by Robert Ford
Sam closed his eyes in the hope that he might gather himself a little. But this only seemed to make things worse as his mind was engulfed by a thousand racing images, each one carrying a particular weight of argument, that when grouped together colluded to shape unbearable approximations of emotional states: remorse, guilt, elation, anger, doubt, fear. The images themselves ranged from the personal and private to the strange and unsettling and arbitrary: friends and family, acquaintances that had long been forgotten, forms and shapes, elements of science and industry, processes both natural and synthetic, landscapes and peoples, the oppressed and the unloved, those in poverty and ill health. These snapshots were separate and yet at the same time indistinguishable, fleeting and impressionistic but clearly defined, a vast nexus of information, opinion and emotion that drifted cloud like through an area of the mind just beyond the realm of comprehension.
Sam’s eyes snapped open as Spike brushed past him on his way to the tables.
‘Come on then, you great big goose,’ he shouted before ducking just in time to avoid the swinging arm of an over-eager resident.
‘Yup...’ said Sam, reeling a little, catching himself. ‘Coming...’
The hatches were buzzing with activity, dinner very much under way now. Sam grabbed two plates and two bowls of Meel and spun round to face the tables. Then, with his load balanced between either hand, Sam weaved through his section, placing the two complete meals onto the table without much in the way of incident.
All in all it was a promising start. The residents in his area seemed happy; at least, they were making rather less noise than usual.
Sam worked his way back to the hatches where he collected two more meals for the return trip.
‘Morning.’
The voice was unmistakeable. Turning round, he saw Megan a little way over, assisting Rachel with a service area. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, her white tunic and trousers splattered liberally with light green flecks of Meel.
How had he not noticed her before now?
‘Hey,’ said Sam. ‘How’s it going?’
Megan motioned towards her clothes, a half shrug and point.
‘Right,’ said Sam holding the plates up in a show of solidarity.
If he was ordinarily a poor conversationalist when it came to the fairer sex, then the hangover and the smell, the noise and the light, these elements had all conspired to render him virtually mute; monosyllabic at best.
‘Right,’ said Megan.
‘Yeah.’
‘OK.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Yeah. See you later then.’
‘Yeah. See you.’
He watched as Megan turned to resume doling out the separate dinners with delicate, considered movements. And as he watched, Sam uttered silent curses - the prayers of the inept - wishing all the time that he was able to interact more freely, that for her he could be capable of surrender, or rather, incapable of such cowardice.
Before long these thoughts became subject once more to the braying, scraping, banging, shouting of the residents and staff. Sam could hear an agonised yip just to his left and, looking down, discovered that one of his charges, a good looking man with a thick mane of dark hair, was emitting this terrible noise in response to having inadvertently submerged his mobile phone in the Meel; the device now hung limply from the rubber band around the resident’s outstretched arm, drip-drip-dripping viscous green upon the floor.
The man in question, Vincent Dax, was one of Edge Hill’s many minor celebrities. He had made his billions designing high-vis vests for miniature breeds - remarkably, it appeared that the need to be seen in various DayGlo colours was considerable for these tiny dogs, and as such he had garnered an enormous fortune. And although he had something of a reputation as a playboy (Vincent caused an international stir in the late 2040s by marrying a twenty-year-old model, a young woman some one hundred and five years his junior) he was a committed philanthropist, ardent environmental campaigner and dashing polo player of some note. And yet here he was at the age of one hundred and forty-nine, tears streaming down his reddening, contorted face, the volume of his strained, guttural lament rising in steady increments.
As far as Sam could make out, the common wisdom held that money bought you science, bought you time, bought you life. But looking around the room, it all just seemed so sad and cruel, so base a jumping-off point. And not for the first time, he began to wonder why on earth he had come to Edge Hill at all.
It had been a record service - Morris said so upon its conclusion. Whether it had been the effect of the atmosphere on the residents, the lethargy of the staff, or simply the logistical repercussions of adding sprouts to the menu, whatever the cause, the dinner shift had taken over two hours from beginning to end, more than three times its normal length.
Sam wandered along the main cloister towards the atrium looking for all the world as if he had just been mauled by several angry vegetables. Meel covered most of his front, while small scraps of food had become lodged between the thick curls that crowned his head - half a sprout here, some turkey there - and kissing the top of his right cheekbone was a fine red scratch that stung but did not bleed. He was exhausted, with not an once of energy left, the slackness of his body and the pantomime motion of his long limbs, which seemed to be operating independently, without any specific regard for each other, giving him the air of some huge, shuffling marionette.
‘Sam.’
Megan skipped enthusiastically along the corridor towards him, and while she seemed to have attracted almost as much Meel to her person as he had, she seemed not at all fatigued, a feat Sam thought awesome: awesome as in the original sense of the word, the biblical sense, inspiring great admiration, apprehension, or fear.
‘You would have thought with all this flaming science about, someone would have come up with a hangover cure, right?’
Sam smiled despite himself, despite the somnolence that gripped him so completely.
‘Where you off to?’ She asked.
‘Bed, I think,’ Sam answered flatly.
‘Oh... OK. I was off for a walk and thought you might wanna come along?’
Sam’s face flushed.
‘No... Well... I mean... shall I come with you?’
‘Yes. Definitely. But we should have tea, don’t you think? It’s certainly a morning for tea.’
The sky outside had calmed, easing towards a heavy slate grey. It had snowed again overnight and the grounds were swaddled in fresh layers of perfect white. Away in the distance a large black crow took flight from the limb of a skeletal tree, its lonely croaking song a plaintive call across the open fields and frozen hills beyond.
Sam and Megan left the main house through the front door and crunched their way around the perimeter of the lawn. They had their tea, steaming blue-grey mugs of comfort, and they had their greatcoats on for the cold.
‘Funny isn’t it, being way out here in the middle of nowhere? Surreal almost,’ said Megan watching the bird’s swooping flight.
‘It is strange. It’s beautiful... but it’s so sad,’ said Sam, almost to himself. ‘To have been forgotten like this. The landscape, I mean.’
‘They say there are still people out there, living like hermits. That it’s not safe, particularly.’
Sam thought of the naked farmer and the policeman at the petrol station; for some reason the memory was too strange to share, and besides, it seemed to have happened so long ago that he had started to distrust his memory, or even, to think that perhaps the incident had happened to someone else, just a story he had heard.
‘How long have you been here?’ asked Megan.
‘Eight weeks. Just about.’ Sam tried to work it out in his head. ‘Yeah, eight weeks. It’s gone so fast... And now here we are. Christmas.’
‘Have you spoken to your family today?’
Sam started a little - he hadn’t called his mother, indeed he could not. But the truth was he hadn’t thought to, a fact that both excited and appa
lled him.
‘No. I mean... It’s just Mum and she’s... she’s not very well. I can’t really call her, that’s all. You?’
‘Well, Dad’s here of course. He’s not very popular is he?’
‘Well...’
‘He’s alright, really. Honestly. It’s just ever since Mum left he’s been... well, he tries so hard but he always seems to fuck things up.’
Sam smiled. It was the first time he had heard Megan swear - she looked so earnest and the word had been so finely formed, so sweetly articulated, that the expletive was elevated; from her lips eloquent.
Megan slurped from her mug. ‘He’s especially bad at this time of year. It was Christmas time when Mum went. Ran off with the local butcher, if you can believe that. Dad was a mess. For months he wouldn’t touch meat. To this day, just the sight of lamb chops makes him feel nauseous.’
Sam chuckled; he couldn’t help it. ‘Sorry. Sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh.’
Megan looked cross as she raised her eyes to look at Sam, but her expression soon gave way to a wry smile. ‘It is kind of... unfortunate.’
They had reached the fence at the far end of the lawn, which seemed a natural place to pause. Here they stood for a moment taking in the view back towards the house.
‘What’s the matter with your Mum? I mean, if you don’t mind me asking?’
Sam turned and leant forward, placing his elbows on one of the large wooden fence posts. Some distance away the wind blew across the pasture, whipping small flurries of snow and ice as it went. Sam followed them with his eye for a moment as he tried to formulate an answer. And in that moment he was suddenly subject to an overwhelming desire, an urge to confide in her, to just let go and tell her everything.
He took a deep breath, and began. ‘Mum is... They don’t know...’
Megan held her mug in both hands, nodding as she looked back at Edge Hill. There was something in her manner that Sam felt calming, an anaesthetic of sorts that seemed to counter his natural propensity to panic.
‘They don’t know what’s wrong with her. So she’s in stasis. And I guess she’ll stay that way for a long time. We don’t have the money for a private diagnostic team, so... And I left her alone in the house at home to come here because I couldn’t stand it anymore - the Estate where we lived or the fact that day in day out all I could think of was her and her illness. She was very controlling when I was growing up, in a loving kind of way, I guess, but I always struggled with nerves, panic attacks, that kind of thing. And with Dad not being around, somehow I just... never really managed to grow up. Not properly. Not so that I became a person. Somebody real. That probably doesn’t make any sense but...’
Sam turned to face her, heart racing.
‘And then there’s this Bear that seems to have been haunting me for the last fifteen years, except now he’s got a northern accent as well as a business growing weird fox/horse things and he always hugs my knee with his paws. Why does he do that? And if that wasn’t bad enough, my only friend in the world is a septic old goat who thinks he’s the King of Spain, and is now so horribly depressed that I’m worried he’ll do something stupid to himself or to me or the facility. That’s before we even get started about this place, and the residents and how ugly it all is. And basically what’s the point of it all anyway? Really. If I was just sucked back up into oblivion tomorrow would anyone actually care? Would the world care? No. I don’t think so, but...’
Sam trailed off, suddenly aware that he had been talking for some time.
‘Wow. So... how’s your Mum?’ Megan said, teasing.
Sam paled.
‘Listen. I don’t know you very well, or at least I didn’t until you gave me your whole life story...’
Sam broke into an intense blush, his large eyelids batting out some sort of coded message, an SOS perhaps.
‘But do you know what your Dad would tell you right now, or your Mum, or Hal or anyone worth their salt who actually cares about you?’
The blinking slowed as he considered the question.
‘They’d tell you to calm down.’
‘Calm down?’
‘Calm down and get a grip.’
Sam and Megan looked at each other for a moment in silence as an icy blast filtered past them.
‘Calm down.’ Sam repeated.
‘Calm down,’ Megan said, her face finally cracking into a sunshine grin.
‘Calm down.’
Sam looked so startled and so serious that Megan started to laugh. ‘Calm down and get a grip,’ she said, putting her hand in front of her mouth in an attempt to stem the rising tide.
‘Laughing?’ said Sam quietly.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Megan, her eyes dampening as she tried to swallow a full-blown fit of the giggles. But it was contagious; she was contagious.
‘Yes. I suppose so. You’re right. Get a grip.’
Megan recovered herself, padding at the sides of her eyes with the sleeve of her greatcoat.
‘I’m sorry, Sam. Really. It’s not funny. None of it is. But you know, you’re a young guy with a lot going for you - and fine, things aren’t perfect, but then, nothing ever is.’
She looked down into her mug and then up at Sam, the hint of a smile still lingering around her moist eyes. ‘Don’t worry so much, that’s all. You know?’
Sam smiled. He wanted to gather her up towards him, to engulf her, to merge.
‘But the Bear. What about the... bloody Bear?’ he said smiling for effect, aware now of how silly he must have sounded.
Megan reached out and took him by the hand, their fingers interlocking, the most natural of fits. Sam looked down, couldn’t help but notice her pale wrist, a delicate slither of porcelain protruding from the course dark fabric of the greatcoat. Somehow it said everything about her then, that small space of flesh: it was true and fine and rare.
‘The Bear?’ she said.
Sam lifted his gaze to meet hers.
‘We’ll have to see about the Bear.’
NEW YEAR’S EVE
The corridors of Edge Hill resounded with the many and various trappings of activity that were common to such a place - shouts and scrapes and bangs and calls, specific sounds rendered anonymous by the scale of its architecture, its sheer, ludicrous size.
Several days had passed since Christmas, since Sam’s walk with Megan, and it was now New Year’s Eve - an occasion which Edge Hill always celebrated with great style, not that such a date mattered to anyone particularly, but it was as good an excuse as any to throw a party.
In between times, the renovations in the library had been completed and the ice rink officially opened. This curious slice of ceremony was carried out by Kirkham who, having cut the red ribbon seal about the door with an enormous pair of scissors, took unsteadily to the ice, from where he threw branded company baubles at the ranks of handlers stood about the edge.
At first, Sam was relieved to hear from Morris that he had been assigned to the rink, or rather that he would be leaving behind once again the horrors of the dining service and the smell of the residents and their Meel. However it soon transpired that supervising the skating was in fact an irksome, turgid task. The rink was large and circular, taking up all of the floor space in the hall. Thirty feet above the ice stood a curved viewing gallery and it was from here that the handlers were asked to perform a supervisory role, although after the first few days of skating it was clear that the residents excelled at the sport, gliding around and around and around in a clockwise direction - a specific trait no one could explain. In fact such was their prowess on the ice that there really was nothing for the handlers to do. Collisions were rare; accidents that required treatment or intervention of any kind, rarer still.
Aside from his duties at the rink, Sam had his hands full attending to Hal’s ever-darkening moods. Since Christmas they had drunk every night, all night sometimes, closeted away in the medical centre with Dr Fell and Spike, supplementing their libations with the best and rarest narcotic
s that the prized medical store could afford them. It was all too much; Sam knew it, but what could he do? Hal’s energy and enthusiasm, the sense of fun and, most importantly, the self-awareness that belied his behaviour, that before had prevented him from straying too far from the limits of decency, seemed to have been turned inwards, to all intents and purposes nullified. Sam worried, tried on several occasions to explain his concerns. But Hal could not listen to him - he had become paranoid, convinced that there was a mysterious plot afoot, that ‘they’ were out to get him, obsessed with fascists, with the Spanish throne, with Kirkham. In the face of such a stance, communication was impossible.
That morning, just after the breakfast service, the handlers were called to assembly in the atrium. There Kirkham waited, smiling from halfway up the stairs, just as he had done a short few weeks ago, the day he was introduced as Daniels’ replacement. Below him, the handlers stood in small clusters, waiting for the address to start. Sam was near the back of the room, next to Ted and Rachel, Hal and Spike over to the other side, their uniforms grubby, hair knotted and unkempt. They both also looked medicated to a degree and in need of some sleep - a couple of filthy insomniacs.
‘Right. Yup. Good morning, Edge Hill,’ Kirkham started. ‘Season’s greetings, one and all.’
‘Ssssunner!’
The heckle came from nowhere in particular, a mumbled note that was hard to pinpoint, impossible to translate.
Kirkham looked up from his notes.
‘Yes. A directive here from the brass concerning the format for tonight’s festivities. As opposed to the more traditional celebrations, the behavioural department at TWL have determined that we should in fact hold a dance-orientated event...’
‘Shitgunner!’
This time there was no debate as to the origin of the interruption: all eyes turned to Hal, including those of Kirkham.