The Paper Eater

by Liz Jensen

  – Well, I’ve never heard of it. I was pulling her in closer to me.

  – It’s very rare.

  – How rare?

  Her eyes slid away.

  – Very rare, she mumbled. I may be the only one on the island.

  – So you’re pretty special, right? Is that what your mother told you? I was still holding her tight. Not letting her escape.

  – Leave her out of this! said Hannah sharply.

  Weird, we were almost having a proper conversation, I thought, a proper row!

  – Well, I said. D’you know what I think?

  She didn’t say anything, but her eyes slowly edged back, and she blinked.

  – I think you’re hanging on to this Crabbe’s Block out of choice.

  She twisted her face away again and stared at the wall – but I kept holding her. I wasn’t letting go. I wasn’t.

  We stood there like that for a while, in stalemate. Leave her alone, this voice was saying inside me – the voice of reason, I guess. Let her be. She’s an island. You can’t reach her, no one can.

  But then I felt a soft touch on my hair. Well, more on my bald patch, actually. I thought I was imagining it at first, and then I slowly realised it must be her hand. It was like I was an animal and she was stroking me. I hardly dared breathe, the moment was so fragile. Hannah was stroking my head. I looked up, and saw tears on her face. Her glasses were all steamy, and she’d gone red.

  – I can’t do it, she said. I want to be a normal person but I don’t know how. I’ve been here so long I –

  She was too choked to say anything else, so I just held her to me. We were sitting half on and half off the chair, the table-edge poking into my side. It wasn’t comfortable, but I held her and held her, and it felt right, as though a thing had fallen into place that was meant to. I think she felt it too, she must’ve, because she didn’t try to pull away or anything, she even pressed herself in towards me, and I thought if I could swallow her right up and carry her away inside me she wouldn’t mind, and nor would I.

  And that was how we stayed for a long while, and all I wanted was for it to go on for ever.

  And then –

  Well, this is difficult, this bit. It’s sort of embarrassing but I’m sort of proud of it too and it was one of the high points of my whole life, I guess. Because what happened was that, slowly and then suddenly very urgently and very fast, things started to shift a notch and – well, to firm up.

  You could sense it was happening to her too, this thing. Wriggling-body stuff that was sort of beyond anyone’s control, really. It was like a dream. In fact, sometimes I still think it was. Before either of us knew what was going on, we were kind of wrestling against the desk, trying to get bits of our clothes off.

  And then there was no stopping it. I was grappling at my belt and my trousers slid with a silent whoosh round my ankles, and I’d hitched her skirt up clumsily, and I was rubbing at her with one hand and also trying to pull her tights down and her knickers to one side and clutching the desk with the other hand to keep steady and then I’d somehow sat her buttocks on the edge of the desk and – well, before we knew it, we were –

  We stared into each other’s eyes while we were doing it, in a sort of unbelieving way. Her glasses had fallen off by now, well, they were hanging off one ear actually. I’d never made love like that before, but it seemed the way to do it, with Hannah. Like we were – don’t laugh – communicating with our heads too. There we were, doing it, and I was saying things, maybe shouting them or whispering, I don’t know, and she was too and then –

  The next thing I knew I was crying, and so was she.

  – Will you visit me in prison? I whispered at last.

  – See? says John, beaming. It was a love story!

  – It wasn’t. I told you before.

  – So what happened?

  – That was the end. I never –

  I break off. The tears are welling up now and I can’t stop them. Through the blur of water, the Alpine calendar seems to shudder on the wall.

  John’s crossing off the days. Just two to go.

  SOMEWHERE LIKE MOHAWK

  It wasn’t the end: it was the beginning. He’d go to prison, and they’d write to each other, and then one day – She had a shower, turned the jet on hard, tried to make sense of what had happened. Couldn’t. Her mind flitted about, unable to settle anywhere but on him. By five she was back in her office, her hair still damp. A sharp knock at the door made her catch her breath. Instinctively, she reached for her inhaler, and dangled the mask between her hands, ready to use. She wasn’t ready to face anyone yet, not even Leo. This would be him now.

  But it wasn’t.

  – Good report, Pike said.

  She stood up, not wanting to be cornered in a chair. Her hair dripped.

  He was looking down at her. Again, she felt the claustrophobia of his presence, the heat from his body. Could he sense what she had done? Did it show on her face? All the turmoil over Harvey made her feel as transparent as an amoeba. She fingered her mask.

  – So did you enjoy your experience of people-work, Hannah? Do you feel that it’s stretched you? He was smiling.

  – Stretched me? Oh I suppose, yes. She pictured an elastic band, pulled to the maximum, vibrating with tension, about to twang.

  – I see, he said slowly. He was looking right into her eyes, now. The air was thick with the silence of it. – We’re posting you elsewhere.

  She didn’t get it for a minute. Then gulped, and sat breathing for a while, ready to apply her mask.

  – For a bit of R and R.

  – Away from Head Office? she asked at last.

  Pike nodded.

  – Somewhere like Mohawk, I thought. Would that appeal?

  Hannah couldn’t think of any words to reach for.

  – The Boss is recommending it, in your case. She’s done a need-profile on you. She reckons the people-work has put you under a lot of strain.

  – I don’t feel like it has, said Hannah. But she felt suddenly feverish, drained. – Excuse me, I – She put on her mask. This was real.

  – Better pack a bag then, he smiled. Ran a finger across her cheek. And then was gone.

  Everyone knew where R and R led, in the long-run. To re-positioning. To a gradual or swift easing-out. No one returned from the holiday beach in Mohawk with a sharper mind. Hannah slipped off her mask, and took a few tentative breaths. Then, just as she was switching the air-pump of her inhaler off, her eyes rested on something stuck to the corner of her desk. A little green heart. It puzzled her for a moment, and then she remembered. It had been stuck to Lola Hogg’s disc. She must have put it there and forgotten about it. Carefully, she picked it off and stuck it to her wrist, then headed for Leo’s office.

  It was Fleur Tilley who opened the door, and Hannah’s first thought was, I didn’t know they were friends.

  – Oh it’s you, said Fleur. A whiff of bar furled out in the air behind her.

  – I came to see Leo Hurley, said Hannah. The emptiness of her hands bothered her. She should have brought a file, a disc, a clip-board – something.

  – Didn’t you know? said Fleur. He’s gone.

  Hannah could smell the drink on her breath as she gestured her in.

  – Gone where, asked Hannah, entering. The room was blank, almost empty. Two cans of Hooch and a packet of freeze-dried peanuts lay on the table. It was sprinkled with little flakes of peanut skin and salt.

  – I’m only here till they tell me what’s next, Fleur said. Her eyes pooled with tears. – I’ll miss the Munchies. She lifted a can of Hooch, took a swig, moistened her lips ruminatively and swayed, grasping the chair for support.

  – Gone where?

  – Mohawk, I think. Or Lionheart. To one of the R and R facilities. Last week. One minute he was here – she waved vaguely at the room – the next he … didn’t say goodbye or anything.

  – Last week? said Hannah, struggling with dates. Are you sure?

&n
bsp; – Part of that big shake-up, Fleur said, licking a finger and prodding at the salt crumbs. After the Festival. You know. She licked the salt off her finger, and a muscle at the corner of her mouth spasmed: a tiny facial earthquake. – Well, it’s been turmoil, hasn’t it, with the mass re-fucking-prioritise. She giggled. – I’m in deep shit, as you’d expect.

  – I didn’t know about any of this, said Hannah. I haven’t been around. I mean, he didn’t say there’d been a general shake-up.

  – Where’ve you been, on Mars? Fleur squinted at her, trying to focus.

  – I had this deadline, on a new project.

  – Ah. Well, there you go. She gave a little sigh. – Everyone who’s anyone was assigned their own little personal thing.

  – I guess that’s what happened then, said Hannah, remembering Harvey Kidd. There was a dizzying lurch whenever she thought of him.

  She hadn’t realised everyone was being given special tasks. Pike had presented the project to her as something special. Reward success, questionnaire failure. She’d thought it was a one-off, specially designed for her. Now she could see how absurd that was, how grandiose and blinkered. Fleur was swaying again, and Hannah wondered if she might pass out.

  – So where did you send the e-mail to Leo?

  – E-mail? said Fleur. She seemed to have forgotten, and blinked. – Oh. To the R and R centres, I think. Her eyes were suddenly blank. – Sorry, I’ve got to sit down. And she did, brusquely.

  – And?

  – And what? Oh. Nothing. He hasn’t replied. Look, Hannah PARK, why don’t you have a drink. You’re always so buttoned-up. That’s your trouble. Hope you don’t mind my saying.

  – It’s all right, said Hannah. I just wanted – just some files … no, I can get them from – It’s OK. She was backing away now.

  She had a sudden urge to tell Fleur that she wasn’t buttoned up, she wasn’t a virgin any more, that Fleur wasn’t the only one who did it against desks, that she’d met a man who –

  – Drink’d do you good, said Fleur. But please yourself. She giggled again. – You are dismissed.

  What’s going on, Hannah thought as she closed the door on Fleur. If I disappear, Leo’d said, that day he’d handed her the brown envelope. She’d thought it was paranoia. Called him a Munchie. She’d have to get hold of it. Read what was inside.

  She hated this.

  I’m scared, she thought. It hit her like a bump.

  All the way to St Placid she fingered the little green heart sticker on the inside of her wrist, a tiny patch of pressure. The feel of it electrified her blood. She was struck by the way the atmosphere seemed different. Thicker. Everything seemed to glisten. Instead of disintegrating, the air-crystals had landed and settled, bejewelling benches, tram-stops, and window-ledges. It was beautiful, eerie. It jolted a distant memory of Atlantica years ago, before Libertycare and the climate change: snow and ice. But her recollections of the past were shaky. You couldn’t trust memory any more. Perhaps the snow and ice were just something she’d seen on screen, something that happened in other countries. The tram was still fifteen minutes from the city when she noticed the first rainbow – a luminous gash of purple, sepia, bottle-green, and sulphurous yellow – hooped across the skyscrapered horizon. A child might have drawn such an arc with a fistful of dirty crayons. It was weirdly moving, and tears welled up, hot and tingling. It was as though the whole world had shifted shape. Even the people looked different, bursting with health and energy, like irradiated fruit. And as for herself, it was almost as though she had new organs in her body: new eyes, a new heart. It made her feel light as air, and freakishly happy – so happy she wondered if she might be on the verge of a breakdown. The tiniest thing seemed to make her want to laugh and cry.

  – Some flowers would have been nice, said Tilda, opening the door. You look different.

  – I am different, said Hannah, realising it as she spoke.

  – So am I, said Tilda. I’ve got fresh kneecaps.

  Hannah followed her mother as she limped into the lounge, clutching her medical dossier. Things felt odd, indoors. Then it struck her.

  – Ma, the house … the corridor. Something’s happened. It feels like it’s all – I don’t know, tilted.

  – Well spotted! said Tilda. It slopes to the north-east. Subsidence. The Libertycare Liaison man, Benedict Sommers, he’s having it seen to.

  The name rang a distant bell.

  – Lovely man. Good-looking too. She said it hopefully.

  Hannah laughed – a strange noise that slipped out unbidden – and turned away.

  – What’s so funny? asked Tilda sharply. They were sitting in the lounge now. Tilda had planted both feet on her footstool.

  – Nothing, said Hannah, lightly, her thoughts still dancing wildly. Then, to stop her mother pressing the subject further, she asked – So what does he say, about the subsidence?

  – Well. You know, that it’s being investigated. They’re doing some big survey apparently. I’ve bought myself a spirit level.

  She pointed to the mantelpiece, and Hannah saw it: a long plastic rectangle containing a Perspex panel. The bubble – floating in a bilious green liquid – was well to the left of centre.

  – But actually, that’s not the main worry at the moment, he told me. Well, it is a worry, but it’s what’s causing it that’s the real problem.

  – And what is causing it?

  – Well, even before Mr Sommers told me, I’d already heard things.

  The name Sommers was definitely familiar. It bothered Hannah that she couldn’t place it.

  – I think it started off as a rumour, Tilda was saying. Just in the neighbourhood. Then Fanny Urdle, you know my friend, two doors down? She said she reckoned her sister’s son-in-law might be involved in something to do with drugs. And then there was someone at bowls said he’d heard of a small cult. Some real rotten apples. There was an anxious excitement in her voice.

  – So these rotten apples, said Hannah, her eyes scanning the room. What about them?

  Where had Tilda put Leo’s envelope?

  – Well then, a couple of days later, said Tilda, just after my op, the Liaison associate, Mr Sommers – I call him Benedict – he comes again, and he confirms it, about the rotten apples.

  Hannah suddenly put a face to Benedict Sommers. He was the one chewing green gum who she’d met in the lift, on the way to the party. The one who was being questionnaired. What was he doing, working as a Liaison associate in St Placid? Nothing made sense.

  – What happens is, we talk about the subsidence for a bit, and he says Mrs Park, you’re known to us as a highly responsible citizen, I note that you’ve been a VIP Customer since the beginning. And I say well, I’ve tried to do my bit, and the loyalty vouchers come in handy, don’t they. And then he wants to know if he could discuss something important with me, as a more senior member of society. Pride in her eyes now; the voice wavering a bit. And a quick glance at Hannah, who allowed her mouth to move in acknowledgement.

  – And what was it?

  – Well, what he said got me really nervous. Tilda gulped, and the loose chickeny skin of her neck trembled.

  – He told me that there’s – She dropped her voice to a whisper. – A sect. Operating here, in St Placid. Possibly all over the country.

  – A sect? asked Hannah, puzzled. It was news to her. What kind of sect?

  – Terrorists, said Tilda, fanning out her skirt over her knees. It gave her the look of an ancient, cracked doll. – Eco somethings. They’re opposed to the Waste Pledge. Opposed to any type of progress, I think Benedict said. I remember types like them from the old days, before Libertycare. Thought we’d got rid of them, but he says bits of society are mutating, it happens when things are going too well. Anyway, they’re having to bring in a new code, he said, to curb them. They’re going to socially readjust them.

  – Readjust them? Hannah was confused. Was this some sort of fantasy? Was her mother beginning to lose her marbles?

/>   – Mass Readjustments, he said, to nip it in the bud.

  Hannah sighed in frustration. All she wanted to do was get her hands on Leo’s envelope and then leave. Tilda’s garbled story was making her feel exasperated and restless.

  – Nip what in the bud, exactly?

  – Well. You know. It. The activities. The criminal activities. They’re ever so dangerous, you see.

  – Who are?

  Tilda tutted in annoyance.

  – Haven’t you been listening? So anyway, he says we’re to keep a sharp lookout, because they’ve got followers everywhere. Tilda dropped her voice to a shaky whisper. – They’re involved in sabotage. It’s very hush-hush. They don’t want panic.

  Nothing made sense. Hannah hadn’t heard any of this at Head Office. Surely the Department would be the very first to know of any new social disturbance. Why hadn’t Wesley Pike held a meeting?

  – They’ve been funding it with all kinds of fraud, said Tilda.

  – Fraud? Suddenly, she was listening.

  – I mean, you name it, they’ve been involved, apparently.

  – Like what? A weird sickness slapped at her.

  – Well, they were experts on money, I know that much. They had zillions of companies, you know, those illegal offshore ones, the Cayman Islands and whatnot.

  Hannah gulped back the nausea. The room suddenly felt very hot.

  – Benedict says it’s all going to come out soon, though. There’s going to be a thing on TV about it at four, a sort of public-warning programme, it’s called Evil in Our Midst. You could stay and watch it, it’s on soon. Benedict says they keep a low profile themselves, the ringleaders.

  – What ringleaders, Hannah said faintly.

  Tilda leaned forward conspiratorially.

  – They’ve got mug-shots of them. Benedict gave me some posters to put up on my front door, and on all the lamp-posts in the street. He said to wait till after the documentary, then pin them up.

  The room seemed to be whirling now. To try and stop it, Hannah clamped her hands on the arm-rests of her chair.

  – All the VIPs have been getting them. Tilda’s voice shook with pride. – We’ve got to study their faces, and memorise them, and stay alert. Fanny Urdle’s going nuts, she’s plastered the whole of her lobby with them already, because she reckons she’s actually seen one of them loitering in the street. Anyway, Benedict said to always keep my windows locked, and to get an extra bolt put on the front door. Some of their followers, they’re known rapists.