by Luke Kennard
He said goodbye to Genevieve by the postbox before St Matthew’s Primary and took out his tablet. He entered the postcode for Tern and Doughty as he remembered it from the advert in the back of the manual, but the map didn’t recognise it. Did he mean an alternative postcode with an L instead of a Y? He supposed so. It was 6.4 miles away. Karl followed his map, holding his tablet before him, a pulsing blue dot on a grid which resolved into a real-time film of the road he was walking along. He could press a button to discover his personal relationship with the road (he had walked down this road zero times before) and another to overlay the film with recreations of the same street in its past incarnations. In the centre of town the tablet took him through a cut-away called Abattoir Lane, abutted by tall redbrick halls. He passed an expensive patisserie and a hand-made greeting-card shop. The road had sloped stone gutters on either side to collect blood. How we used to do everything in plain sight. He held the tablet in front of his face and witnessed a busy scene of vintage trucks loaded with the bleating and the lowing. He imagined a tablet that could also recreate the cries of agony and the stench of effluence, our reasons for outsourcing clearly more than sanitary and economic.
At one point he got stuck on an overpass near the train station which narrowed to a point, the railings meeting in a V hanging high above the library. It took him ten minutes to find the steps to the road below. He stopped for a sausage roll, which managed to be both clammy and dry and altogether so unappetising that he threw it away and stopped somewhere else for a different sausage roll, which was passable. He walked down a road of pet shops, guitar shops and bookies and then crossed a main road and a bridge by several blocks of flats. Then his pulsing blue dot was on top of the static red dot and the tablet said, ‘You have reached your destination.’ He looked up. There was a long-abandoned pub with nicotine-coloured ceramic tiles and muddy green windows, many staved in, some boarded up. Next to the closed pub the city petered out into a flat grey dust bowl, the foundations of former factories and warehouses beneath the entrance to the motorway. It felt like a fitting location for a civil war, but for the vast, ugly wild flowers, sprouting from the cracks, taller than him and top-heavy, swaying obscenely in the breeze like they belonged there and he didn’t – the place hadn’t been disturbed in a long time. Short of the slip road he saw a familiar light blue sign with a white outline of a house and the legend, Tern and Doughty: Everyone Deserves a Home.
The tarmac road, which started and finished abruptly and was yet to connect to the main drag, was shiny and black as a new laptop. A track of dusty boot prints had adhered to its surface, and Karl almost felt like polishing them off with the bottom of his T-shirt. The estate was made up of a corral of twenty small white houses. The windows were covered in a blue plastic film, some half-peeled. The buildings looked incongruously bright and clean and Lego-like in the scrubby landscape, as if they had been constructed by a giant child. They were detached, but very close together – almost touching. Karl went to the nearest, number 4. He peered through one of the half-peeled windows. The house was still a shell – no interior walls, thick hanging wires and tubes on the inside. They made Karl think of Le Corbusier’s Futuristic houses – machines for living in, as small and efficient as possible. They really weren’t any bigger than the converted conservatory he had rented with Genevieve for three years.
‘Bastards,’ he said out loud.
Karl’s tablet ran out of charge while he was taking a picture of the Tern and Doughty estate. It was the first time the tablet’s battery had gone flat – an impressive feature. It died just as number 4 was coming into focus and before he could press to take the photo. Never mind. It wasn’t like he was an investigative journalist. He put the dead tablet in his inside pocket. Without his map he got lost trying to find his way back to the centre of the city. He had to hail a taxi from outside one of the tower blocks. It dropped him by the reassuringly old-fashioned frontage of Keston’s company’s office. Edson Hinks. Bevelled glass and racing-green joists.
He had shared a room with Keston in their first year of university. He called him as soon as the Inland Revenue let him know he was being investigated, and although it was the first time they’d spoken in five years, Keston was as familiar as if they were trying to pool enough loose change for eight cans of beer. He said that they would sort him out. Keston had lost most of his hair in what he described as a tragic hair-losing accident.
There was nobody at reception, but his office door was open and Karl could see him flipping through a green loose-leaf binder.
‘Hey Brosecco,’ said Keston, without looking up. ‘Getting any?’
‘Brosecco?’
‘I’m trying it out.’ He put the folder down. ‘Urban slang meets mid-range sparkling wine.’
Keston was wearing a tight-fitting grey suit. His tie was like a thin strip of high-end gift wrap. Karl sat down opposite the dark wooden desk and put his left foot up on his right knee, then he frowned. It was a little office with smart blue wallpaper and mahogany trimmings. It smelled like cigars, but the speakers of Edson’s PC were playing something by the Lightning Seeds – the same album Keston played over and over again while he was revising for his accountancy exams or writing assignments when they shared a room.
‘Such a terrible band,’ Karl said. ‘Actually, seeing as you asked, Genevieve and I haven’t had sex since I was charged with tax fraud.’
‘Whoa,’ said Keston. ‘Really didn’t need to share that. What, as, like, punishment?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Karl. ‘Not consciously, anyway.’
‘That’s a long time, Little Bro Peep.’
‘It is a long time, isn’t it?’ said Karl.
‘Kind of thing can trigger an early midlife crisis,’ said Keston. ‘You want?’ He put down two tumblers and poured a measure of whisky into both.
‘No thanks,’ said Karl.
‘Oh, go on,’ said Keston, nudging the glass towards Karl. ‘Still, you’re a lucky boy, aren’t you? I remember you pining after her the whole three years. Moping around the library. Reading your wrist-cutting poetry. But you did it, didn’t you? You finally got in her pants. Do you know how many people actually get what they want?’
‘One in … four?’
‘That’s cancer. Now, this won’t take long. Couple of forms to sign – just moving some fictional money around. Good news is you’re out of the shitstorm you were in last time I saw you. There’s an issue with your wife’s PAYE, but I’m trying to get to the bottom of that. This is still unknown territory.’
‘Hang on,’ said Karl. ‘Hell’s wrong with Genevieve’s PAYE?’
Keston rifled through a green sugar-paper file. ‘Your net salaries are being paid straight into a holding pen and, at the end of the programme, you retain forty-six per cent of it plus interest, which becomes your deposit on your dream home.’
‘About that dream home,’ said Karl.
‘Only there’s a complication because between the arrears, the instalments on the fine, your tax return from last year and the consolidated debt from your entire adult life so far, someone’s got their wires crossed. I thought it would be easier this way, but it isn’t. It’s not your problem, it’s mine. Like I said, unknown territory.’
‘About the dream home.’
‘Yes?’
‘I want to know what my options are.’
‘You move in when you get to the end of The Transition. The Transition is a good product, Karl.’
‘What if I … What if Genevieve and I don’t want to? What if we don’t like the house or the area or whatever?’
‘Well, I’m told that the move is an integral part of the process. I’m also told your dream home will be built to the highest spec available at the price in a desirable up-and-coming area.’
‘What if we want to back out of the process?’
‘That means it might get a Waitrose one day. I’m sorry,’ said Keston. ‘I’m up to my elbows in mud and raw sewage digging your escape
tunnel with a spoon and I think I just heard a little voice behind me saying he wants to shuffle all the way back into his prison cell.’
‘Hypothetically.’
‘Karl,’ said Keston, ‘K-Temp, you don’t … I’m not even going to look up the terms and conditions. There’s no way out of this at all. Any of it. It’s a broadhead contract.’
‘What’s a broadhead contract?’
‘You know those arrows which are designed to cause more damage when you pull them out than they did going in?’
‘Eww.’
‘Yeah. Like a cat’s dick. So unless you want to go to prison.’ Keston shrugged. ‘Actually I’m not even sure if that’s an option any more. It’s this or the chair. You don’t like the house, you can sell it.’
‘Seriously, Keston, nobody would want it. It’s on the side of a motorway.’
‘Is this why you asked me to look into your mentors’ last protégés? They’re all doing fine. You’ll be on the property ladder, is the point. And how would you have any idea about the house? It’s five months until you get the keys.’
‘I heard about the contractor. I paid a visit to one of the sites.’
‘Then you’ll have seen families picnicking, children chasing balls into fields – your children, they could be.’
‘It’s still under construction,’ said Karl. ‘It looks like a doll-size Bauhaus penal colony.’
‘They’ve had a variety of contractors in the last few years … Not everyone moves into new builds. Some take jobs with The Transition itself. Some even become mentors.’
‘Keston, are you involved in The Transition?’
‘What?’
‘You wouldn’t lie to me, to my face, if I asked you a direct question, would you?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Keston. ‘Ask me something directly.’
Karl took a tiny sip of his whisky. He didn’t like whisky. He made eye contact with Keston, who tilted his head to one side.
‘How do you even know about The Transition? Do you work for them?’
Keston pursed his lips and rocked back on his chair.
‘Okay, you merciless son of a bitch,’ he said. ‘I don’t work for The Transition. I get a small commission for everyone I successfully nominate for the scheme. Happy?’
‘I’m glad to oblige. Do you recommend broadband providers too?’
‘Gah,’ said Keston. ‘They told me in accountant school: never take on one of your friends.’
‘I’m not angry,’ said Karl.
‘I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t believe in it. It gets results, K-bee. Five months from now you’ll be living in your own home, even if it’s a little on the modest side, and you’ll be doing something you care about. I’ve seen twelve people in your position go through it in the last five years.’
‘I got a warning. Someone told me to get out of the scheme.’
‘A warning from whom?’
‘A website.’
‘A website. Careful, K-Pax,’ said Keston. ‘You’ll unravel the whole establishment.’
‘It was fairly damning.’
‘If you want my advice,’ said Keston, ‘don’t get involved with any conspiracy nuts or Stalinists or anyone who wants to bring down Western civilisation. I love Western civilisation. It’s brilliant.’
‘A few weeks ago Stu said there was a couple on the run he had to deal with. Why do people run away if it’s such a good scheme?’
Keston blew a raspberry. ‘Do you want me to look into that for you?’ he said. ‘I can find out who they are and what the deal is. Would that make you feel better?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Fine,’ said Keston. ‘I’ll let you know. Now get back to your loveless marriage.’
26
WHEN KARL GOT IN he could hear a creaking, pummelling sound coming from the first floor. He didn’t call. He took off his coat very quietly. From the staircase he could tell that it was coming from Janna and Stu’s bedroom and he paused by their door before climbing the ladder up to his quarters. Their bedroom door was old and still had a keyhole from the era when everyone had locks everywhere. The thudding and creaking had an irregular rhythm, sometimes resolving into a rapid drumming whose pattern soon changed. Karl held his breath, got down on his knees, closed one eye and pressed his cheek to the cold metal of the lock mechanism. His vision was bordered black, but he could see clean across the bedroom to the trapeze, which was winched a little higher than when Genevieve had swung on it.
Janna was dressed in a blue two-piece Lycra running outfit. She sat on the trapeze with both legs dangling from one side of the bar, leaning against the rope like someone lying in a hammock in an American novel. Then she flipped downwards as suddenly as an illustration in a pop-up book and hung from one leg, her hands together pointing to the floor. She worked up a swing and grabbed the bar with both hands, spun fully around twice and brought herself down so that she was supported on the bar by her stomach, as if swimming in mid-air, then she jumped, wrapped one leg around both ropes, twisted as if unravelling and landed on her feet facing away from him.
Karl almost burst into applause. He was shaking. Any transgression, he had noticed, gave him a pronounced tremor. Then Janna peeled off her top and rolled down her leggings and stretched. Karl stared at her through the keyhole, and told himself that now would be a good time to move quickly and quietly down the stairs, but he didn’t. He watched her tie a pink towel under her shoulders.
‘You can come in if you like,’ she said, as if to no one in particular.
Karl stopped breathing momentarily.
‘Honestly,’ she said, untying her hair. ‘I don’t mind. I think it’s sweet.’
Karl stood up, his face burning. He turned the doorknob with a noisy click, pulled the door open, but didn’t enter the room.
‘Look at you,’ said Janna, smiling. ‘Don’t be so embarrassed.’
‘I’m …’ Karl felt like a little boy. ‘I’m really sorry for spying on you.’
‘You were just curious,’ said Janna. She tightened the towel under her shoulders. ‘It’s a trapeze.’
‘I know,’ said Karl. ‘I thought it only swung back and forth.’
‘It’s Intelligent Cable,’ said Janna. ‘Can be hard as a crowbar or bendy as a bit of string. You just twist the end. Developed –’ she grinned – ‘by one of The Transition’s protégés. Do you want a go?’
‘Oh, no thanks,’ said Karl. ‘I think I’d need to be in better shape.’
‘Well, you’ll get there,’ said Janna. ‘I’m going to have a shower. I’m afraid there’s no keyhole in the bathroom.’
‘I don’t … do that,’ said Karl.
‘You don’t need to hide who you are. Or what you are,’ said Janna. She touched him on the arm.
‘It’s not what I am.’
‘You think I’m going to judge you?’
‘I would,’ said Karl. ‘It’s a disgusting thing to do.’
‘You look like you’re going to cry. Honestly, Karl, you’re fretting. You had some formative sexual experience you probably don’t even remember and it’s given you a minor predilection which, if I can help you satisfy, then I’m glad. We all have our tastes.’ Karl felt dizzy and sat on the corner of her bed. ‘I think I’m starting to understand you,’ said Janna, sitting next to him. ‘I think you feel ashamed all the time. I think you go around in a … cloud of shame.’
He heard the front door and jumped from the bed.
‘I have to get upstairs,’ he said. His voice sounded strange to him, as if it was someone else choosing the words and he only had to voice them. ‘I have to …’
Janna was smiling at him sadly as he crossed the room.
‘You don’t need to be afraid,’ she said.
It was Karl’s night to cook. He began hollowing out the peppers.
Genevieve cleared the table and Janna read a parable from the Mentor’s Edition.
‘“The princess was famous for her melancholy – and the king ha
d pledged her hand in marriage to the first man who could make her smile, thus had a competition begun among the” – so on and so forth,’ she said, turning the page. ‘“‘Bring me a wave from the ocean,’ said the princess. So the suitor gathered a team of thirty soldiers and had the blacksmith forge a pewter trough two miles long. He marched the soldiers down to the shore and bid them lower the trough when a suitably ferocious wave broke. Once the wave was caught, the suitor marched his men back to the palatial arboretum and summoned the princess – who arrived in time to see the contingent of soldiers pour several hundred gallons of seawater over her marble floor. ‘A wave from the ocean!’ announced the suitor. But in spite of encouragement, the wave remained quite still. ‘You see yourself,’ said the princess, ‘that this is not a wave at all. It is a puddle.’”’
‘Who wants brandy?’ said Stu.
‘Meee!’ said Genevieve.
‘It’s not Saturday,’ said Karl. ‘What’s with all the booze?’
Stu fetched oversized glasses and poured a generous measure for everyone. Karl took a sip. It tasted slightly less like soap than Keston’s whisky.
‘What?’ he said. ‘Is it my birthday and I’ve forgotten?’
They were all looking at him, smiling.
‘What’s going on?’ said Karl, inching up the sofa as if ready to make a run for it.
‘I have an announcement to make,’ said Genevieve.
She was wearing the Gold Fiction nail varnish. Karl thought he could feel his heart beating at the base of his tongue.
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve handed in my notice,’ said Genevieve. ‘I’m leaving in a month, at the end of the Spring term. I’m joining the Transition head office – it’s just an entry-level position in Marketing, but the pay’s better than … and they need someone who can give presentations and …’
‘And she’s very presentable,’ said Janna.
Karl swallowed and found that his mouth was too dry.
‘Is this true?’ he said.