a pulley being operated.
‘You awake? You hear that?’
‘I’ve been listening to it,’ Genevieve whispered. ‘It’s crying.’
‘What? No, I mean the squeaking noise.’
‘What do you think I mean?’
‘It isn’t crying.’
‘It’s coming from the next attic. Someone in the attic next door is weeping.’
Spooked, Karl turned on the green glass library lamp on his bedside table.
‘It’s a creaking sound.’
‘It’s crying.’
‘It’s pipes or something.’
‘Someone,’ said Genevieve, ‘is crying.’
‘Let me get close – OW! Motherfucker!’ said Karl, falling back onto the bed, holding his foot. ‘What is that?’