So, all things considered, it would be better to forget both those unfortunate episodes, and the easiest way to do that would be to act as if they had never happened, and the easiest way to do that, he concluded, was to lie. Drawing a veil over his cowardice in Mirrors would mean he could also draw a veil over his close shave in Pleasure, the lesser omission legitimising the greater. If he could come up with a cover story clever enough, both events would remain secrets he could carry with him to the grave.
So he racked his brain, and came up with a cover story, and it went like this. He was in Mirrors, looking for something to go above the mantelshelf over the fireplace in the lounge. (Yes, that was good. It would show he did care after all about the living space they shared.) And he had a little accident. He tripped on the join between two sections of carpet, stumbled, and put out a hand to break his fall. The hand landed on a small shaving mirror, and the mirror snapped. Hence the cut in his palm. (It would be a good idea to laugh here. Laughing at his own clumsiness would appeal to Linda. Self-deprecation always goes down well with her.) At the same time, extraordinarily enough, a tiny fragment of glass flew up as the mirror broke and hit him in the eye. His glasses would have protected him but – would you believe it? – they had slipped down his nose as he tripped. Luckily for him, the fragment only nicked his eyelid. A few millimetres higher and he might have been left like Septimus Day. Ha ha ha ha ha!
Not the most plausible of explanations, perhaps, but it was the best he could come up with in the time available, and the only way he could think of to account for both wounds. And as he made his way to the rendezvous, he rehearsed the story over and over in his head until he was halfway to believing that it was the truth.
Now, as he nervously allows Linda to untie the handkerchief bandage, he regales her with his fabrication, cunningly placed laughter and all, interrupting himself only once in order to let out an involuntary hiss of pain as her fingers probe the edges of the cut a little too firmly.
She lets go of his hand just as he reaches his conclusion: “...A few millimetres higher and I’d have been left like Septimus Day. Ha ha ha ha ha!”
For an agonising moment Linda makes no reply. It would not surprise Gordon to find out that his wife possesses the forensic skills to distinguish between a cut caused by a shaving mirror and any other kind. Then she says, “You’ll live,” and starts refastening the makeshift bandage. “But we should maybe think about getting hold of some sticking plaster and antiseptic ointment from the Medical Supplies Department.”
“It can wait till we get home.”
She peers at his eyelid. “And also have a doctor look at your eyelid, just in case.”
“Right.” Finding it hard to believe that Linda has swallowed the story whole, because she is normally a sensitive lie detector, Gordon decides to risk sounding out a further reaction. “It was incredible bad luck.”
“Broken mirrors usually are,” she replies vaguely. “Now, shall we go and find ourselves some lunch? According to the map, there are places to eat in the hoops.”
No courtroom-style cross-examination? Not even a quizzically raised eyebrow? Is it possible that he can have got away with it?
No, there is something not right – something decidedly un-Linda – about her lack of suspicion. And as Gordon trots alongside his wife in the direction of the Red Floor hoop, he notices that the lambent serenity in her face, which he assumed to be a reflection of the glow of the Lighting Department, is not fading as they leave that department behind. It is her own expression. The glow is coming from within her. And her gestures aren’t as abrupt as usual. She no longer walks in a series of tight, quick steps – her strides are long and graceful. And her voice seems to have lost much of its customary brittleness.
He can’t for the life of him fathom what can have brought about this change in her. The Days bag means she has made a purchase, but a mere purchase alone can’t explain it. Perhaps the store has a tranquilising effect on certain customers.
They emerge onto the hoop, into the flare of sunlight glancing off white marble flooring. The air, cleaned by the green lungs of the Menagerie, is appreciably fresher and sharper than the dead conditioned air in the departments, and is laced with food smells from the kiosks and cafés.
After they have dutifully spent a few minutes admiring the Menagerie, Gordon asks Linda what she would like to eat, and she surprises him by letting him decide.
The cheapest foodstuff on offer seems to be Chinese noodles, so Gordon tentatively suggests those. Linda says Chinese noodles will be fine, and hands Gordon their card. And so Gordon Trivett makes his first purchase at Days: two helpings of chicken chow mein, plastic chopsticks an optional extra.
They take the cartons of chow mein to the nearest unoccupied bench, and eat sitting side by side, gazing up at the rainbow tiers of the atrium.
“It’s like being inside some great big hollow cake,” Gordon murmurs.
He is resigned to Linda telling him what a crass remark he has just made, but she merely nods.
Very strange.
“So what did you get?” he asks, gesturing at the Days bag.
“See for yourself. A present for you.”
“A present?” Gordon puts his chopsticks down, wipes his fingers on a paper napkin (another optional extra), opens the bag, and peers in.
“There was a lightning sale,” Linda says. “I was right in the middle of it.”
Gordon reaches into the bag and takes out the four ties, arranging them in a row along his thigh. “All for me? Why so many?”
“Don’t you like them?”
“I like the coin ones.”
“Really?”
“Really.” And he means it, he genuinely does like them, and he is touched that she went to the trouble of buying the ties for him, all of them, even though he, in effect, is the one who is going to be paying for them. “But did you really need to buy four? And why two with the same pattern?”
“It was a lightning sale, Gordon. You grab what you can get. And they were at twenty per cent off. That means the fourth one was almost free.”
“Almost.”
“I don’t think you quite realise what I went through to get those for you. I fought for those ties.”
“Fought for them?”
Linda shakes her head sadly. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand. If you haven’t been in a lightning sale, you won’t know what I’m talking about.” She says this with grave authority, like a hoary, battle-scarred war veteran reminiscing about his time in the trenches.
“From what I’ve heard about lightning sales, I’m not sure I want be in one.”
“It was an incredible experience, Gordon. I can’t really put it into words. It was as though I’d been asleep for years and suddenly an alarm bell rang in my soul and I was awake, I mean truly awake.” She becomes animated at the memory. Sparks scintillate in her eyes. “I’m tingling all over just thinking about it. Look at my arm.” Gordon does. The hairs on her arm are standing on end. “It was quite scary, actually,” she goes on, “but thrilling too. There was a lot of noise and confusion. I think I might have hit someone... Some of what happened is a bit hazy... But I got what I went in there for, that’s the main thing.”
“Hit someone? Linda, what has come over you?”
“Nothing bad, Gordon, so don’t give me that disapproving frown. I just think I’ve learned, at last, how much I’m capable of. What’s the phrase? My full potential. I’ve discovered my full potential.”
“By hitting someone?”
“Like I said, I wouldn’t expect you to understand. You came here with negative expectations. Don’t try to deny it, Gordon, you did. You came here convinced you were going to have a rotten time. That’s why you were so bad-tempered in the taxi. And what happens? You break a mirror and cut yourself. Whereas I came here firmly convinced that today was going to be the greatest day of my life. And guess what? It is. What does that tell you, Gordon? It tells me that we make our own luck in this
life. It tells me that attitude governs outcome. And that’s such a simple lesson, and yet so many people could do with learning it.”
The glow is gone from her face. A hard, imperious expression has taken its place, her facial muscles becoming taut again, as if not designed to stay relaxed for long. The old Linda is back, and Gordon is strangely relieved to see her return. He was finding the somewhat slightly dazed Linda who was letting him make the decisions for both of them not a little unnerving.
“These noodles are horrible,” she says, setting the carton of chow mein aside. “Why did you make us eat noodles?”
That’s more like it. Gordon feels like leaning over and kissing the woman he knows and loves, and envies, and fears. Instead he merely copies her, setting his chow mein aside.
“You’re right. The chicken is rubbery.”
Equilibrium restored, order returned to his world, Gordon resolves to keep a very close eye on his wife for the rest of the afternoon. Since it seems that he has no choice but to remain in Days, he would rather spend the time with her than off on his own.
It will be safer that way.
For both of them.
30
Hell: according to Islamic belief, Hell is divided into seven distinct regions, for Muslims, Jews, Christians, Sabaeans (a pagan cult who worshipped Orpheus as a god), Zoroastrians, idolaters, and hypocrites.
12.51 p.m.
MUNGO AND CHAS escort Sonny down the flight of access stairs that connects Sonny’s apartment to the roof (each brother’s apartment has one). At the foot of the stairwell, Mungo uses his knee to nudge open the door to the hallway, and they manhandle Sonny through.
Their entrance startles a cleaning woman. Hurriedly stowing away her spray-polish and dustcloth, she slips past the three of them with a bob of her head and exits by the apartment’s main door.
Sonny is slung between his brothers, his arms looped around their necks. He didn’t actually need their support for the journey down from the roof, but since they were kind enough to offer it, it would have been rude to refuse. Besides, Mungo was quite insistent that he accompany them in this manner, almost as if he didn’t trust Sonny to make it down the stairs unaided. And Mungo is angry with him, and when Mungo is angry with you, it is best just to do as he says.
Recognising his own apartment, Sonny chants, “Home again, home again, jiggedy-jig,” then adds, “Drink, anyone?”
“This way,” Mungo says to Chas grimly.
They march Sonny into the living room and dunk him down on one of the marshmallow sofas.
“Bar’s over there, help yourselves,” says Sonny, waving in the wrong direction. He slumps over onto his side.
Mungo grabs a fistful of blackcurrant-purple lapel and yanks him upright, splitting seams.
“Hey, careful of the suit,” says Sonny, inspecting a tear in the underside of his jacket sleeve. With ruffled dignity, he smooths out the creases Mungo has put in his lapels.
Mungo, meanwhile, lowers himself down onto the edge of the basalt-slab coffee table so that he is sitting directly opposite Sonny. Splaying his hands on the hillocks of his bare thighs, he hunkers forward, arms akimbo.
“Look at me.”
Sonny attempts to bring Mungo’s face into focus, but it is difficult. Mungo’s face is a moving target swaying in every direction, up, down, left, right, back, forth. Hard to get a fix on.
A firework ignites in the left half of Sonny’s field of vision, the force of the detonation slamming his head sideways. The pain arrives a second later, swelling the left side of his face like acid seeping into a sponge.
“Ow,” he says, gingerly touching his cheek. “What did you do that for?”
The pain subsides, to be replaced by tingling numbness. The numbness takes the shape of Mungo’s open hand, so clearly defined Sonny thinks he can feel the imprints of individual fingers.
“Now look at me.”
This time Sonny has more success in focusing on his eldest brother’s features.
“If you drop your gaze for a moment, I will hit you again. Understood?”
Sonny nods.
“Good. Now tell me a couple of things. First, did you go downstairs dressed the way you are for any other reason than to look an absolute prize idiot?”
Sonny launches into a spirited defence of his choice of outfit, but Mungo silences him by raising a hand, the same hand that slapped him.
“I don’t want to listen to any long convoluted explanations. A simple answer: yes or no?”
“Yes. I mean, no. I don’t know.”
“The public sees so little of us,” says Chas, “that we have to make the best impression we can each time. Therefore you looking like an idiot makes us look like idiots, too.”
“Precisely,” says Mungo. “Which leads me to my next question. We watched you via the Eye talking to the Heads of Books and Computers. What did you say to them? The abridged version, if you will.”
“I adjucidated... I adjuti– I acudjidated...”
“Adjudicated.”
“I adjudicated in favour of Computers.”
“You did? You’re quite sure about that?”
“Yes.”
Mungo glances round at Chas. “Not a complete disaster, then.”
“Did anyone give you any grief, Sonny?”
“Not as far as I recall. They did talk to me for a long time.”
“Yes, we saw that.”
“But I decided by...” Sonny thinks it would be better not to mention the means by which he made his decision. “By how you told me to decide.” Yes, the method is immaterial. The important thing is that, by luck, he arrived at the right result.
“I wouldn’t advise lying to me, Sonny,” says Mungo. “I’m going to check into this later and ask both heads of department for a report, so make sure of your story now. If it doesn’t tally with what I find out later...”
A sudden dismal chill descends on Sonny, and he debates whether to own up about using his Osmium to settle the dispute. Perhaps if he dresses it up in heroic terms and says he used the card like Alexander the Great used his sword to cut through the... cut through the... the Something-or-Other Knot. What was it called? The Guardian Knot? That’s not it. Something like that, but... No good, he can’t remember. He doubts Mungo will go for it anyhow. It wasn’t very professional of him, he has to admit, though he was under pressure and both heads of department did seem to have a point and he really couldn’t think of any other way to choose between them and besides, it always used to work perfectly well in pubs...
He will just have to hope Mungo doesn’t find out about it. The heads of department probably won’t mention it. They wouldn’t dare say anything that would show a Day brother in a bad light, would they? Not if they value their jobs.
“That’s my story,” says Sonny, “and I’m sticking to it.”
“All right.” Mungo draws a deep breath and lets it go as a long sigh. “Well, youngest brother. It seems you haven’t disgraced yourself as badly as I thought. Don’t get me wrong, you’ve let me down – let us all down – by going back on your word and drinking before you went downstairs.”
Sonny feels this isn’t the time to mention the loophole he found in their bargain. Mungo would not take it well.
“Moreover,” Mungo continues, “you’ve abused the trust of your brothers and tarnished our reputation, and that’s something I take a very dim view of. Were Thurston and the others to learn about your behaviour, I’m sure the view they would take would be even dimmer. But I’m going to do you this favour. I’m not going to tell them. Neither is Chas. This is going to remain our secret. And in order for it to remain our secret, I need you to stay down here for the rest of the afternoon. Drink, sleep, watch daytime fucking television, I don’t care what you do, just as long as you stay out of the Boardroom. Chas and I are going to tell our brothers that we visited you here after our game and found you sober but in a celebratory mood. Got that? You were a good boy, you did as you were told, you didn’t tou
ch a drop before you went downstairs, but then afterwards, when you came back here, you decided you were free to indulge, so you did. Therefore, should anyone check up on you this afternoon and find you three sheets to the wind, you will have got that way after Chas and I left you. Is that clear?”
Sonny is confused by the tenses Mungo is using but thinks he has the gist of it. He nods.
Mungo says, “This is the last time I am ever going to do anything like this for you again. From now on you are on your own. You and you alone are going to have to take responsibility for your fuck-ups. I am washing my hands of you.”
Sonny nods once more.
Mungo’s tone and expression soften – a little. “Sonny, ever since Dad died, I’ve tried to raise you the way he would have wanted, but it hasn’t been easy. For any of us. We’re Day brothers, but that doesn’t mean we’re not human too. We do the best we can but sometimes our best isn’t good enough.” He lays his other hand – his non-hitting hand – on Sonny’s knee. “So I’m begging you. For the last time. Clean up your act. Straighten yourself out. We want you to help us run the store. We need you. We need to be Seven.”
The tears catch Sonny by surprise, springing from his eyes in a sharp, burning squirt. He asks himself why he is crying, and realises that he is crying because Mungo loves him and he is unworthy of that love. He is a cockroach, an amoeba, a speck, a useless piece of matter stuck to the bootheel of humanity, and yet his brother still loves him.
“I’m sorry, Mungo,” he says. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s all my fault. Everything’s my fault. Everything. If it wasn’t for me, Dad would still be here, Mum would still be here...”
Mungo hears Chas tut softly. Not this again.
Days Page 27