Mick came in again. He lifted his pint. ‘Thanks, pal.’
‘Good luck,’ Tom said.
‘Remember Paul?’ Mick said. ‘Who had the box-room for a while? Nobody ever went in. Just putting your head round the door was bad enough.’
‘He cooked his meals in there, along with everything else,’ Tom said. ‘He had one of those camping gas rings.’
‘Aye, his bed caught fire more than once. Whatever happened to him, do you know?’
‘He died,’ Tom said. ‘I told you before.’
‘Paul died? Bloody hell. Bloody hell!’ Mick’s astonishment was almost as forced as his laugh. ‘How did he die?’
‘Drink, drugs, everything,’ Tom said. ‘Actually, what happened was he stepped in front of a bus. I told you that. But it wasn’t the bus that killed him, not really.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Mick said. He took a drink. So did Tom.
‘A health centre, eh?’ Mick said. ‘That’s a good one.’
29 April
The Bomb Detectors
‘The technology really is amazing,’ said the Minister for Defence Procurement. ‘Once all our security teams are equipped with these devices, we will be able not only to save lives but also to speed up vehicle and body searches at checkpoints. It’s a win-win situation. Actually it’s a win-win-win situation because the Department will save money too, after the initial outlay.’
‘Extraordinary,’ said the Secretary of State for Defence. ‘And you say the technology was originally developed to locate lost golf balls?’ He chuckled. ‘Perhaps I might be allowed one for my personal use.’
‘I am afraid the golf authorities have banned them. They’ve ruled that they give an unfair advantage and encourage ungentlemanly conduct.’
‘Oh, quite right, that never occurred to me,’ replied the Secretary of State. ‘Now, seriously, you’ve seen a demonstration of these detectors in action, have you?’
‘I’ve seen the demonstration video, yes,’ the Minister said.
‘And how effective are they?’
‘They are ninety per cent effective up to a distance of one kilometre. This means, to maintain one hundred per cent security, we will still need our people to carry out inspections on one in ten vehicles, and one in ten people passing through checkpoints will have to be physically searched. But naturally the high visibility of the detectors will itself increase confidence among the general public, and act as a further deterrent to any would-be terrorists.’
‘Splendid,’ said the Secretary of State. ‘In your memorandum you advise buying six thousand of them. How much will that cost?’
‘Forty million dollars, including the consultancy commissions.’
The Secretary of State gasped. ‘That’s an enormous sum.’
‘Yes, but you must remember that once the equipment is purchased the only additional running cost is battery replacement. I estimate that the Department will save twenty million dollars on staff costs over the next ten years. Plus many lives, of course.’
‘Which must always be our paramount concern. The consultancy commissions, are they clearly shown in the accounting paperwork?’
‘No, they are what we call invisible earnings.’
‘I see. And when would we expect to be in receipt of the first of them?’
‘I have them here,’ the Minister said, tapping his black leather briefcase.
30 April
The Intuceptor System
‘I must confess,’ said the Minister for Wellbeing and Security, ‘to having some doubts as to whether the technology really can deliver everything you say it can. Leaving aside the civil liberties issue, about which we can expect the usual fuss in the usual quarters, how can you be so confident that simply donning a pair of these glasses will enable the wearer to identify potential terrorists with – what is it you say? – ninety-five per cent accuracy?’
‘The truly revolutionary aspect of the Intuceptor system, Minister, is that the technology doesn’t override the wearer’s instincts, it enhances them. The human brain has an astonishing capacity for making balanced, coherent assessments and following them up with quick and effective decisions. What Intuceptor does is filter, focus and declutter that process, far more rapidly than the brain possibly can. So: an armed-response police officer is trained to be aware of the many forms in which terrorist activity can manifest, but in a crisis situation he doesn’t have time to think through the pros and cons of this or that response, he has to take immediate action, with possibly lethal results. The Intuceptor viewfinders take him straight to the right response. It’s still his response, but facilitated by sophisticated digital analysis that can itself be analysed retrospectively, and scientifically proven to have been correct.’
‘You mean, in a court of law?’
‘Absolutely. Potentially this means our security services will never again find themselves in a situation where they are adjudged to have eliminated a suspect who turned out not to be a terrorist, because the Intuceptor recordings will show precisely why the suspect was deemed to be dangerous and therefore had to be.’
‘Had to be dangerous, you mean?’
‘Yes, and eliminated.’
‘But won’t the civil liberties people claim this is a charter for a policy of “shoot first and ask questions later”?’
‘They will, and rightly so, because that’s precisely what it is. The difference is, when the questions are asked later, we’ll have all the right answers.’
‘I see,’ the Minister said. ‘Justice seen to be done, eh?’
‘Justice shown to be done, Minister. Which, as we know, is just as important in a healthy democracy.’
MAY
1 May
Narcissus (and Echo)
She put on the headphones, selected shuffle. Nothing happened. She played around with the iPod for a bit, but couldn’t get it to go. Typical. Just when she needed some music to suit her mood, she couldn’t get any. Although she didn’t actually know what kind of mood she was in. She was bored with most of her music anyway, so maybe it didn’t matter. She took off the headphones. Finlay could fix it for her when he tracked her down later, as he surely would. Like a stalker he was, Finlay, but not in a horrible way. He didn’t give her the creeps or anything, he was just boring. And he did have his uses.
Last May Day she and the other History of Art girls had gone up Arthur’s Seat to wash their faces in the dew, because that was what you did. Chloe, or someone, said it was a tradition: you washed your face in the dew and then you saw the face of the man you were going to marry. But someone else, Imogen probably because she knew a lot of stuff, said that was wrong, it was just supposed to make you more beautiful. Well, anyway, some of them saw their boyfriends’ faces and some of them saw farmers or merchant bankers or chaps in the army, but she didn’t see anybody. She thought it was all a bit of a bore but she went along with it, they were her friends after all, not that she liked any of them much.
She checked her phone. There were six text messages, one from her mother and the rest from Finlay. Silly boy.
She couldn’t be bothered reading them, let alone replying. He’d find her at the café they all went to anyway, so whatever it was he had to say, he’d tell her then. It wouldn’t be anything. She could see his silly puppy face, all eager expectation. Chloe thought he was sweet. She was welcome to him. Later.
She got out of bed and went to the bathroom. ‘Who are we today?’ she said to the mirror, turning her head this way and that. She didn’t have a clue.
2 May
Daffodils
Finally, spring had arrived. The early-morning air was chilly, but by eleven the sun had real heat in it. Buds were on every shrub and tree in the garden, bulbs were pushing their shoots up urgently, birds were everywhere, collecting for nests, chattering and cheeping, having to make up for lost time and telling the world about it. Renewal, hope: she felt it as she always did, as she always feared she wouldn’t in the middle of winter.
She got her bike out, pu
mped up the tyres, sprayed the chain and gears. Four miles along the top road – a bit of a climb but she’d be fine if she paced herself – was a crossroads. The daffodil farm always put bunches of surplus flowers out in a wooden box at this spot, with an honesty box fixed to a gatepost. Twenty-five pence a bunch. They were beautiful, all different varieties, and she wanted some today, for the house. Some for next door too. She put four pound coins in her pocket. Sixteen bunches of delight, that was what she wanted.
The phone went just as she was locking the front door. She thought about going back in, decided against it. She’d only be away an hour. Whoever it was would leave a message if it was important. But nothing was more important for her right then than being out, cycling past the castle, the Pictish stone, the horses in their field, the sheep in theirs. She needed to feel the sun on her back, the breeze in her face, the muscles stretch in her legs and arms; to pause for a minute, looking out at the snow on the northern hills, then freewheel down to the crossroads and pick her sixteen bunches. It was good to be alive on such a day.
As she dropped the coins through the slot of the honesty box, and carefully placed the unopened daffodils in the pannier, the sound of the ringing phone through the locked door came back to her. There was no reason to expect bad news, but she knew it was out there somewhere. Yet still the sun shone down. She turned the bike, started for home.
3 May
The Owls
for Gerry Cambridge
They’d start their calling around midnight. Cloudless, cold, starlit nights were best: the keen air carried their voices with greater clarity. The first hoot, then two half-notes like the gasps of someone getting into a hot bath or under a cold shower, followed by a second, longer cry. A cry of what? Triumph? Pride? Warning? Negotiation? Books from the library said that the calls, which sounded as if made by one voice, were in fact those of two birds, male and female, signalling to one another. Was that right? So much about owls seemed little more than speculation, informed guesswork.
When two or three owls hooted to one another from different locations it sounded to him like a tribal ritual. He lay in bed, and their weird incantations flowed in at the open window and invited him out into the night. Intrigued and curious teenager that he was, out he went.
The woods were more alive, it seemed, with unseen life than they ever were in daylight. He moved stealthily, stopped, shivered at the bite of the cold stillness. When he stood, he heard creeping, rustling, cracking sounds. He thought of the pellets he found by day, the tight packages of bone, fur and excrement that, like crushed auto carcases in a wrecker’s yard, were all that remained of voles or mice swallowed whole by their strigine predators. Did those small creatures scuffling over leaves and roots hear the owls calling, and tremble in fear? Or were they oblivious to danger until too late? He cupped his hands and called skyward – ‘Ooo. Oo-oo – oohooo!’ – and sometimes out of the dark their great feathered presences came down and he felt rather than saw them assessing and dismissing him. He was, to them, both greater and far less than a mouse.
And suddenly he saw himself alongside but separate from the mice, the owls, the trees, the stars. Even a mouse had a sure place in that chain, that fabrication of cause and effect. But what was his place? He stared into the sky and nothing was staring back. No wonder people invented gods. How else could you explain your presence, other than by speculation, informed guesswork?
4 May
Haircut
The barber was sitting in one of the chairs, reading a paper. He got to his feet pretty smartly.
‘Yes, sir. Take a seat. Haircut, is it?’
‘Yes, thanks.’ I suppose I could have been wanting a shave. The leather was warm from his backside, but after a minute I forgot that.
‘Not busy today?’
‘I’ve been busy,’ he said. ‘You just caught me during a lull. Not that I mind.’ He swept the nylon cape over me. ‘How do you want it today?’
He said it as if I came in every couple of weeks, had a different style every time. Whereas I hadn’t been in for years, and there wasn’t much left to style.
‘Just a tidy-up,’ I said. ‘I’ve let it get a bit long, what there is of it.’
The barber’s hair had thinned as well, but he still had a lot more than I did. I remembered his face. He’d worn glasses back then too, but not with such thick black frames. They were probably the fashion now.
He began to snip away. I said, ‘I used to live around here. Long time ago. I was a regular customer of yours.’
He paused in his cutting, studying my face in the mirror.
‘I thought I recognised you,’ he said. I didn’t believe him but it was okay, just barber talk.
‘You and your father had the business between you then,’ I said. ‘I’m talking fifteen years ago at least.’
‘Oh, right. That is a long time.’
‘You had a good rapport, the two of you, is what I remember.’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘We did.’ And the way he said it, I knew nothing more was required on that subject. His father had been the cheery one, always pulling the son’s leg, having a go at him but not in an unpleasant way. For the customers it was like watching a show, a gentle kind of comedy. But if you’re on the receiving end of that every day, from your own dad, maybe it’s not so funny.
‘I happened to be passing,’ I said, ‘and saw the shop. And I needed a haircut.’
‘That’s what I’m here for,’ the barber said.
5 May
The News
She picked up the letter again. She must have read it twenty times already. What did it mean? It was addressed to her, the information was about her, but it didn’t mean anything. How could it? She felt perfectly well.
But there it was. She read it again. They’d done these tests and here were the results. They’d copied the letter to her doctor. Why hadn’t the doctor phoned? You shouldn’t get that kind of news by letter. So perhaps it was a mistake. If she phoned the surgery perhaps the doctor would say, ‘No, I’ve not received anything about this.’ And it would prove to be some bureaucratic error. These things happened.
But the wording was so stark and official. She couldn’t decide if that made it more or less likely that it was a mistake. That the letter had been sent to the wrong person, or shouldn’t have been sent at all.
Jim was at the pub. She’d not mentioned it to him over their tea. He’d gone out probably thinking she was being a bit quiet, a bit distant. She’d tell him when he came back, if he wasn’t too drunk. Or in the morning. Maybe she’d phone the surgery first, to make sure there hadn’t been a mistake.
At ten o’clock Jim still wasn’t in. She put the television on for the news. The main story was about a factory building in Bangladesh that had collapsed, killing hundreds of workers. For days rescuers had been finding survivors buried in the wreckage but they’d given up now, even though many people were still missing. Cranes and diggers had been moved in to start pulling the rest of the building down. Eight storeys full of businesses making cheap clothes. Thousands of people had worked in there. The footage showed a mass of grey concrete blocks, rubble, metal and cables, dotted with bright colours where bits of fabric were caught in the ruins. She saw a crane bringing down part of the building like a landslide, and thought of all those missing people, their bodies being rolled and crushed and broken all over again, like dolls. She couldn’t bear to look. She switched off.
6 May
After Dinner
Dinner was over. The men were still round the table, drinking port. They were talking about poverty, the engrained poverty of post-industrial cities. Alan was a historian, a teacher, he knew the statistics about overcrowded housing, child mortality, poor nutrition, all of that. And there was a legacy, generations later, even though things had greatly improved.
Donald agreed. He was a GP, he saw the divide between rich and poor every day in his patients. Forward progress was not guaranteed, Donald said. It was quite possible to start
sliding back; and in fact he believed this was already happening.
Malcolm was an artist, a painter primarily. He said, ‘There’s poverty of experience too, of expectation and opportunity. People whose lives are culturally barren – maybe they’re not cold or hungry, but they’re excluded in other ways, made to feel worthless. Yet sometimes art can change lives as education or medicine can. It can show another way of seeing the world, of seeing yourself, and that can be transformational.’
‘I don’t disagree with you,’ Donald said, ‘but you have an interest in promoting that idea, don’t you?’
‘We all have an interest,’ Malcolm said. ‘All three of us.’
‘I remember a story,’ Alan said. ‘I don’t know where I heard this, or all the details of it, but I’ll tell you anyway. There’s this man, a white middle-class bloke like us, maybe a doctor or a teacher, and he’s in some country, doing charity work. The people have nothing, absolutely nothing. And a wee boy comes up to him, he’s in rags, but he’s so proud because he owns something, and he wants to show the white man. Do you know what he owns? He owns a spoon. It’s his spoon. Our man is totally shocked and humbled. And then the wee boy goes running off, because he’s remembered he doesn’t just have a spoon. He has this other thing, and he wants to show it to the man too. You know what that is? A bowl. The bowl that goes with the spoon.’
The others were silent. They could hear the women laughing next door. It seemed obscene, somehow, to refill their glasses and join them.
7 May
Rennie Mackay
The artist Rennie Mackay has died at his home in Glenrothes at the age of ninety-eight.
Mackay was a leading figure in the Scottish Surrealist movement, which flourished in the 1950s despite mainstream opinion regarding its creations as ‘no very nice’. His father was a tailor from Cupar, his mother a bonnet-maker from Dundee. When Mackay was twelve his mother accidentally suffocated on a damp tea towel while making scones. This evidently had a profound effect on the boy: many of his paintings depict faces covered in tea towels, serviettes or tablecloths.
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