The Terminal Beach

by James Graham Ballard

  Rossiter smiled. 'Sorry, John, I'd like to tell you but you might start a stampede. Besides, you wouldn't believe me.'

  Rossiter worked in the Insurance Department at the City Hall, had informal access to the census statistics. For the last ten years these had been classified information, partly because they were felt to be inaccurate, but chiefly because it was feared they might set off a mass attack of claustrophobia. Minor outbreaks had taken place already, and the official line was that world population had reached a plateau levelling off at 10,000 million. No one believed this for a moment, and Ward assumed that the 3 per cent annual increase maintained since the 96os was continuing. How long it could continue was impossible to estimate. Despite the gloomiest prophecies of the NeoMalthusians, world agriculture had managed to keep pace with the population growth, although intensive cultivation meant that 95 per cent of the population was permanently trapped in vast urban conurbations. The outward growth of cities had at last been checked; in fact, all over the world former Suburban areas were being reclaimed for agriculture and population additions were confined within the existing urban ghettos, the countryside, as such, no longer existed. Every single square foot of ground sprouted a crop of one type or other. The one-time fields and meadows of the world were now, in effect, factory floors, as highly mechanized and closed to the public as any industrial area. Economic and ideological rivalries had long since faded before one overriding quest - the internal colonization of the city.

  Reaching the food-bar, they pushed themselves into the entrance and joined the scrum of customers pressing six deep against the counter.

  'What is really wrong with the population problem,'

  Ward confided to Rossiter, 'is that no one has ever tried to tackle it. Fifty years ago short-sighted nationalism and industrial expansion put a premium on a rising population curve, and even now the hidden incentive is to have a large family so that you can gain a little privacy. Single people are penalized simply because there are more of them and they don't fit neatly into double or triple cubicles. But it's the large family with its compact, space-saving logistic that is the real villain.'

  Rossiter nodded, edging nearer the counter, ready to shout his order. 'Too true. We all look forward to getting married just so that we can have our six square metres.'

  Directly in front of them, two girls turned around and smiled. 'Six square metres,' one of them, a dark-haired girl with a pretty oval face, repeated.

  'You sound like the sort of young man I ought to get to now. Going into the real estate business, Peter?'

  Rossiter grinned and squeezed her arm. 'Hello, Judith.

  I'm thinking about it actively. Like to join me in a private venture?'

  The girl leaned against him as they reached the counter.

  'Well, I might. It would have to be legal, though.'

  The other girl, Helen Waring, an assistant at the library, pulled Ward's sleeve. 'Have you heard the latest, John?

  Judith and I have been kicked out of our room. We're on the street right at this minute.'

  'What?' Rossiter cried. They collected their soups and coffee and edged back to the rear of the bar. 'What on earth happened?'

  Helen explained: 'You know that little broom cupboard outside our cubicle? Judith and I have been using it as a sort of study hole, going in there to read. It's quiet and restful, if you can get used to not breathing. Well, the old girl found out and kicked up a big fuss, said we were breaking the law and so on. In short, out.' Helen paused. 'Now we've heard she's going to let it as a single.'

  Rossiter pounded the counter ledge. 'A broom cupboard?

  Someone's going to live there? But she'll never get a licence.'

  Judith shook her head. 'She's got it already. Her brother works in the Housing Department.'

  Ward laughed into his soup. 'But how can she let it? No one wilt live in a broom cupboard.'

  Judith stared at him sombrely. 'You really believe that, John?'

  Ward dropped his spoon. 'No, I suppose you're right.

  People will live anywhere. God, I don't know who I feel more sorry for - you two, or the poor devil who'll be living in that cupboard. What are you going to do?'

  'A couple in a place two blocks west are sub-letting half their cubicle to us. They've hung a sheet down the middle and Helen and I'll take turns sleeping on a camp bed. I'm not joking, our room's about two feet wide. I said to Helen that we ought to split up again and sublet one half at twice our rent.'

  They had a good laugh over all this. Then Ward said good night to the others and went back to his rooming house.

  There he found himself with similar problems.

  The manager leaned against the flimsy door, a damp cigar butt revolving around his mouth, an expression of morose boredom on his unshaven face.

  'You got four point seven two metres,' he told Ward, who was standing out on the staircase, unable to get into his room. Other tenants pressed by on to the landing, where two women in curlers and dressing gowns were arguing with each other, tugging angrily at the wall of trunks and cases.

  Occasionally the manager glanced at them irritably. 'Four seven possibility two. of worked argument it out twice.' He said this as flit ended all 'Ceiling or floor?’ Ward asked.

  'Ceiling, whaddya think? How can I measure the floor with all this junk?' He kicked at a crate of books protruding from under the bed.

  Ward let this pass. 'There's quite a tilt on the wall,' he pointed out. 'As much as three or four degrees.'

  The manager nodded vaguely. 'You're definitely over the four. Way over.' He turned to Ward, who had moved down several steps to allow a man and woman to get past. 'I can rent this as a double.'

  'What, only four and a half?' Ward said incredulously.

  'How?'

  The man who had just passed him leaned over the manager's shoulder and sniffed at the room, taking in every detail in a one-second glance.' 'You renting a double here, Louie?'

  The manager waved him away and then beckoned Ward into the room, closing the door after him.

  'It's a nominal five,' he told Ward. 'New regulation, just came out. Anything over four five is a double now.' He eyed Ward shrewdly. 'Well, whaddya want? It's a good room, there's a lot of space here, feels more like a triple. You got access to the staircase, window slit - ' He broke off as, Ward slumped down on the bed and started to laugh.

  'Whatsa matter? Look, ii' you want a big room like this you gotta pay for it. I want an eara half rental or you get out.'

  Ward wiped his eyes, then stood up wearily and reached for the shelves. 'Relax, I'm on my way. I'm going to live in a broom cupboard. "Access to the staircase" - that's really rich. Tell me, Louie, is there life on Uranus?'

  Temporarily, he and Rossiter teamed up to rent a double cubicle in a semi-derelict house a hundred yards from the library. The neighbourhood was seedy and faded, the rooming houses crammed with tenants. Most of them were owned by absentee landlords or by the city corporation, and the managers employed were of the lowest type, mere rent-collectors who cared nothing about the way their tenants divided up the living space, and never ventured beyond the first floors. Bottles and empty cans littered the corridors, and the washrooms looked like sumps. Many of the tenants were old and infirm, sitting about listlessly in their narrow cubicles, wheedling at each other back to back through the thin partitions.

  Their double cubicle was on the third floor, at the end of a corridor that 14nged the building. Its architecture was impossible to follow, rooms letting off at all angles, and luckily the corridor was a cul de sac. The mounds of cases ended four feet from the end wall and a partition divided off the cubicle, just wide enough for two beds. A high window overlooked the area ways of the buildings opposite.

  Possessions loaded on to the shelf above his head, Ward lay back on his bed and moodily surveyed the roof of the library through the afternoon haze.

  'It's not bad here,' Rossiter told him, unpacking his case.

  'I know there's no real p
rivacy and we'll drive each other insane within a week, but at least we haven't got six other people breathing into our ears two feet away.'

  The nearest cubicle, a single, was built into the banks of cases half a dozen steps along the corridor, but the occupant, a man of seventy, was deaf and bedridden.

  'It's not bad,' Ward echoed reluctantly. 'Now tell me what the latest growth figures are. They might console me.'

  Rossiter paused, lowering his voice. 'Four per cent. Eight hundred million extra people in one year - just less than half the earth's total population in x95o.'

  Ward whistled slowly. 'So they will revalue. What to?

  Three and a half?'

  'Three. From the first of next year.'

  'Three square metres? Ward sat up and looked around him. 'It's unbelievable! The world's going insane, Rossiter.

  For God's sake, when are they going to do something about it? Do you realize there soon won't be room enough to sit down, let alone lie down?'

  Exasperated, he punched the wall beside him, on the second blow knocked in one of the small wooden panels that had been lightly papered over.

  'Hey!' Rossiter yelled. 'You're breaking the place down.'

  He dived across the bed to retrieve the panel, which hung downwards supported by a strip of paper. Ward slipped his hand into the dark interval, carefully drew the panel back on to the bed.

  'Who's on the other side?' Rossiter whispered. 'Did they hear?'

  Ward peered through the interval, eyes searching the dim light. Suddenly he dropped the panel and seized Rossiter's shoulder, pulled him down on to the bed.

  'Henry! Look!'

  Directly in front of them, faintly illuminated by a grimy skylight, was a medium-sized room some fifteen feet square, empty except for the dust silted up against the skirting boards.

  The floor was bare, a few strips of frayed linoleum running across it, the walls covered with a drab floral design. Here and there patches of the paper peeled off and segments of the picture rail had rotted away, but otherwise the room was in habitable condition.

  Breathing slowly, Ward closed the open door of the cubicle with his foot, then turned to Rossiter.

  'Henry, do you realize what we've found? Do you realize it, man?'

  'Shut up. For Pete's sake keep your voice down.' Rossiter examined the room carefully. 'It's fantastic. I'm trying to see whether anyone's used it recently.'

  'Of course they haven't,' Ward pointed out. 'It's obvious.

  There's no door into the room. We're looking through it now. They must have panelled over this door years ago and forgotten about it. Look at that filth everywhere.'

  Rossiter was staring into the room, his mind staggered by its vastness.

  'You're right,' he murmured. 'Now, when do we move in?'

  Panel by panel, they pried away the lower half of the door and nailed it on to a wooden frame, so that the dummy section could be replaced instantly.

  Then, picking an afternoon when the house was half empty and the manager asleep in his basement office, they made their first foray into the room, Ward going in alone while Rossiter kept guard in the cubicle.

  For an hour they exchanged places, wandering silently around the dusty room, stretching their arms out to feel its unconfined emptiness, grasping at the sensation of absolute spatial freedom. Although smaller than many of the subdivided rooms in which they had lived, this room seemed infinitely larger, its walls huge cliffs that soared upward to the skylight.

  Finally, two or three days later, they moved in.

  For the first week Rossiter slept alone in the room, Ward in the cubicle outside, both there together during the day. Gradually they smuggled in a few items of furniture: two armchairs, a table, a lamp fed from the socket in the cubicle. The furniture was heavy and victorian; the cheapest available, its size emphasized the emptiness of the room. Pride of place was taken by an enormous mahogany wardrobe, fitted with carved angels and castellated mirrors, which they were forced to dismantle and carry into the house in their suitcases. Towering over them, it reminded Ward of the micro-films of gothic cathedrals with their massive organ lofts crossing vast naves.

  After three weeks they both slept in the room, finding the cubicle unbearably cramped. An imitation japanese screen divided the room adequately and did nothing to diminish its size. Sitting there in the evenings, surrounded by his books and albums, Ward steadily forgot the city outside. Luckily he reached the library by a back alley and avoided the crowded streets. Rossiter and himself began to seem the only real inhabitants of the world, everyone else a meaningless byproduct of their own existence, a random replication of identity which had run out of control.

  It was Rossiter who suggested that they ask the two girls to share the room with them.

  'They've been kicked out again and may have to split up,' he told Ward, obviously worried that Judith might fall into bad company. 'There's always a rent freeze after a revaluation but all the landlords know about it so they're not re-letting.

  It's damned difficult to find anywhere.'

  Ward nodded, relaxing back around the circular redwood table. He played with-the tassel of the arsenic-green lamp shade, for a moment felt like a victorian man of letters, leading a spacious, leisurely life among overstuffed furnishings.

  I'm all for it,' he agreed, indicating the empty corners.

  'There's plenty of room here. But we'll have to make Sure they don't gossip about it.'

  After due precautions, they let the two girls into the secret, enjoying their astonishment at finding this private universe.

  'We'll put a partition across the middle,' Rossiter explained, 'then take it down each morning. You'll be able to move in within a couple of days. How do you feel?'

  'Wonderful I' They goggled at the wardrobe, squinting at the endless reflections in the mirrors.

  There was no difficulty getting them in and out of the house. The turnover of tenants was continuous and bills were' placed in the mail rack. No one eared who the girls were or noticed their regular calls at the cubicle.

  However, half an hour after they arrived neither of them had unpacked her suitcase.

  'What's up, Judith?' Ward asked, edging past the girls'

  beds into the narrow interval between the table and wardrobe.

  Judith hesitated, looking from Ward to Rossiter, who sat on the bed, finishing off the plywood partition. 'John, it's just that…'

  Helen Waring, more matter-of-fact, took over, her fingers straightening the bed-spread. 'What Judith's trying to say is that our position here is a little embarrassing. The partition Rossiter stood up. 'For heaven's sake, don't worry, Helen,' he assured her, speaking in the loud whisper they had all involuntarily cultivated. 'No funny business, you can trust us. This partition is as solid as a rock.'

  The two girls nodded. 'It's not that,' Helen explained, 'but it isn't up all the time. We thought that if an older person were here, say Judith's aunt - she wouldn't take up much room and be no trouble, she's really awfully sweet - we wouldn't need to bother about the partition - except at night,' she added quickly.

  Ward glanced at Rossiter, who shrugged and began to scan the floor.

  'Well, it's an idea,' Rossiter said. 'John and I know how you feel. Why not?'

  'Sure,' Ward agreed. He printed to the space between the girls' beds and the table. 'One more won't make any difference.'

  The girls broke into whoops. Judith went over to Rossiter and kissed him on the cheek. 'Sorry to be a nuisance, Henry.'

  She smiled at him. 'That's a wonderful partition you've made. You couldn't do another one for Auntie -just a little one? She's very sweet but she is getting on.'

  'Of course,' Rossiter said. 'I understand. I've got plenty of wood left over.'

  Ward looked at his watch. 'It's seven-thirty, Judith.

  You'd better get in touch with your aunt. She may not be able to make it tonight.'

  Judith buttoned her coat. 'Oh she will,' she assured Ward.

  'I'll be
back in a jiffy.'

  The aunt arrived within five minutes, three heavy suitcases soundly packed.

  'It's amazing,' Ward remarked to Rossiter three months later. 'The size of this room still staggers me. It almost gets larger every day.'

  Rossiter agreed readily, averting his eyes from one of the girls changing behind the central partition. This they now left in place as dismantling it daily had become tiresome.

  Besides, the aunt's subsidiary partition was attached to it and she resented the continuous upsets. Ensuring she followed the entrance and exit drills through the camouflaged door and cubicle was difficult enough.

  Despite this, detection seemed unlikely. The room had obviously been built as an afterthought into the central well of the house and any noise was masked by the luggage stacked in the surrounding corridor. Directly below was a small dormitory occupied by several elderly women, and Judith's aunt, who visited them socially, swore that no sounds came through the heavy ceiling. Above, the fanlight let out through a dormer window, its lights indistinguishable from the hundred other bulbs in the windows of the house. Rossiter finished off the new partition he was building and held it upright, fitting it into the slots nailed to the wall between his bed and Ward's. They had agreed that this would provide a little extra privacy. 'No doubt I'll have to do one for Judith and Helen,' he confided to Ward.

  Ward adjusted his pillow. They had smuggled the two armchairs back to the furniture shop as they took up too much space. The bed, anyway, was more comfortable. He had never become completely used to the soft upholstery. 'Not a bad idea. What about some shelving around the wall? I've got nowhere to put anything.'