by Paul Murray
That’s what they all say.
‘What have you got there?’ Halley comes back with two cups.
‘Book.’
‘No shit.’ She takes it out of his hands. ‘Robert Graves, Goodbye to All That.’
‘Just something I picked up on the way home. First World War. I thought the boys might like it.’
‘Robert Graves, didn’t he write I, Claudius? That they made into a TV series?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘He did.’ She scans the back of the book. ‘Looks interesting.’
Howard shrugs non-committally. Halley leans back against her chair, watching his eyes buzz restlessly over the counter surface. ‘Why are you acting weird?’
He freezes. ‘Me? I’m not acting weird.’
‘You are.’
Interior pandemonium as he desperately tries to remember how he normally acts with her. ‘It’s just been a long day – oh God – ’ groaning involuntarily as she pulls a cigarette from her shirt pocket. ‘Are you going to smoke another of those things?’
‘Don’t start…’
‘They’re bad for you. You said you were going to quit.’
‘What can I tell you, Howard. I’m an addict. A hopeless, pathetic addict in the thrall of the tobacco companies.’ Her shoulders slump as the tip glows in ignition. ‘Anyway, it’s not like I’m pregnant.’
Ah, right – this is how he normally acts with her. He remembers now. They seem to be going through a protracted phase in which they’re able to speak to each other only in criticisms, needles, rebukes. Big things, little things, anything can spark an argument, even when neither of them wants to argue, even when he or she is trying to say something nice, or simply to state an innocuous fact. Their relationship is like a piece of malfunctioning equipment that when switched on will only buzz fractiously, and shocks you when you’re trying to find out what’s wrong. The simplest solution seems to be not to switch it on, to look instead for a new one; he is not quite ready to contemplate that eventuality, however.
‘How was work?’ he says conciliatorily.
‘Oh…’ She makes a gesture of insignificance, flicking the dust of the day from her fingers. ‘This morning I wrote a review of a new laser printer. Then most of the afternoon I spent trying to get hold of someone in Epson to confirm the specs. Usual rollercoaster ride.’
‘Any new gadgets?’
‘Yeah, actually…’ She fetches a small silver rectangle and presents it to him. Howard frowns and fumbles with it – card-thin and smaller than the palm of his hand.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s a movie camera.’
‘This is a camera?’
She takes it from him, slides back a panel and returns it. The camera issues an almost but not quite inaudible purr. He holds it up and aims it at her; a pristine image of her appears in the tiny screen, with a red light flashing in one corner. ‘That’s incredible,’ he laughs. ‘What else does it do?’
‘Make every day like summer!’ she reads from the press release. ‘The Sony JLS9xr offers several significant improvements on the JLS700 model, as well as entirely new features, most notably Sony’s new Intelligent Eye system, which gives not only unparalleled picture resolution but real-time image augmentation – meaning that your movies can be even more vivid than they are in real life.’
‘More vivid than real life?’
‘It corrects the image while you record. Compensates for weak light, boosts the colours, gives things a sheen, you know.’
‘Wow.’ He watches her head dip slightly as she extinguishes her cigarette, then lift again. Miniaturized on the screen she does indeed seem more lustrous, coherent, resolved – a bloom to her cheeks, a glint to her hair. When he glances experimentally away from it, the real-life Halley and the rest of their home suddenly appear underdefined, washed out. He turns his eye to it again, and zooms in on her own eyes, deep blue and finely striated with white; like thin ice, he always thinks. They look sad.
‘And how about you?’
‘Me?’
‘You seem a bit down.’ Somehow it’s easier to talk to her like this, mediated by the camera viewer; he finds the buffer making him audacious, even though she’s sitting close enough to touch.
She shrugs fatalistically. ‘I don’t know… it’s just these PR people, God, they sound like they’re turning into machines themselves, you know, ask them anything at all and they feed you the same pre-recorded answer…’ She trails off. The backs of her fingers move across her forehead, barely touching it; the viewer picks up fine lines there that he has never noticed before. He pictures her here on her own, frowning at the computer screen in the alcove of the living room she has made her office, surrounded by magazines and prototypes, only smoke for company. ‘I tried to write something,’ she says thoughtfully.
‘Something?’
‘A story. I don’t know. Something.’ She seems happier too, with this arrangement, liberated by not having to look into his eyes; she gazes out the window, down at the ashtray, kneads her bracelet against the bones of her wrist. Howard suddenly finds himself desiring her. Maybe this is the answer to all of their problems! He could wear the camera all the time, mount it onto his head somehow. ‘I sat down and told myself I wasn’t getting up until I’d written something. So I stayed there for a full hour and God help me, all I could think of was printers. I’ve spent so long cooped up with this stuff that I’ve forgotten how actual human beings think and behave.’ She slurps her tea disconsolately. ‘Do you think there’s a market for that, Howard? Epic novels starring office equipment? Modem Bovary. Less Than Xerox.’
‘Who knows? Technology’s getting smarter every day. Maybe it’s only a matter of time before computers start reading books. You could be on to something big.’ He places his free hand on hers, sees it jump in Lilliputian form into the corner of the screen. ‘I don’t understand why you don’t just quit,’ he says. They have had this conversation so many times now, it is an effort to keep it from sounding mechanical. But maybe it will turn out differently this time? ‘You’ve got a bit of money saved, why don’t you take some time off and just write? Give yourself six months, say, see what you come up with. We could afford it, if we tightened our belts.’
‘It’s not that simple, Howard. You know how hard it is to find someone who’ll give me a work permit. Futurlab’s been good to me, it’d be stupid to quit there with things as they are.’
He ignores the implied accusation here, pretends that this really is about her writing. ‘You’d find something. You’re good at what you do. Anyway, why not worry about that when the time comes?’
She pulls a face and mutters something.
‘Seriously, though, why don’t you?’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake – I don’t know, Howard. Maybe this is all I’m good for. Maybe office equipment is all there is to write about.’
He withdraws his hand, exasperated. ‘Well, if you won’t do anything about it, then you’ve got to stop complaining.’
‘I’m not complaining, if you ever actually listened to what I –’
‘I do listen, that’s the problem, I’m listening all the time to you telling me you’re unhappy, but then when I try to encourage you to do something about it –’
‘Just forget it, I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Fine, but then don’t tell me I’m not listening when the problem is you don’t want to talk –’
‘Can we just forget – Jesus, would you put that fucking thing down?’ She stares at him, alight with wounded fury, until he slides the camera’s panel shut. Right, right, this is how they act. She grabs another cigarette, lights and tugs at it in a single blur of antipathetic motion.
‘Fine,’ says Howard, picking up his book and getting to his feet. ‘Fine, fine, fine, fine.’
He closets himself in the spare room and turns the pages of the Robert Graves book till he hears her get in the shower.
Halley and he have been together for three y
ears, which, at twenty-eight, constitutes the longest relationship of his life so far. For a long time it coasted along, joshing and amicable. But now Halley wants to get married. She doesn’t say it, but he knows. Marriage makes sense for her. As an American citizen, her right to work here currently depends on the benevolence of her employer, who must renew her permit every year. By marrying Howard, she would become, in the state’s eyes, naturalized, and so free to go where she pleased. That isn’t the only reason she desires it, of course. But it does bring the matter into focus rather sharply: suddenly the question becomes, why do they not get married right away? And it hangs above them like some hulking alien spacecraft, blocking out the sun.
So why don’t they? It’s not that Howard doesn’t love her. He does, he would do anything for her, lay down his life if it came to it – if for example she were a princess menaced by a fire-breathing dragon, and he a knight on horseback, he would charge in with his lance without a second thought, stare the serpent right in its smouldering igneous eye, even if it meant getting barbecued there on the spot. But the fact is – the fact is that they live in a world of facts, one of which is that there are no dragons; there are only the pale torpid days, stringing by one like another, a clouded necklace of imitation pearls, and a love binding him to a life he never actually chose. Is this all it’s ever going to be? A grey tapestry of okayness? Frozen in a moment he drifted into?
And so in short everything remains on hold, and everything remains unspoken, and Halley gets more confused about where they are going and what is wrong, even though technically nothing is wrong, and she gets angry with Howard, and Howard as a result feels even less like getting married. Actually, when the plates start flying, it feels like they’ve already been married for years.
After dinner (microwaved) a détente of sorts is reached, whereby he sits reading in the living room while she watches TV. When she rises to turn in at ten-thirty, he presents his cheek for her to kiss. The protocol that has emerged of late is that the first person to the bedroom is given a half-hour’s grace, so he or she can be asleep by the time the second comes in. It is forty-five days, if you’re asking, since they last had sex. Nothing has been explicitly said; it is something they have agreed on tacitly, indeed is one of the few things they do not, at present, disagree on. Eavesdropping on the pornographic conversations of the boys at school, Howard considers how inconceivable the idea of not wanting to have sex would have seemed to his younger self – remembers how his every atom hurled itself (mostly fruitlessly) after physical contact with the unthinking, unstoppable urgency of a wild salmon flapping up a waterfall. There’s a woman in your bed and you’re not having sex with her? He can practically hear the disappointment and confusion in that younger self’s voice. He’s not saying that he likes the present situation. But it is easier, at least in the short to middle term.
Often, as they lie side by side in the darkness, neither letting on to the other that they are still awake, he has long, candid conversations with her in his imagination, where he fearlessly lays everything out on the table. Sometimes these imaginary conversations end with the two of them breaking up, others with their realizing that they can’t live apart; either way, it feels good to make a decision.
Tonight, though, he is not thinking about this. Instead he is sitting in the front row of a classroom, staring with the other boys at a globe that spins with luxurious, excruciating slowness under slender fingers. And as he stares into it, the globe changes under the fingers from a map of the world into a crystal ball… a crystal ball-cum-lucky dip, where any future you want is there for the taking; and under his breath he is murmuring, ‘We’ll see about that. We’ll see.’
H O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S H H H H H H H HHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
It’s a lift going up your brain and right through into space! You can feel your eyes bulging like they’re going to explode! Your head’s full of elephants, cartoon elephants in a line, lifting their hooves and playing their trunks so music comes out! You’re laughing and laughing, you laugh so much you can hardly stand!
But on the ground Morgan is crying. He is crying because Barry’s kneeling on his arms, pinning him down. Above the skips the doughnut sign shines in the other direction like it doesn’t want to see.
Behind Ed’s is where things happen and if you know what is good for you you will stay the fuck away.
Almost as soon as they come the happy explosions start to drain away. Carl stops laughing and takes a step forward. Morgan shrinks back as far as he’s able, his white feet waggling in the dark like little animals. Barry whispers in his ear, ‘Just do yourself a favour and hand them over.’
‘I don’t have any,’ Morgan pleads. ‘I swear!’
‘Then why did you come?’ Barry’s voice is gentle, like a mother’s voice. ‘Why did you come down here, you faggot?’
‘Because you told me to,’ Morgan says, between sobs.
‘We also told you to bring something.’ When Morgan says nothing, Barry slaps him on the cheek. ‘We fucking told you to bring something, shithead.’
‘I came to tell you I couldn’t bring them.’ Morgan’s face is lifted up and back to look at Barry behind him, so the tears trickle backwards towards his ears.
‘Why not?’
‘My mum keeps them locked away! She keeps them locked away!’
Carl’s head is now very heavy. The elephants have stopped dancing; one after the other they are crashing to the floor. From far away he hears Barry say, ‘We asked you nicely.’ He gives Carl the signal.
Carl shakes the can hard. He knows what he has to do. But first HOOOOSSHHHHHHH, the sky bounces and pops, he comes out from under his jacket, his face a drawn on with crayon – ‘Do it,’ Barry hisses. He lifts his cigarette lighter to the tip of the can –
‘Oh God…’ Morgan squeaks, ‘oh God…’
‘Don’t be stupid, Morgan,’ Barry says. ‘Just give us what we want.’
‘I can’t!’ His face is shiny-wet with crying. ‘I can’t, my mum will find out –’
‘Okay, Morgan,’ Barry says, like he is sad about it. ‘Then you know what we have to do.’
Carl sinks to one knee and aims the can.
‘No!’ Morgan screams, but no one can hear him from here. ‘No, wai–’
The flame roars, and for a second it swallows up everything. Then it goes, leaving a blue-white flash glowing in the dark. The air is full of the smell of burning.
‘Have you something to give us now, Morgan?’ Barry says.
Morgan is crying without making any noise. He rolls over onto his stomach, squirming around like a worm in the dirt.
‘Have you changed your mind? Have you something to give us? Or do you want to have another talk with the Dragon here?’
Morgan shrivels up like he’s been burned again. Then his hand appears, holding up an orange see-through tube. Barry grabs it. ‘Why didn’t you just give it to us when we asked? You could have saved all of us a lot of trouble, arsehole.’
Morgan is too busy crying to reply, this weird shaking crying that doesn’t make any sound. His feet are all red, you can see it even in the dark. Barry turns to Carl. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
Carl nods. As he goes he sees Morgan’s phone has fallen onto the ground. He picks it up and puts it in his pocket.
In the jacks of Burger King, Barry shakes out four pills from the orange tube onto the toilet lid. He mashes them up with his phone and makes the powder into two fat lines. It was his idea so he goes first. Then it’s Carl’s turn. He leans in with the Burger King straw and snorts. Powder charges up his nose. Instantly, with a metal noise zing like a sword being drawn, everything tightens to one sharp edge.
Now it all makes sense. Carl feels shivery-new, he feels ice-cold. Everything is great. It is great to be here with Barry, it was a good plan to get the pills from Morgan Bellamy. They leave the cubicle and walk ou
t into the silver and white and glass of the mall like two G’s in a hip-hop video. They ride up the down-escalator and down the up-escalator, they shout things at girls. They steal a cigarette lighter, a pack of cards, Marbella Ireland magazine. Then it starts getting boring.
‘Let’s go and visit the Gook,’ Barry says.
On the way back they check on Morgan, but he is gone. Do you think he’ll tell? No way because he knows what would happen to him then.
The Gook isn’t in Ed’s tonight, just Gookette. She looks up and when she sees them she goes stiff. They walk up to the counter real slow. In the background BETHani is playing:
I wish I was eighteen so you could photograph meWe’d put it on the internet so everyone could seeHow I make your love grow, the things you do to meWhen teacher isn’t looking, when my parents are asleep
‘Can I help you?’ Gookette says like she doesn’t want to help them. In her gook voice the words come out, ‘Cah ah hep yo?’ like she is retarded. Barry pretends to read the big lit-up menu behind her head.
‘Yes, I would like an Agent Orange juice, please?’
‘We doh have.’
‘You doh have? Okay, then I will have a napalm sandwich.’
‘We doh have.’
‘You doh have napalm sandwiches either?’
‘Only stuff on menu.’
Beside him Carl is laughing because he knows Agent Orange and napalm are things they dropped on the gooks to burn them in the Vietnam War. He knows because Barry told him. Barry knows everything about Vietnam, he has seen every film, Platoon, Apocalypse Now, Hamburger Hill, Full Metal Jacket, Good Morning Vietnam, Rambo First Blood Pt 1&2, other ones as well, he has them at home on DVD.