The Peculiars

by Jen Thorpe

  Cambada raised the space where her eyebrow had been pencilled on.

  ‘Phobias … really? That sounds very interesting. What do people have phobias about?’

  ‘Well, lots of things, Minister. I mean, Minister Cambada. Some are afraid of objects, others of actions, and others have become afraid after being victims of crime. It is varied, and thus the results will be incredibly useful in providing material for a general publication on what people with phobias can do.’

  ‘Mmm. Today is a bit too short notice, but perhaps Janet will be able to make it?’

  Cambada glanced over at Janet who was hovering in the corner of the room. It was clearly an instruction, and Janet mustered some enthusiasm, giving Ruby a half smile.

  ‘Thank you for the invitation, but I’ll be working with the Minister today, with the other groups coming to see her.’

  ‘I’m sure I can manage without you, Janet.’

  Cambada smirked. Ruby wondered what Janet had done to piss her off.

  ‘Janet, you would be most welcome,’ Ruby said. ‘It would be a great opportunity to see first-hand what we do, and to meet some of the people in the study to assess their progress so far. I understand, though, if you would prefer to come next week to allow yourself more time to prepare.’

  Janet gave her a grateful smile and nodded. The air hummed as a vacuum cleaner started up in the distance. Ruby slipped off a shoe under the table, sinking her foot into the lush carpet, letting herself enjoy the sensation of it between her toes. It must be a huge effort to clean it: it was at least ten centimetres deep. It felt soft and luscious, a relief to the tension in the rest of her body.

  ‘Fine. I’ll be there. You’ll give me the details on your way out, and I will call you in the week to arrange the time for me to visit. Are we done here, Minister?’

  ‘We are, comrade. Thank you, Mzzz Bates. We’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Thank you, Minister Cambada. The offer to attend a session is always open.’

  ‘I will keep that in mind. You may go now.’

  Leaving the building, Ruby wasn’t sure whether she’d just won a battle, or created a new one. She stepped out onto the pavement, and was confronted with the noise of taxis and traffic and the smell of rain on the way. She imagined lying down on the carpet at the Ministry and never getting up again.

  21

  Nazma

  Atychiphobia: Fear of failure

  Nazma felt different after telling Sam her story. It wasn’t quite lightness, but perhaps something like it. On the train ride home they held hands like teenagers. And, like a teenager, she was overanalysing it. She wasn’t sure whether they were holding them as friends or not. At her station she let go and waved goodbye, wondering whether he would call. When she got home she immediately scheduled a driving lesson for the next day.

  It went rather well: she made it around two blocks before her perspiration and aggravation forced her usual exit at the pedestrian crossing and an end to the session. Tony, her instructor, no longer wore a seat belt so that he could make the quick shuffle across the seat. She had the decency to leave the car running for him.

  Sam didn’t call, but he did text. After her lesson she sat with her coffee rereading his texts. I had a great time today, he said. Me too, she replied. They began to message back and forth, as was so easy to do behind the protection of a screen. They didn’t go beyond mild flirtation, but she felt potential hovering between the lines. Most of the time she wasn’t sure if she should say more, and didn’t know what to say, so said nothing further. None of the ideas she thought of seemed right, and she didn’t want to cross the border from flirting to sexting on her own.

  Her mother was already at the station on the early shift, and her father was practising tai chi in the garden, his pants undulating with his movements. He looked younger when he was practising, less hardened. The grass was getting long and she would soon be asked to cut it for him, his ‘sciatica’ an excuse for laziness sometimes. She leant out of the window to call to him.

  ‘Can I make you some coffee, Dad?’

  ‘I will be done in ten minutes. I will consider your offer then.’

  Since she’d finally told someone about her mum, she felt it was time for everyone else to start confronting it too. She was secretly formulating plans to convince her mother to fly to visit her sister. She would need her dad’s help of course, but after the shame of the original event, she wasn’t sure if he would agree. Only her paternal grandmother ever called them from Tongaat, and she never spoke to Abigail, only to Nazma and Zubair. Shame was the knife that had severed all their vocal chords. On that day, her gran was already safely in England – because she’d chosen an earlier flight, she successfully made it to the wedding. Her photos made Abigail sob for days afterwards, and one of them – of her sister alone with her grandmother, the only family member who made it to her special day – was framed in the hallway of their Rondebosch flat.

  Zubair walked in from the garden, toes turned out and elbows crooked, like a duck preparing to swim. The shape of their kitchen required that all movements orbited the table at the centre, and he performed the circular walk around it.

  ‘Nazma, it is a beautiful day outside. The rain has given us a brief respite and the lawn is not even wet right now. Perhaps you will take the opportunity to breathe some fresh air? Though the grass is getting quite long. You’ll need to cut it soon or I won’t be able to practise. If it weren’t for my hip, I would do it myself of course. Anyway, coffee? Yes, I will have one. Make it very strong. I’m doing the afternoon shift today and you know how the post-lunch air can drain you of energy.’

  Nazma listened to him, waiting for him to finish, but as he showed no signs of stopping, she interrupted. ‘Dad. I’ve had an idea and I need your help with it. In fact, you are crucial to its success.’

  She knew flattery and the thought of being central to a plan would pique his interest, and was tempted to time his response on her watch. He moved about the kitchen, putting things in their places. Pausing to take a sip of the coffee she’d made him, he asked, ‘A plan?’ He had a pinched expression and passed back the mug to her. ‘Put another sugar, Nazma. Nobody around here is a diabetic. What is this plan?’

  ‘I want us to go and visit Nafeesa, Dad. I need you to help me convince Mum that she can do it. If I can learn to drive, she can learn to fly.’

  He coughed up coffee, little brown droplets spraying on the counter. Her question had made his face appear instantly older, and he slumped in the chair next to her, mumbling something. By bringing up the issue she had forced him to let go of the pretence that everything was all right.

  ‘What, Dad? I can’t hear you.’

  ‘It can’t be done. She won’t do it. She is as stubborn as a bullfrog.’

  ‘Not to be unsupportive, but I don’t think that’s a saying.’

  ‘It is, when you think about your mother. She won’t come. So we can never go. Or we have to wait for her to die, which are the same two things. And though it may not always seem like it, I prefer her alive.’

  ‘Don’t be crazy, Dad. We haven’t talked about it in all this time. Maybe if we talk about it, she will go? She must miss Nafeesa. You have to give her some credit.’

  ‘It isn’t due.’

  ‘Dad …’

  They finished their coffees, both feeling dejected. The garden darkened as a cloud passed before the sun, making predictions of rain a certainty. Nazma thought about a flight overseas, tourism in London, all the things Nafeesa told her about when they emailed one another. She wanted to go somewhere new. She imagined travelling on her own but knew her mum would think of it as a betrayal. She wanted life to change and her dad was going to help her, whether he liked it or not. She sat for a while longer watching the leaves blowing outside.

  ‘I think it is, Dad. I think she can. Will you help me if I try? First of all, can we afford to go?’

  He looked away from her and she felt sorry for him. His anger wasn’t real. It wa
s pain. She’d always assumed it was he who’d suggested the move to Cape Town, but for the first time she considered whether it could have been her mother. He was so grumpy and rude half the time that she didn’t even try to talk to him. It was like a cycle: he was alone. He was angry he was alone. He got angry at Nazma and Abigail. He made himself more alone.

  She noticed his hands begin to tap on his mug as though he was counting.

  ‘Of course we can afford it. It’s not an issue of money. I still have the money from your grandpa.’ He paused for a long time, seeming far away, his face made younger by thoughts of travel. ‘It would be wonderful, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I think so. You’d look good on a red double-decker bus, Dad.’

  ‘I would, wouldn’t I? Or in the funnel. Is that what they call it?’

  ‘The tube.’

  ‘The tube! I would like to go on the tube. But do you think she will, Nazma? Do you think she will give it a try? I don’t want to get our hopes up. But what the hell are we waiting for, I suppose? I mean, what is the worst that can happen? She already makes me furious so there is really no downside. Let us try. What do you need from me? You know I can’t promise anything. You have discussed this with your mother, I assume.’

  She hadn’t got that far and told him so. She made more coffee and they drank it in the garden, contemplating the rain that would fall later that day. With only a few more weeks of winter left, it was needed but not desired. Nazma was tired of holding umbrellas and wearing jackets. She wanted her legs to feel the sun again – that prickly sensation of heat on skin. But it was cold, and as soon as they were finished they went inside, he to do some paperwork for the kiosk, she to get ready to go to CIL.

  Getting on the train a bit later, she allowed her mind to wander, imagining their future trip. While she gazed out the window, a man moved up the train towards her. He had a long scar extending from his forehead to his cheek. It crossed over the empty socket where an eye should have been but only a sunken hole remained. His hair was matted and damp, full of sand. The moisture and sand made a sort of paste, and it was holding some strands together at odd angles, giving him a crazed halo in the light. He smelled of overripe tomatoes and stale alcohol. The odour was overwhelming, and as he walked down the train people burrowed deeper into their shirts, scarves and jackets, some even placing their hands over their mouths.

  He shook an old cup with some change in it to attract attention.

  ‘Money please’ – shake shake shake – ‘I’m asking, I’m asking for just twenty cents. Oh please god.’

  Nazma looked up from her own scarf to find him standing right over her, too close for comfort, his smell burning her nostrils.

  ‘Money. Please.’ Shake shake shake.

  He breathed his plea right into her face. The urge to be indiscreet and block her mouth to stop herself from retching was only suppressed by the desperation in his eyes. The passenger next to her covered up, not worried about his feelings. Nazma’s eyes began to water from the smell.

  ‘Sorry, man,’ she whispered.

  He refused her apology. He shook his head erratically from side to side, its movements uncoordinated. The shaking loosened bits of dirt, which dropped around him. His long yellow nails extended towards her as he leant in closer. She said no again, with more force. His hand curled back around his wrinkled McDonald’s cup, and he walked on. The woman next to her released her nose, and exhaled.

  ‘Disgusting, isn’t it?’ She looked to Nazma for agreement. Nazma didn’t know what to say, so said nothing, but then felt guilty.

  When she got out at Observatory, the walk up to the Centre felt longer than usual, and the darkening clouds made the journey less inviting. On the way up, she passed the homeless man who often stood outside CIL, sitting outside the bottle store. He screamed, ‘The end of the world is night,’ which made her laugh and feel marginally better.

  As she passed the coffee shop she smelled cinnamon and vanilla and moved towards the scent. Apple strudels were being cooled on a table inside, looking soft and tasty. She reached for one, and selected another for Sam. One wall of the shop was covered in a beautiful mosaic, and shelves of biscuits covered the other. She ate her strudel, feeling the sweet apple fibres between her tongue and teeth. The pastry was just salty enough to complement it. She sat down and ordered a coffee to go with it. Within minutes both the coffee and the pastry were finished. Nazma asked the waiter to package Sam’s strudel before she polished that off too, and paid at the counter. Full of pastry and coffee, she felt better and walked the remainder of the way to the Centre wondering whether they served strudel in England.

  22

  Sam

  Harpaxophobia: Fear of being robbed

  Sam watched Nazma come into the room, feeling both relieved and nervous. He wasn’t sure what the protocol was for two people who had held hands goofily and smiled a lot a few days earlier, and had half flirted while messaging, but hadn’t seen each other since. He couldn’t be sure whether she hadn’t called to meet up again because she thought what happened was good or bad – or maybe she’d just been busy. He’d spent the days in between pouncing on every text, hoping it was her. Some texts had been from his mom, though, ending the peaceful absence of the past few weeks. He so badly wanted to send Nazma something saucy but always felt stupid about doing it – and also terrified of sending the message to the wrong person by mistake. The idea that he might send a sext to his mother made him want to die.

  He watched Nazma move towards him, holding something behind her back, and, as she arrived by his side, she whipped out a box. The apple strudel inside was still warm and gooey. They gave each other a hug and sat facing the office where Ruby was working behind a desk, looking engrossed.

  ‘Want to go some place after this?’ he whispered to her while breaking off bits of strudel to put into his mouth.

  ‘Let’s do that. Where?’ she whispered back.

  He thought about his bedroom, and then remembered that he couldn’t go anywhere with her after the session. ‘Oh shit, I actually have to go see my mom.’

  ‘You’re taking me to meet your mom? So soon?’

  She smiled, but he panicked. His mother’s habitual racism wouldn’t accommodate him hanging around with an Indian woman, let alone falling for one. For all her dinner-party liberalism, there were very clear markers about what colour guests were and what colour the help was. He turned to Nazma to formulate an earnest response and saw that she was laughing.

  ‘Relax, Sam, it’s cool. I’m only teasing you. We can make another plan. No need to meet the parentals.’

  He tried to laugh with her, but just felt embarrassed and guilty. Thankfully Ruby walked in then. She seemed paler and less sure of herself than before, her hair frazzled compared to its usual sleekness. He had hardly spoken to her since the first session and wondered whether she thought he was unfriendly. Reaching into his pocket, he played with the knife.

  Instead of working in pairs, they worked as a group this time, conducting discussions by playing pass the parcel. As soon as the music stopped, the person with the parcel was supposed to discuss some element of their fear, and how it had evolved, improved or worsened since the start of the study. Sam was amazed at this group of strangers who were, for the most part, improving. They were honest and frank. He had never talked like this before. His father had made the parameters clear: in his house, talk of this kind was for the ladies.

  Sam looked around at them all, feeling something like pride but less proprietary. Only Simon was not looking healthy. His skin had taken on the sheen of someone about to be sick. He looked moments away from vomiting. Perspiration dotted his forehead, and he mopped at it with a small handkerchief that was embroidered, though Sam couldn’t see what it said. Simon held tightly to his cane, and, as Sam looked more closely, he saw that Simon was trembling. Nobody had taken his coughing fit the previous week seriously, putting it down to his bad temper, but now Sam wondered if that was all it was. Simon was old afte
r all, and suddenly Sam felt bad for giving him a hard time – at least he was at the study, trying. He was about to ask Simon if he was okay when the parcel arrived in his lap just as Freshly Ground’s ‘Doo bee doo’ stopped. He looked at the expectant faces and wanted to please them.

  ‘Well, I’m not sure how much you all know about my phobia, but it sort of began when my mother was mugged. As she pulled up to the gate of her house two men arrived and threatened her and she gave them all her money, her jewellery, and a phone, and they ran off. She recovered quite quickly, not really changing anything in her life. She saw it as a once-off thing and moved on. Anyway, I stayed with her at my family home for a while after that, just so she didn’t feel afraid, but then I started to get more and more fearful. I got an alarm system installed for her. The more systems I installed, the more scared I became, until each of us had an individual bedroom alarm with panic buttons right by our beds. Eventually she kicked me out, saying the alarm sensors felt like bedroom disco lights. She deactivated all but the perimeter alarms and gave me a speech about making her house a prison. But I still had that feeling, you know, of being unsafe. Of not being secure in my own flat. So I installed the same security outside my flat. And I’ve slept with an alarm on outside, an alarm on inside, and alarms on the doors and windows, as well as a panic button ready and waiting, for almost a year.’

  People nodded empathetically, but looked at him in a strange way, as though he was naked in a school ground, as sometimes happened in his dreams. He wondered how many of them slept in well-armed houses, waiting for the shrill piercing of their home alarm to go off and to make that call to the police for help. Probably a lot of them. Maybe none. They were afraid of other things.

  Ruby’s voice interrupted his assessment. ‘Thank you, Sam. Could you tell us a bit more about whether you actually feel less afraid, or what your goals are for the last few sessions?’