What You Make It

by Michael Marshall Smith

  ‘You look, next time you pass that way,’ the man said, and I realized abruptly that he was standing, wiping his mouth with a paper serviette. ‘You'll find I'm right.’

  He nodded, winked at the people behind the counter and walked back out into the night, leaving me feeling obscurely irritated; as if by quitting the conversation before I had he'd somehow made me out to be the lunatic. As I watched him disappear down the cold and lamplit street, I spooned another mouthful of Hot and Sour into my mouth, failing to notice that it contained an entire red chilli.

  By the time I'd finished coughing, and had thanked the lady owner for the plastic cup of water she brought me, the man had disappeared. When I'd finished my food I crossed the street and walked directly down Falkland Road to my apartment. It was sleeting, and getting late, and I wouldn't have bothered going round the long way to check what was between the estate agent's and the tapas bar even if I'd remembered.

  Two days later I walked out of the tube station at about three o'clock in the afternoon, serene with boredom after a long meeting with one of my clients. I write corporate videos for a living – telling people how to sell hoovers, why they shouldn't refer to their co-workers as ‘wankers’, that sort of thing. If someone offers you a job writing a corporate video, just say no. Seriously. Just don't get involved.

  It takes about five minutes to walk from the tube to where I live. Mostly that's a good thing. When you know that once you get indoors you have to sit at the computer and write a corporate video, it can seem less ideal. On days like that, you can find yourself wishing it was a four-day trek over mountainous terrain, involving sherpas, a few of those little horse things and maybe even an entire documentary team to shoot lots of footage of you getting frostbite and wishing you were back at home.

  It was in this spirit that instead of heading diagonally across Leighton Road and up Leverton Street, I walked across the road and then past the Assembly Rooms up Fortess Road. It was only as I was passing the tapas bar, whose name I once again failed to notice, that I remembered the conversation I'd had in the Shuang Dou. Mildly excited at the prospect of anything which would delay my return home, I slowed my pace and looked at the stores between the restaurant and the sloping glass of the estate agent's up ahead.

  When I saw the shop I felt a brief quiver of some strange emotion, probably just because I hadn't expected it to be there at all. I found myself casting a quick glance up the road, as if concerned that someone should see me, and then wandered over to the window.

  The shop looked like the standard type of electrical store to be found in areas of London which aren't aiming to challenge Tottenham Court Road's domination of the consumer goods market. Some of the products in the window were evidently second-hand, and – as the man had said – those which did look new were hardly cutting edge. Tape-radios with tinny three-inch speakers and shiny plastic buttons. Plastic Midi systems which looked like they'd fracture at low temperatures. Video recorders from the days when Betamax was still in with a shout. There were other things in the display, however. A pile of storage units, evidently for sale. A wide range of alarm clocks. A faded poster of ABBA.

  Surely that couldn't be for sale?

  I couldn't see beyond the display into the shop itself, and reached out for the door. Only when I'd unsuccessfully tugged on it did I notice a handwritten sign sellotaped to it on the inside.

  ‘Back later,’ it said. I smiled to myself, wondering if that's what Jesus had left on his door. Then I tugged at the door again, obscurely disappointed that I wasn't going to be able to go inside. Probably it was still just a desire not to go back home and get on with earning a living, but I suddenly wanted to see what was there.

  Instead, I had to trudge round the corner and down Falkland Road to meet my doom, in the form of thirty pages of still-unwritten shite about customer care for Vauxhall dealers.

  At five I sat back from the computer, mind whirling. When I'm writing corporate videos I tend to visualize the facts and opinions I'm supposed to be putting into them as recalcitrant, bad-tempered sheep, which are determined to run away from me and hide in the hills. After two hours I'd managed to worry most of them into a pen; but they were moving restlessly and irritably against each other, determined not to pull in the same direction. It was time to take a break, before I decided the hell with it and started shooting the little bastards instead.

  I put on a coat and wandered down the road to the cigarette shop on the corner, stocking up on my chosen method of slow suicide. As I did so I wished, not for the first time, that cigarettes weren't bad for you, or at least that I didn't know they were. That knowledge made every single one I smoked a little internal battle – never mind the external battles which cropped up every now and then, when some health freak gave me a hard time for endangering their life. These people, I had noticed, were invariably rather fat, and thus were doing their own fine job of reducing their own life expectancy; but that doesn't seem to be the point any more. What we do is fine – it's what those other bastards are doing to us which we won't stand for. I remembered reading a short piece in a recent Enquirer entitled ‘How to stop your co-workers from giving you their colds’. After a line like that I'd expected advice on how to prevent deranged typists from injecting me with viruses, or marketing executives from coming over and deliberately breathing in my face. But no, it had been things like: ‘Have a window open’, and ‘Eat vitamin C’. In other words, advice on how to stop yourself from acquiring the communicable colds which – through no fault of their own – other people might have.

  But we don't see it like that, any more. Life's a constant battle to stop other people doing things to us, taking as hard a line as possible. We don't move tables or leave the room when someone is smoking – we stop them from smoking, anywhere, ever. We don't avoid watching videos which have a bit of sex and violence in them – we get them banned. And presumably, at some stage, we don't not read books we disagree with. We get them burned.

  I recognized these thoughts as those of someone who was bored out of his tiny mind, and decided not to go back to the flat just yet. Instead I headed round the corner, sending a little nugget of goodwill to the Shuang Dou on the opposite side of the road, and walked back down towards Leighton Road. Initially, I was just taking a long way home, and then I realized I'd be going past the shop again, and that now might qualify as later, and it might be open.

  It was. As I approached the shop I saw that the sign had gone from the door. Very slightly elated, in a vague way, I pushed it open and walked in.

  There was no one behind the counter, and so I was free to look around the shop. It wasn't quite what I was expecting. Usually such stores have an air of thrift, of objects being widely spaced on shelves. This one was exactly the opposite. The area inside, which wasn't much bigger than my ‘cosy’ living room, was piled floor to ceiling with a bewildering array of stuff. Some of it was electrical – more of the period pieces from the window – but the majority was completely uncategorizable. Old toys, piles of ancient magazines. A few posters on the walls – ABBA again, together with other seventies bands. Small, chrome-plated appliances of indiscernible function. Even a few items of clothing, tired and out of fashion. It was like a jumble sale organized with some clear but not quite explicable purpose in mind.

  There was a noise behind the counter, and I turned to see that a man had appeared. He was tall, in his early fifties, and looked Nigerian. He was dressed in an old blue suit which was shiny in patches, and he wore a white shirt without a tie underneath his buttoned jacket. His face was lined and he looked nervous, as if I was intruding.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, feeling strangely at ease – probably because he looked so unlike the smarmy and over-confident people you usually find in electrical shops: you know the type, the ones who pronounce: ‘Can I help you at all’ as one howling monosyllable and try to sell you a triple-standard VCR even if you just came in for batteries.

  The man nodded cautiously. ‘Can I help you?’ he said
. His voice was deep but quiet, and the words were clearly enunciated. A genuine question.

  ‘Just looking around,’ I said, and he nodded again. I turned away and ran my eyes over the shelves, realizing I had a bit of a problem. I couldn't just turn and walk out now. It would seem dismissive, of this man and his shop. I didn't want to do that. He looked like he'd been dismissed often enough already. On the other hand, I found it hard to believe that there was a single object in the shop which I would want. I already had all the recording, videoing, listening and watching equipment I could possibly need, none of it more than six months old; and all of the other stuff looked like junk you'd want to throw away rather than acquire.

  I couldn't leave without at least making an effort, so I stepped over to one of the shelves and looked more closely at the objects strewn along it. Small pottery figures you might expect to find on surfaces in the room of a twelve-year-old girl. A very old copy of the National Geographic. A plastic alarm clock, manufactured back when people thought plastic was cool. A couple of 45s, by bands I'd never heard of.

  I was very aware of the man standing silently behind me, and when I noticed a shoe-box full of watches I reached into it. My hand fell upon an oddly-shaped digital watch, which seemed to have been fashioned out of man-made materials to resemble what people two decades ago had thought of as ‘futuristic’. Half of its strap was missing, and no numerals were showing in the window; but on the other hand I could possibly have some fun taking it apart, maybe even getting it going and turning it into some cyberpunky inside-out timepiece.

  I turned to him. ‘How much is this?’ I asked, feeling like a minor character in some very old film.

  ‘Two pound,’ he said.

  ‘I'll take it.’ I nodded, and walked over to the counter, feeling in my back pocket for some change. He smiled shyly and found a small paper bag to put it in.

  When I left the shop I crossed the road and stood there, looking across at the window. I couldn't see into the store, and wondered if the man was still standing behind the counter. I opened the bag I held in my hand and looked at the watch. Why on earth had I bought it? It was just going to sit in a pile somewhere in an already overcrowded flat; next time I moved I'd either have to work up the resolve to throw it away, or tote it with me for ever more. I was surprised to see that I'd been mistaken in the store – something was visible on the screen. It wasn't numerals, or at least not whole ones, but little segments of the LCD figures seemed to be slowly flashing. Not very good news, of course; instead of simply being out of battery, it probably meant the watch was completely broken.

  But when I'd been in the store it hadn't been working at all.

  An hour later the man left the store, and I dropped the chip I had in my hand and stood up. I'd been sitting in the fish shop on the opposite side of the road, drinking tea and having an early and unhealthy meal. The food was actually quite good – I'm a connoisseur of cheap take-aways in North London – but that wasn't why I had chosen to eat there.

  To be honest, I didn't really know why I'd stayed around. I'd stared dumbly at the watch for a while, and then simply decided I was going to wait. I didn't want to hang out on the pavement where passing trucks could spray me with dirty water, so I ducked into Mario's instead.

  Now the guy was on the move, and I knew I was going to follow him. I didn't have a reason, and I felt like an idiot. But I was going to do it anyway.

  I waited in the entrance to the fish bar until the man had got far enough up the other side of the street, then left and hurried across the road. Nobody ran me over, though several people had a bloody good try. The man was walking slowly, and I didn't anticipate having a problem keeping up with him. Quite the opposite; the challenge was to make sure he didn't see me. As discussed, I write videos for living. Tailing people was a bit of a departure for me. I walked along, head down and hands huddled into my coat, hoping this was the right sort of approach – every now and then I raised my eyes to check he was still in front of me.

  The man continued up Fortess Road as far as the corner store where I'd bought cigarettes earlier, and then turned into Falkland Road. I picked up the pace a little, and made it round the corner about twenty seconds after him. By then he'd only got about fifty yards up the road, and so I dropped back again. He was walking more quickly now, head up, and crossed the road to the northern side, heading for the junction with Leverton street. I decided to cross immediately, and by the time he was approaching the corner he was only about twenty yards ahead. It was winter dark by now, but I could still see the shiny patches on the elbows of his suit as he turned the corner. About ten seconds later I followed him round.

  He wasn't there.

  I stopped. He couldn't have gone into a house, because there was a good fifty yards of wall before the nearest doorway. Across the street and up a bit was another corner store, but there was no way he could have reached that in the time he'd been out of my sight. I knew this, but I hurried across the street anyway, and peered into the window. The only people inside were the proprietor and his son. I turned back away from the window and looked up the street, listening for the sound of footsteps.

  I couldn't hear any.

  I wandered the area for a little while, getting progressively colder. Then I walked slowly back down Leverton Street and headed back to my flat.

  I felt let down, and a little betrayed.

  I also felt like concentrating on worrying some sheep for a while.

  By the next morning I felt differently, or I'd reached my boredom threshold again. Either way, I found myself, mid-morning, standing outside the shop again. I had the watch in my pocket, and it was still blinking. I'd tried changing the batteries, but that hadn't made any difference. Parts of the numerals were still flashing meaninglessly on and off. Feeling slightly breathless, I pushed the door and walked in.

  This time the man was behind the counter as I entered, and it was me who felt nervous. I ground to a halt a couple of steps in. He stared at me. He was wearing the same suit, and still looked rather wary.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, eventually. He nodded. Struggling for something to add, I held the watch up. ‘I bought this yesterday.’

  He nodded again.

  ‘It doesn't seem to work,’ I said, knowing that was hardly the point.

  The man shrugged apologetically. ‘It wasn't sold as working,’ he said, quietly. ‘All I have is what you see.’

  ‘Oh, I know,’ I said. ‘It's just, it started doing something when I left the shop, and I wondered …’

  I didn't really know what I was wondering, and neither did the man. He just stared at me.

  ‘I'm, er,’ I said, holding out my hands, ‘I'm not here to cause trouble or anything.’

  ‘I know,’ the man said.

  ‘You look a little nervous,’ I blurted, immediately regretting it.

  The man stared down at the counter for a while, and then looked up. ‘This isn't right,’ he said. ‘Nothing's right, and I don't understand it.’ He said these words quietly, and with great sadness. ‘This isn't the way things are supposed to be.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don't think I'm supposed to be here.’

  This wasn't making a great deal of sense to me, but I felt that it was something that had to be discussed. Part of my mind was sitting back with its arms folded, wondering what the hell I thought I was doing. The rest felt quite strongly that whatever it was, it was right.

  ‘Where are you supposed to be?’ I asked.

  ‘I don't know,’ he said. ‘But this doesn't feel right. Something else should have happened by now.’

  ‘What kind of thing?’

  ‘I don't know that either.’ He shrugged. ‘That's what makes it so difficult.’

  There was a pause then, neither of us apparently sure of how to proceed.

  ‘It was simpler, before,’ he said suddenly, looking down at the counter. ‘People knew what they were, what they wanted. This time, no one seems to know. And if you don't
know, you can't believe. Even those who think they believe are just cheerleading for something that was never meant.’

  ‘I don't understand.’

  ‘Exactly,’ he said, smiling faintly. ‘Once, you would have done. When I was younger, people knew what they were. Now they are less sure. A man can't be a man, because he thinks that's a bad thing to be. He has forgotten what it's like. Women too. People have forgotten magic. Things are better now for them, but also worse. Everything is surface, nothing is inside. The insides are empty. Do you not think this is so?’

  I didn't really know what he was saying, unless it was this: that for the last twenty years everyone had been hiding, unsure of themselves, dancing to someone else's tune. That women have become more free to have jobs, and less free to have lives. That men run scared from their maleness until it twists and curdles into bitterness and resentment and rape. That everything is a constant battle not to think, not to feel, not to believe in anything which can't be said at a dinner party without offending someone. Men fall over backwards to prove they're not rampaging beasts, until the animal which still lives in them dies from lack of exercise, leaving only a shallow stick figure. Women run after the respect of people who don't care about them, forced to sideline the new-born into nurseries and day schools, because it's companies which are supposed to be important now, not families. Men should behave themselves, I thought, and women should be allowed to have careers; but this wasn't the way it was supposed to be achieved. The human has been lost, and all we have become is code in someone else's machine. We believe in flavourings, and correctness, in feelgood factors and learning curves, getting cashback and hoarding chainstore loyalty points – and trust in Sunday supplement articles refuting things which were too boring to say in the first place. Everything else is too difficult.