by Liz Jensen
They all look up. He’s smiling again. Nathan drops the dice. It rolls from his desk on to the floor and shows a six.
– Perhaps it’s possible for a society to function too well, Wesley Pike is saying. Better than some of its inhabitants deserve.
Benedict frowns. What’s he on about?
– Libertyforce has detected a sudden, and serious, threat to our security, Pike says.
The gravity in his voice makes Benedict’s skin begin to tingle. From the corner of his eye, he can see the snakes on the board. Blurry and beginning to writhe.
– The strategy that the Liberty Machine has selected to deal with this – emergency – involves work at grassroots, says Pike. Fieldwork, conducted by people with a range of talents and outlooks. Which is why you’re here.
The woman sitting next to Benedict gasps quietly. The man in front murmurs something. Someone says – Emergency? Then the room goes very quiet.
Damage limitation, thinks Benedict, feeling the green bolus turn to compacted energy inside him. And I’m involved. It’s switched modes. That’s what the screen technician said to that oddball woman from Munchies, Hannah Park. What was his name? Hurley. That was it. Leo Hurley.
With a deft movement, Pike swivels the Snakes and Ladders board around to reveal a map of the island.
– Here’s our fried egg.
The field associates smile in recognition at the friendly shape of home. Then frown. There are odd markings on it. Little stuck-on flashpoints. Asterisks. Blocks of scribbled text.
For the next ten minutes, Pike outlines what is happening. It has been going on for a year now, according to estimates. In red felt pen, he draws circles around the endangered sites. Harbourville he rings once. Mohawk, Groke and Lionheart he encircles twice. St Placid has three rings.
– If the problems were the result of technical accidents, says Pike slowly, then we would have been able to deal with them long ago. The fact is – he pauses, looks down at the desk, then up – that these toxic leaks are due to – And that’s when he says the word. The word that is to stick in their heads for days, weeks, afterwards. Haunt them like a curse. Because it is a curse, isn’t it, being one of those selected to know.
– Terrorism.
Benedict feels his face flush, then drain. It feels, suddenly, like his heart has been shoved in a freezer, a big shock of cold.
– It’s an orchestrated campaign, Pike’s saying. And as you can see from the rings I’ve placed here – and here – and here – they are centred on – where, Sonia?
Her face is completely white.
– The purification zones.
– Meaning, what, Nathan, in your opinion?
– Well, that the whole island – must be at risk, I guess. His voice catches.
There’s a short silence.
– Well, there you have it, says Pike gravely. Then looks at Benedict. The city of St Placid especially, as you can see.
Benedict closes his eyes. Home. He lets a room in his flat to a divorced bloke who rings the Customer Hotline in the nude and leaves filthy take-outs scattered about the lounge.
– Now fortunately, says Pike, nothing has filtered through to the customers – yet. You could say almost the opposite. So far, the change in weather-effects due to the side-products of leakage has been a source of wonder, rather than apprehension. Which is just as well, for now at least. We can’t afford mass panic. But on the other hand, key sections of the population – VIP customers in particular – must be put on the alert. He looks at their faces again, one by one. – This will be part of your job.
Damage limitation, thinks Benedict suddenly. So that’s why. Of course.
The terrorists are eco-Luddites, Pike’s telling them. Their mission, according to the Boss’s analysis, the destabilisation of Libertycare. Their method, sabotage. The words and phrases float around Benedict, filling his head like a thrilling poison gas. Highly confidential … dangerous men and women … recruitment … stop at nothing … prepared to sacrifice their lives …
Benedict’s mind is racing. So who are these people, exactly? Customers, like the bloke sharing his flat in St Placid? Surely not. They believe in the system more than anyone, and they’ve got loyalty cards to prove it. Eco-Luddites? Who in their right mind would turn on the very technology that allows them to live on Atlantica in the first place? It’s suicidal. It doesn’t make sense. It’s meaningless. Motiveless. It’s rebellion without a cause. It’s like – well, it’s like vandalism in Paradise.
– Yes, says Pike, looking at Benedict. That, I am afraid, is the nature of evil. As a society we have grown rapidly, perhaps too rapidly for some. Instead of evolution there is … mutation.
Benedict’s never thought about evil before, or mutancy. Good and bad, yes, right and wrong … We’ve all heard about evil for the sake of evil, but – Well, it’s always seemed like a sort of cliché. It’s so … Biblical.
– Libertycare’s analysis, says Pike, is that what begins at grassroots must be attacked at grassroots.
Benedict stares at the map of the fried egg. There’s St Placid, ringed three times in red. Home to a million people. Including him.
It seems to throb.
THE CUSTOMER IS NOT ALWAYS RIGHT
It was like a small medium-priced hotel-room, where they’d put me, except I was locked in. A bathroom with the usual accoutrements, wafer-thin square soaps and fluffy white towels. A main room with a double bed and a pale-green quilt. Little rectangular packets of tea and instant coffee, to make you feel at home, if that was the kind of home you had.
I lay on my bed and uncrumpled the brochure from my pocket and tried not to think about Hannah Park and the way she kept scrambling my feelings. I wondered what kind of life she must have had, and what she thought about, and whether she was lonely, and what it would be like to have her lie next to me while I stroked her hair and kissed her face. I’d probably have to take her glasses off.
Stupid. She’d never be interested in a bloke like me.
Our cherished tradition of dedication to our customers … global recognition as a centre of excellence … we promise all our customers that we will ensure your security, peace of mind and happiness during your stay with us … enshrined in our charter and honoured by our customer-care manifesto … Created on the highest principles of consumer rights …
There were headings dotted about – familiar brochure slogans; I remembered them from the early days of Libertycare, and from the Festival of Choice. YOUR CHOICE, OUR COMMITMENT. THE FREEDOM’S YOURS. Words like provide and pledge. But nothing hung together. The words butterflied before my eyes. There was probably meaning in there somewhere, but just looking at it made me feel knackered and dumb.
Ever since I left the Junior Welcome Centre at seventeen, I’d felt in charge of things. All my adult life I’d found my own way, run my own little world – and the family’s too. An island on an island, we’d been. Not any more.
The best thing, I’ve found, when you’re shit-scared, is to stick your head in the sand. To lull yourself into a sense of security. Doesn’t matter if it’s false. Sleep was what I needed. Engulfment.
It came, but not in the way I’d hoped.
I thought I was awake when I saw him. Wide awake. It was my brother Cameron, and his knitting-pattern face was all purled with fury.
– You fucking bastard! His voice was a grown man’s, angry and husky as though he’d swallowed gravel. But the rest of him was stuck in teenagerhood. – I’m going to kill you!
– But I haven’t done anything! I said. It came out as a horrible whine that grated on my ears. High-pitched and childish. – They stole you! I insisted. I couldn’t stop them! It wasn’t my fault! Tiffany did it! Blame her!
Then Lola joined Cameron, putting her arm around his shoulders. Her beautiful face was mottled with anger. For the first time in my life, I was scared of them.
– How could you, Harvey! she hissed. How could you do this to us? You’ve destroyed our family!
>
– I’m sorry, I moaned, I’m sorry, Lola, please forgive me, I love you, I’ll always love you, I didn’t mean to –
Then Uncle Sid and Dad turned up, together. They each put an arm round Cameron and Lola, so they were standing like a threatening family portrait, scrummed against me.
– It’s bad enough that you do this to us, says Sid.
– But to do it to your mother – says Dad reproachfully, and looks sideways. And there she is.
– Mum!
I’d never seen her like this before. She looked terrible. Normally she wore her magic salamander dress, but now she was in an ugly grey sweatshirt with a smear of something on it – beetroot juice, or dried blood: a million miles from her usual get-up. A terrible anguish distorted her face, dragging down the corners of her mouth, haggarding her eyes.
– Oh Harvey, she sobbed. The tears which slid down her puffy cheeks were bulging and metallic, like Christmas-tree decorations. – You’ve let us all down!
– Please, Mum, let me explain, I begged. Please! I can! I want to!
But she put up her hand to stop me. She was wearing fluorescent orange driving gloves.
– I’m sorry, Harvey, she said. Her voice was flat and weary with disappointment. – You just can’t be my son any more. You were my favourite. But Cameron and Lola are my only children now.
And then they all vanished.
Hannah must’ve had a bad night too, because when we got to the interview room she was sitting further away than usual.
– Ready? she said.
She was on her rails again. I wondered if she sort of psyched herself up for these meetings. There was something creepily intimate about the questions this time. After a while, I began to wonder what Gwynneth might have told them, if they’d questioned her. What Tiffany might have said in her statement.
What was the nature of my sexual feelings towards my sister Lola? Had I favoured Lola over Cameron in certain financial transactions? Which ones, and why? And so on. After Lola – the questions were extra nosy about Lola, it seemed to me – it was the turn of Uncle Sid. What were my anxieties about him? Why? Why had I chosen that face? Why the naked torso and the youthful, muscular physique? If he were to commit a crime, what would it be?
I kept breaking off from writing the answers down to explain to Hannah Park some of what had gone on, over those years. I wanted her to appreciate them in the same way I did. It was important, if we were going to get to know each other better, if we were ever going to have a chance of –
Even if we weren’t.
– We all watched Far From the Madding Crowd together once, I told her. With Julie Christie and Alan Bates. Dad and Uncle Sid, they loved all those old films.
Her eyes met mine again, and something frazzled the air between us.
– Cameron and I were more into adventure, I went on, hoping it would strike a chord with her. Remind her of her own family, perhaps. – But Mum and Lola, they liked the romantic stuff. Romantic comedy, you know. Oh, and Lola, I said, laughing as I remembered, she loved a horror movie. She’d really go for those films with the music that goes bong, bong, bong, and there’s a tingly sound in the background, and it’s dark, and you just know a hand’s going to come out and grab the girl. Lola really went for the idea of being scared shitless.
She laughed then, and clapped her hand over her mouth.
I liked that. Perhaps in other circumstances we could have a proper talk, I thought. And I could ask about her family.
But then she seemed to remember something and she went cold on me again.
– Could we address the questionnaire, again now, please? she asked. It’s just, we need the data in that format. It’s more structured.
I sort of snapped then. I felt betrayed, to be honest. Just when we’d had the beginnings of a normal discussion, she’d had to go and put the dampers on it.
– I’m on strike, I told her. As of now.
She looked shocked, but I didn’t care. In fact, I was quite glad. I was sick of her behaving like an automaton.
– No more questions, I said. Forget it. I’m having a break.
– But Mr Pike says –
– Fuck Mr Pike. Fuck Mr Pike, and fuck Libertycare.
She winced, and there was a long silence. She looked at her nails; I saw they were all chewed, with bleedy bits round the cuticles. I felt sorry for her. Then she shoved her hands in her pockets and a curious muffled popping sound emerged from under the desk.
– What’s that noise? I asked. That popping.
– Nothing, she said, blushing.
The popping stopped as suddenly as it had begun.
– Look. I’m – I mean. See, no one’s told me anything, I said. Misery was ballooning inside me; it made my voice all forced and savage. – I’m a customer, aren’t I? Isn’t the customer always right?
She flinched again when I spoke to her like that.
– It’s just a slogan, she said, her voice flattening itself even more. It’s just something we use for motivation. Anyway, you aren’t on the outside any more. You’re here.
– Look, I said, I just want some answers. I thought, she probably isn’t used to people raising their voices. It isn’t that sort of place. – I can report you, I threatened.
But it sounded feeble even to me. I was still clinging to the idea that I had human rights, I guess. Still wanting answers, still believing I could get them. Silence had dropped on us. It lasted a long time. She was looking out of the window. I caught myself clocking her profile. The chaotic pale hair, the big glasses, the little chin, the cleverness and the breakableness of her.
– I’ve got a question for you, I said at last.
She looked up, surprised. Like it was a trap.
– Do you ever go out? Like, to a movie, or dinner and stuff?
I hadn’t meant it to sound aggressive, but she must have taken it for cruelty, because she pulled quickly back into her cardigan like an alarmed snail. The smile faded. I’m a clumsy idiot, I thought.
– I mean, how long since anyone invited you out for –
– I’ve never been invited to dinner, she blurted. Nobody has ever invited me out to dinner.
She looked so small, and so pathetic.
– Or a movie, she added.
It suddenly made me feel bad, like I was a bull-in-a-china-shop kind of bloke. Or maybe there was simply something wrong with Hannah Park. An abnormality. She was clearly very clever at her job, I thought, whatever that was, or she wouldn’t be working at Head Office. Everyone knows about the IQ level required to get in. But she was – well, I’m afraid freakish is the word.
Suddenly, in spite of all the anger and the misery churning around inside me, I needed to clear the air between us, and see her smile. We were both humans at the end of the day, weren’t we? I tried to imagine her having a good time. I tried to imagine how I might tell her a funny story – perhaps the story of Keith going to live with Mrs Dragon-lady but coming home to be sick – and how she might laugh at that. I wanted to see her face light up because of me.
– Well, I’d like to invite you out to dinner, I said, and smiled at her winningly. – When all this is over.
I was feeling gallant, old-fashioned, protective. Charity for the socially handicapped. But she looked at me as though I was offering her dogshit.
– Impossible, I’m afraid, she said, wincing.
I didn’t like the way she recoiled like that. I felt rejected. It crossed my mind that maybe she’d had a bad experience. Gwynneth’s magazines were full of stories of women who’d survived terrible man-related indignities – botched cosmetic surgery, cowboy gigolo scams, multi-generational incest, serial rejection – perhaps she was one of those. But I pushed it further anyway.
– Have you got a boyfriend? I said, like a twat.
Hannah hugged herself again, and I regretted saying it.
– No, she said, it’s not that.
As she turned to face me her glasses flashed and those watery-blue
eyes seemed bigger than ever, distorted by the lenses. She cleared her throat.
– I suffer from Crabbe’s Block.
– What?
– Crabbe’s Block. It’s an irreversible condition. It means I–
The wind seemed to drop from her sails, and she stopped as suddenly as she’d begun. After a moment, she began fumbling about for a handkerchief, and then blowing her nose loudly. So leaving isn’t practical, she said finally, sniffing. Again, her face went into a kind of wincing spasm.
– Crabbe’s Block? I asked. I was completely baffled. – I’ve never heard of it.
Hannah Park looked at me, and then turned her eyes pleadingly to the clock.
– Ah, it’s lunchtime, she said, her voice flooding with relief. And the guard knocked.
INTIMACY
It’s the third day since Fishook announced our return to Atlantica, and the ship is buzzing with bad vibes. One day soon – in four days? Three? – we’ll wake up and there it will be. Not even on the horizon, but right slap-bang there, outside the porthole. I’ve stepped up my chewing schedule, determined to complete Tiffany before we dock. The latest batch of paper from the Art Room (courtesy of Libertycare’s recycling policy) consists of transcripts from the Hotline.
The lengths they went to, to serve the customer!
I hereby accuse my mother-in-law, Mrs Scarlett Foster, of 11 Ovenhill Drive, Mohawk, of conspiring to defame and slander both myself and my …
That caller had rung thirty-three times in three days. There had been a row over a tin of sweetcorn. There were others.
… knew as soon as I set eyes on him that he was trash. I mean, there’s a type of person that’s likely to join this Sect, right? Well, he fits it to the max. For a start he’s …
That was a man called Ron, jilted by his gay lover, who had run off with a systems analyst who wasn’t even attractive. And so on.
Tiffany the rook is shaping up. I have given her a bobbed hairstyle which doesn’t suit her, and a dress that reaches to the floor, shaped like an old-fashioned lampshade. I’m pleased, and even John’s impressed as I spin her on the craft table like a little top.