Purple People

by Kate Bulpitt

  Eve was confused. Had she called the wrong number?

  ‘Hello?’ said a woman who definitely wasn’t Eve’s mother, slightly brusquely.

  ‘Oh, sorry – I was looking for my mum—’

  The woman’s voice softened. ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Linda Baxter.’

  ‘Hold on just a moment and I’ll get her for you.’

  Eve heard some rustling and then something tapped against the receiver. One of her mother’s earrings, she guessed.

  ‘Eve?’

  ‘Mum, whatever’s going on, is Dad alright?’

  Her mum sniffed. ‘We’re at the hospital – he’s been in an accident.’

  ‘An accident? What sort of accident?’ Eve pictured a series of scenarios: a plug sparking in a faulty socket, a flame-riddled frying pan, a mangled car.

  ‘A – well, we’re not quite sure of all the details, but an incident, the police said. In a pub.’

  ‘What did Dad say?’

  ‘He hasn’t said anything yet.’

  ‘He is alive though?’

  ‘Unconscious. But yes, alive.’

  ‘Unconscious?’

  ‘Mm-hmm.’

  ‘When did the accident happen?’

  ‘An hour – no, a couple of hours ago, maybe.’ Linda sounded foggy, fatigued. ‘The police said there was an altercation at the pub he was in,’ Linda continued. ‘Apparently some man punched him. That’s what the witnesses said, anyway. He fell backwards and hit his head on the side of the bar, was knocked unconscious. So unlucky, the police said.’

  An altercation in a pub. At lunchtime, Eve thought. Everyone else would have been watching, or waiting for, the press conference, but not her dad. The whole nation could be focused on one thing, suitably distracted, and he’d still find a pocket of trouble to get into.

  ‘Eve? Are you there?’

  Still absorbing it all, Eve’s head bobbed in a slow nod. ‘I’m here. What about the bloke from the pub, did they get him, has he been arrested?’

  ‘They seem to know who he is.’

  ‘A purple…’ Eve muttered.

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Ah, nothing.’

  ‘So we’re here, waiting. The doctors aren’t sure when he’ll come round. His face is bruised – his lovely face. They think he might have a fractured jaw, and some damage to his back. They’re running more tests on his head. But until he comes round they can’t really be sure what the damage is.’

  ‘But he will come round?’

  Eve heard her mum’s sharp intake of breath. ‘They think so. They can’t be sure. Apparently with head injuries…’ She paused. ‘It might be a good idea for you to come home… in case.’

  Adio was now sitting up straight, staring at her intently. Eve glanced at the window. It might as well be closed, she thought. There was no air coming in, no breeze. The AC unit was no good for that either. Where was the fresh air?

  ‘Will you come?’

  ‘Yes. Of course,’ said Eve. ‘I’ll look into flights.’

  ‘Okay.’ Her mum sighed wearily. ‘We’ve had our ups and downs, and I know we’ve been apart for a long time now, but I’d never want anything to happen to him.’

  ‘I know, Mum.’

  ‘I can’t believe it.’

  In the background, Eve could hear a faint, ‘Mum, can you give me some cash for the coffee machine?’

  Turned away from the receiver, her mum called, ‘Yes, I’ll be there in a minute, I’m just saying goodbye to your sister.’ Then to Eve, ‘I’d best get back inside, see what’s going on.’

  ‘Simon’s there?’

  ‘Yes. Such a relief, that one of you is here.’

  This wasn’t an intentional slight, but smarted all the same. It made Eve feel guilty for not being with them, while simultaneously serving as a reminder of why she wasn’t.

  ‘Let me know when you’re getting in.’

  ‘Will do. ’Bye Mum.’

  ‘’Bye, love.’

  Adio, Saffron and Joe hovered nearby, foreheads wrinkled in identikit concerned frowns. Adio could have drawn those on, Eve thought.

  ‘You okay, doll?’ said Adio.

  ‘It’s my dad. He’s in hospital. Unconscious. Was in a fight, or something. I’m supposed to go home.’

  ‘That sounds like a good idea,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll look up flights,’ said Joe, moving back to his computer.

  Adio hugged Eve, rubbing her back. ‘I’m sure he’ll be fine. From everything you’ve said, he’s always sounded exceptionally hardy.’

  Eve, head rested on Adio’s shoulder, mumbled in agreement.

  ‘Here you go,’ said Saffron, putting a vodka-infused orange juice on the desk beside her.

  Eve sat down, slowly. She took a swig from the glass.

  ‘Today is absurd,’ she said. ‘Maybe it’s not real.’

  Saffron squeezed her arm in a way that implied it was.

  Naturally, Eve was scared for her dad. But also, more than that – and she hated herself for this, an awful, ungenerous reaction – she was angry. Angry that he would get himself into this type of situation – certainly not a first – and that once again she and her mother (and now, apparently, surprisingly, Simon) were scrabbling, worrying, hurtled into disarray. Eve knew that she should be selflessly worried, praying to some god or universe to make him well, that she shouldn’t be thinking about herself, this was only about him, and that they’d never been through anything as life-in-the-balance as this. But after everything else, she was riled and resentful. However much time or distance she put between them, it seemed there would always be, eventually, a mammoth, drama-shaped magnet to draw her back in – for their mistakes, her dad’s and Simon’s, to rule their lives.

  On the television, a news reporter stood at the end of Downing Street. ‘I think this will go down in history as one of the most astonishing press conferences we’ll ever witness,’ he said, eyes blinking behind dark-rimmed spectacles. ‘We’ve learnt that we are now living in a world where criminals are to be dyed purple. Incredible. It does make you wonder what on earth could happen next.’

  ‘I’m going back to that,’ said Eve, slowly.

  Adio nodded.

  Eve gazed at the screen. She knew she shouldn’t think it, given the circumstances, but she felt a tiny thrill fizz through her at the prospect of being in Blighty, in the eye of this unpredicted storm – the mad, mysterious purpleness. It was quite a lure for the newshound in her, the girl who’d forever been transfixed by the unerring stream of world events, not just the comforting, funny side up.

  Now Eve imagined Pam Fox-Jones, sherry in one hand, a sleuthing magnifying glass held up to one eye in the other, on the trail of the loopiest, most disquieting tale she’d ever encountered. Then Eve imagined herself on that trail – and she wondered: could this be, possibly, a purple path back to real news?

  Chapter Three

  The roads were already jammed with morning traffic as Eve returned to her apartment to pack. She tried to focus on something other than the purpleness by mentally filling her suitcase as she walked: homeland summers are greyer, and wetter, she reminded herself, picturing a rain mac, an umbrella, an assortment of jumpers. On the wide sidewalk, a group of young men strutted towards her, city peacocks with bare, tanned torsos, sweat-drenched t-shirts tied around their waists. They ribbed a skinny one about not yet being topless – ‘Mikey, you hot over there?’ – and as he pulled up his vest, about to slip it over his head, immediately Eve’s thoughts shifted from toothbrushes and brollies to the photo of the purple men. In the office she’d stared at the snap, closer and closer until the Portal’s pixels swam before her. She’d zoomed in on the stormy skin, wanted to reach in and touch it, to see if it could be real. Theo Fletcher is quite the magician, she mused, imagining the prime minister white-gloved and top-hatted, then, with a flourish, tapping a wand and tipping his hat to reveal… a little lilac bunny.

  The lights at the pedestrian crossing
had changed, and Eve re-routed herself to the shadier side of the street. The baking, Big Apple heat would do that; make you zig zag back and forth, creating a longer, marginally cooler journey. She realised that with this detour, she was about to pass the office of dermatologist, and former fling, Dr Jake Spiretti. Things between them hadn’t ended so well, but given his area of professional expertise, she figured today could be a good day to say hello.

  Eve rang the bell and was buzzed into the building.

  A bright-eyed, blemish-free receptionist looked up expectantly as Eve entered the waiting room.

  ‘Hi, can I help you?’

  ‘Hello. I don’t have an appointment, but I’m a friend of Dr Spiretti’s, and, well, I wouldn’t usually stop by like this, but I wondered if he might be available for a quick word.’

  The receptionist’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly as if she was calculating whether Eve was actually a friend of the doctor’s, which would determine what level of politeness was required.

  ‘He’s very busy.’

  ‘Of course, I appreciate that.’

  ‘And he’s actually not here right now.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Eve, wondering how long she could wait. She glanced at the wall, at a poster identifying friendly versus not so friendly moles. She imagined the peachy skin in these pictures purpled.

  ‘Perhaps you can make an appointment? Or speak outside of office hours?’

  ‘I’m going to be away. I’ve got a flight this evening, so…’

  The receptionist said nothing, but some seconds into the wall of silence, her gaze shifted just past Eve, with a sense of battle-lost disappointment.

  ‘Hey, Samantha,’ said Dr Jake Spiretti.

  Eve turned.

  ‘Oh! And hey there, Eve.’

  ‘Hello, Jake.’

  ‘This is a surprise.’

  ‘I know. Sorry to drop in like this. It’s been a while, but… I was just passing and I thought you might have some illuminating wisdom that few others would.’

  ‘Intriguing,’ said Jake, his chest puffing out a little. ‘I guess that’s medical and not dating advice? You know I’m engaged now, right?’

  Ouch. Of course he was, thought Eve. Weren’t they all.

  Samantha’s lips twitched, forming a mildly triumphant smile.

  ‘I didn’t,’ said Eve. ‘But congratulations! How exciting.’ She hoped for his future spouse’s sake that he’d developed a better grasp of the concept of fidelity.

  ‘I’ve got a few minutes before the next one, right, Sam?’

  Samantha nodded. Eve followed Jake through to his office.

  ‘It’s good to see you.’ Jake sat on the edge of his desk, ran his tongue back and forth along his bottom lip; Eve remembered that at one time she had – briefly – found this quirk alluring. It had made her want to kiss him. Now she berated herself for such poor judgement.

  ‘Mm, you too,’ said Eve, wondering if she should cross her fingers behind her back. ‘So, have you heard about this crazy new scheme in Blighty, of turning people purple?’

  Jake smirked. ‘Yeah, I saw it on the news this morning. It’s nuts.’

  ‘How would they do it?’

  ‘Change a person’s colour?’

  ‘Yep.’

  Jake shook his head, raised his hands in a ‘who can say?’ gesture. ‘Hard to guess. There are plenty of possibilities…’

  ‘There are?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Supplements.’

  ‘Supplements? Like vitamins?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you have to take a lot?’

  ‘Probably. There was a guy who regularly took a silver-based preparation, and his skin turned blue.’ Jake smiled. ‘Remember that?’

  Eve vaguely recalled having seen the man on television.

  ‘I do, now you mention it. Sort of metallic-looking, wasn’t he?’

  Jake nodded. ‘Poor guy. But medically fascinating. Remember that bar on 4th Street?’

  Where they’d met. Jake had seemed charming, and single. Had made her laugh, and they’d ended up in a diner, talking until three am.

  ‘Of course. Haven’t been there for a long time. What else would cause the purpleness?’

  ‘Make up.’

  ‘Make up?’ Eve looked doubtful. Jake was doing the lip-licking thing again.

  ‘It could be a hoax. No real skin change, just some paint and imagination. People will believe anything you tell them.’

  You would know, thought Eve.

  ‘True. But if it isn’t… how else could they do it?’

  Leaning forward, Jake said, ‘We should go for a drink sometime.’

  ‘Well,’ said Eve, sweetly, ‘I would love to know more about the purpling, but no doubt your free time is filled with wedding preparations.’

  Slowly, Jake straightened up. ‘Look, there are plenty of ways a person’s skin colour could be affected,’ he said, casually. ‘None would be instant. Quickest way to find out, just ask one of these purple guys what happened, right?’

  His phone rang.

  ‘So sorry, my next patient is here,’ Jake said, standing, and shooting Eve one final charm-offensive smile. ‘It’s been good to see you. Thanks for stopping by.’

  That was about as helpful as I should have expected, Eve thought, heading, back on track, towards her suitcase. Really she’d had no desire to see Jake Spiretti again, and it was certainly a shame he hadn’t been more dermatologically insightful. But to be finding her way into this story… that was a better high than the finest whisky, or a charming stranger in a bar.

  Later Adio arrived at Eve’s apartment laden with Mexican food, and they spent the afternoon anxiously awaiting an update on Eve’s dad, whose state remained unchanged, while watching the now delirious news outlets. Eve packed while Adio, between mouthfuls of tortilla chips, read aloud more reports of the purpleness, Eve gasping an occasional ‘Really?’ and crossing the room, half-folded garment in hand, to peer over his shoulder and read for herself.

  Already the media was gorging itself on purpleness, conducting opinion polls, and speculating on both the way the colour change was occurring (claiming security reasons, so far the government remained tight-lipped about that) and how long the scheme would last. Every comment seemed glazed with disbelief, from the folk stopped on the street to the psychologists and opposition party MPs being wheeled onto rolling news coverage (‘We could do a cool montage of people’s amazed faces,’ Joe had mused, noting just how many mouths were caught agape).

  The shadow home secretary said, ‘I’m dumbfounded. This is utterly preposterous.’

  The representative for an association of criminal psychologists gazed offscreen for a few seconds before eventually saying, ‘I think I can honestly say that myself and many of my colleagues are quite speechless.’

  A grandmother interviewed in a park playground said, ‘It’s mind-boggling, really. Next we’ll be seeing flying saucers.’ (This was badly timed, as a frisbee flew across the screen just behind her).

  And approaching her as she arrived home, reporters nabbed a quote from Theo Fletcher’s mum, whom Eve considered impressively composed, given the circumstances.

  ‘It’s unprecedented, of course,’ said Marianne Fletcher. ‘But we have complete faith in Theo, and know that whatever he does, he does it with thought and consideration, and through honestly wanting the best for us all.’

  As the Fletcher seniors’ front door closed, the camera swerved joltingly to a journalist who quipped, ‘If I’d started dyeing people, I don’t think my mum would have taken it so well.’

  It was too early, Eve thought, still too much of a shock, to try and make any real sense out if it. Blindsided opinion pieces babbled, most praising the prime minister for such brave, decisive action (his popularity was so immense that pundits frequently joked about what he would be able to get away with before his approval ratings dipped), while others were appalled, calling this an aston
ishing plot that felt like something out of a garish comic book, with Theo Fletcher the maniacal madman. There was a similar divide in the news reports themselves, scrambled together with the few available story-knitting facts. Despite this limited information, articles were padded with plenty of bluster and lots of distracting capitalised letters to reinforce the shock.

  The PM was pretty much the only person NOT looking off-colour today, after his GOBSMACKING announcement that criminals are to be turned PURPLE. FED UP with soaring crime rates, the government hatched an ASTONISHING plan to keep the badly behaved in check, publicly SHAMING them as ‘bruises on society’, and giving them a matching SKIN OF SIN.

  HUE DONE IT?

  What he didn’t reveal was how these undesirables are getting their DUBIOUS makeovers – but it sounds as though there could be TROUBLE ahead for anyone seen misbehaving near their local bobby. Forget being caught red-handed, now UNLUCKY lads and lasses who commit illegal or anti-social acts will be finding themselves MAUVE from head to toe…

  Naturally, the newspapers were having a whale of a time finding ways to say purple: plum, heather, mauve, indigo, violet (it had reminded Eve of the song in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat, the one with all the colours, which they’d had to sing in junior school. She could never remember the full list of fantastic tints in that – or when to take a breath, for that matter – so she’d made the shades up as she went along, while trying to pause often enough that she didn’t turn turquoise or cobalt or azure or sky or electric blue in the process). But The Sun had won with lavender. More precisely, they had shortened it, from the soothingly fragranced flower known to enhance sleep, invoking images of an oh-so-English country garden and box sets of soap given to elderly aunts at Christmas, to a derivative term coined with lickety split wit. Combine the derogatory ‘chav’ with a dose of purple colouring and some toilet humour, and what did you have? Lav.

  Lee had become the first official Lav and his face was everywhere. All the papers had latched on to before and after shots, showing a young, surly, but pink Lee, alongside a shot of him from the press conference, now mottled and rattled. He was currently the only named Purpled person, and still quarantined at a secure facility with the others that the prime minister had mentioned, though the hunt was on for the three escapees who’d been snapped in the leaked picture. Unfortunately for them, it wasn’t just the police who were on their trail, but every newspaper too. Those within the facility were due to be released imminently, but judging by photos of the place, it was already swarming with reporters, who were currently being kept at bay by a ring of uniformed police officers.