by Kate Bulpitt
‘Hello, stranger.’
Debbie and Duncan exchanged some friendly banter as she poured the drinks; she handed him his change, which he discreetly dropped into the tip jar.
‘Blimey, it’s been years,’ said Eve.
‘Certainly has. What brings you here?’ Duncan asked.
‘I was at the hospital and Frankie was there, which made me think of this place, and so… I thought I’d come by, have a quiet one.’
‘I heard about your dad. I’m really sorry. Any news?’
‘Not yet.’
‘You okay?’ Duncan’s forehead creased with concern.
Eve poured the little bottle of tonic into her gin, watching the lime slice bob about. ‘Sort of… I—’ She was about to comment on how it was less her dad’s condition than her feelings about it which were worrying her. She gave a shrug. ‘Anyway.’ She glanced behind him. ‘What are you up to?’
‘Lunchtime pint. Change of scenery, quick flick through the paper, you know. Not that there’s much worth reading these days…’
‘Au contraire!’ said Eve. ‘I think the Purpleness is fascinating.’
Duncan’s head tipped diplomatically from side to side. ‘It’s remarkable, that’s for sure.’ He squinted. ‘I’ve been trying to avoid getting roped into conversations about it, but you’ll be well versed, won’t you. What do you make of it? You for or against?’
‘I’m not sure… The guy who punched my dad is getting Purpled – maybe that’s a good thing. But overall, I don’t know.’ This despite her conversation with Jason. Luke had been so violent, caused such damage to others – hadn’t he deserved to be singled out? But then light-fingered Finn… Eve looked at Duncan. ‘You?’
Duncan was mid-sip. He put down his glass. ‘Fletcher’s right in that everyone should be able to feel safe. But I don’t think it’s a kind way to treat people, whatever they’ve done. There’s going to be a protest against it, so the papers say.’
‘Really? I’d like to go to that.’
‘Yeah, I was thinking about it. Do you want to… ?’ He indicated towards a table, and they sat down.
‘Simon said you’re living in New York?’
‘You two still gad about together?’ Eve was surprised.
‘I know he’s away a lot, but when he’s here, yeah.’
‘Oh.’
‘You should come along next time me and Si meet up.’
‘Ah… from the encounters I’ve had with him since I got here, I don’t think that’s a good idea. I don’t see things improving between us.’
‘He’s not all bad.’
‘He’s just been pretending all these years?’ Eve briefly covered her face with her hands. ‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know what it is with them, they just have this ridiculous effect on me. Always have. I shouldn’t be such a wench, I know – especially right now, I must sound dreadful – but he and my dad just drive me nuts.’
‘I know how things used to be,’ said Duncan. ‘Can’t say I was surprised when I heard you’d upped sticks. That’s some distance you’ve got yourself there, but life is short, right?’
Eve half-nodded, looking down at the lime slice.
At the hospital earlier, she had realised she’d forgotten how proud she used to feel of her dad. How he’d turned heads. But then, she knew what was coming. The shame. Pride before a fall, every time. And now, did she think that if – if – he died, he’d just go, oblivious to everything he’d done, getting away without acknowledging or apologising for any of it? That anything Eve might want to say – if she could let herself dwell on it long enough to find the words, to condense so many years of bitterness and disappointment into a deliverable nugget – would go forever unsaid? Did she want him to say sorry? Or, even if he had the chance, would it be too late? Was she crazy to crave an apology as much as his recovery?
Duncan touched her arm. ‘You okay?’
‘Sorry,’ said Eve. ‘My brain keeps wandering.’
‘Understandable,’ said Duncan. ‘So, are you New York’s answer to Diane Forbes yet?’
Diane was one of the newsreaders from their childhood.
‘Becoming ever older and not presently reading the news? I certainly am.’ Eve gave a wry smile. ‘I seem to have become a little distracted from that path.’
‘Really? I’m surprised.’
‘I think I’m a bit surprised too.’
He was looking at her, curious. His eyes were a greyish blue (not that she tended to notice the shade of people’s peepers), and this observation brought a random fact learned at Say Fantastique! unexpectedly to mind: that the song ‘Smoke Gets in Your Eyes’ is surprisingly popular at cremations. The nonsense your brain is filled with, she thought, taking an over-eager sip of gin and accidentally tipping some down herself.
Eve was mortified, but Duncan laughed, and ducked over to the bar to grab some serviettes.
‘I remember when your dolls used to present current affairs programmes!’
Eve groaned, attempting to hide behind a gin-tinged napkin.
‘That’s quite enough about me,’ she said. ‘What are you up to these days?’
‘Carpentry,’ Duncan said, adding, with a straight face, ‘Just like Jesus.’
Eve laughed, then noticed his toned arm muscles, and had to remind herself not to stare.
‘That must be satisfying.’
‘To build a thing from scratch, yeah. Gives you a sense of achievement. And it’s a… meditative sort of process, I suppose.’
Eve nodded, thought of she and Adio, plugged into the Portal, glugging vodka, and of Duncan in his workshop, carving beautiful, lasting creations; of Womble, teaching, and of Helena at the surgery with ailing animals. No frivolous occupations for them.
‘I’ve bought an old house which needs a lot of work. There’s a big garden – I’m trying to sort that out. So that’s a project, keeping me out of mischief.’
‘Of course you’d be out and about in the garden. You were in that kids’ wildlife group – you were always gadding about with them.’
‘Ah yes, being the green-fingered little anorak that I was. Not much change there. I’m a green-fingered big anorak now! You can’t beat being outdoors, part of the actual world. Puts things in perspective. They should make everyone spend more time outside.’ Duncan grinned. ‘Seeing as they’re so keen on forcing things on people now.’
‘True,’ said Eve. ‘And how’s your dad?’
‘Good, thanks.’
‘Still fishing?’
‘Still fishing,’ Duncan smiled. ‘How’s your mum doing?’ he said. ‘She must be beside herself.’
‘Yeah. You can imagine. It’s…’ Eve let out a slow breath.
‘They were sweet together,’ said Duncan.
‘Are you quite sure about that?’ Eve reached across and gently put a palm to Duncan’s forehead, as though checking his temperature.
‘They could be good fun.’
‘Very diplomatic.’
‘It was never dull.’
‘Correct,’ said Eve, about to comment further when a policeman approached the table. It was Frankie.
‘Hi again,’ he said. ‘I was told I might find you here. Your dad’s come round.’
‘He has? Is he okay?’
‘Seems to be in good working order. He recognises everyone.’
‘Wow,’ said Eve. She put her hands on the table to steady herself. It was a little wet from the gin. Her dad was okay. Which was incredible. Yet was it terrible that she slightly dreaded seeing them all?
‘I’m going back to the hospital,’ said Frankie. ‘I can give you a lift.’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘I just need a quick word with Debs – see you outside.’
Frankie headed towards the bar.
‘What fantastic news,’ said Duncan, standing to give her a hug goodbye.
‘Yep,’ said Eve, now momentarily distracted by how strong Duncan was; that had been an unexpectedly medicinal embrace.
<
br /> ‘It’s been great to see you,’ said Duncan.
‘You too.’
‘Give your dad my best.’
‘Will do.’
Eve waved a goodbye in Debs’s direction and headed outside.
*
‘I’ve never been in a police car before,’ said Eve, who couldn’t help thinking of how many times Simon had been delivered home in one.
‘Congratulations,’ said Frankie, amused. ‘You’re a model citizen.’
‘Thank you, officer.’
‘It’s good news about the bloke who hit your dad.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘He’s a right piece of work, I can tell you. It was a pleasure to see him tucked away in the cells.’
‘He’ll be getting Purpled sometime around now…’ said Eve.
Frankie nodded.
‘I can’t imagine.’
‘I know. It’s pretty weird.’
As innocuously as she could muster, Eve continued, ‘It’d be odd to see that being done to you.’
Frankie glanced at her. ‘I suppose, if that’s what happens.’
‘Is it?’
Frankie slowed down as they reached a red traffic light. ‘I can’t talk about that.’
‘Rats,’ said Eve.
They waited, watching the light.
‘It’s such a puzzle. It would be strange to have a top secret operation, where some people don’t know how they’re Turned but some do.’
‘Eve,’ said Frankie, ‘if you’re trying to pull a sly one on me here…’
‘Can you tell me if those Purpled after a crime see how it happens to them?’
‘No.’
‘No you can’t tell me, or no they don’t know?’
The light turned to green. Frankie gave a faint smile as he pulled away, impressed by her determination.
‘Take your pick.’
‘They can’t know.’
Frankie said nothing.
‘Do you know how they’re Turned?’
Again, Frankie was quiet.
‘I know this is a crazy question, but are you doing any of the Turning?’
‘Eve!’
‘Sorry! It’s just so – mesmerising, the whole thing. I want to know more.’
They passed a man walking a whippet, who gave Frankie a wave; Frankie raised his hand to wave back.
‘Who’s that?’ asked Eve.
‘A bloke who used to work at the station.’
‘Nice dog.’
‘Yeah. He used to have a greyhound, not sure what happened to that.’
‘Maybe it shrank,’ said Eve, and Frankie laughed.
They pulled into the hospital car park. Frankie turned off the engine.
‘Eve, you know if I talked about any of this, I would be in major trouble?’
‘I can imagine.’
‘I really can’t say anything about it. Even if I wanted to, I can’t.’
‘Okay.’ Eve paused. ‘Do you want to?’
‘Eve!’
‘That’s a yes!’
‘You’re incorrigible! It’s a no. It has to be, you know that.’ Frankie took a breath. ‘I also think – it might be best not to go around asking people about it. Those in the know are really secretive, keeping everything under wraps. After the way everyone found out, the top brass are being really jumpy, so my guess is they’d over-react to any sort of investigating.’
‘I’m not investigating. I’m just curious. Thought I’d be cheeky and ask, on the off-chance you could say anything.’
‘Well, I’m sorry, but no go.’
‘I understand.’
‘It was good to see you though. Glad your dad’s on the mend.’
‘Thanks so much for letting me know.’ Eve moved to open the door. ‘And for the lift.’
‘You’re welcome.’
Eve walked back into the hospital, picturing the little squirrel banging its head against a tree.
Chapter Seven
When Eve arrived, Vince was sitting up in bed, with Linda beaming beside him.
‘Dad,’ said Eve, ‘you’re back in the land of the living.’
‘Hi, love,’ said Vince, as Eve leaned over to kiss him.
‘Aren’t we lucky?’ said Linda. ‘No lasting damage.’
‘You’ve got the all clear?’
‘Yeah, they seem to think so. They’re doing scans and whatnot. It takes more than this – ’ he tilted his head back and forth – ‘to keep me out for the count.’
‘We were so worried,’ said Linda. ‘Such a frightening thing to happen. We really thought we might lose you.’ She put her hand on Vince’s arm.
‘No such luck,’ said Vince, as he looked up and winked at her. To Eve he said, ‘And here you are, back from the Big Apple. That’s what it takes to get you home, eh?’
Eve murmured a non-specific response.
‘What happens now? How long are they keeping you in for?’
‘A little while so they can keep an eye on him,’ said Linda. ‘Then he’ll be able to go home.’
There was a moment’s quiet as Eve’s parents exchanged smiles and fond, tactile touches. For once Eve wished that Simon was there to interrupt the proceedings with an inappropriate remark.
‘Mum’s told you that they got the guy who hit you?’
‘So I heard.’
Eve was about to ask if he’d also heard what would happen to him – of course, Vince had missed the whole Purple saga – when a nurse entered the room.
‘Mr Baxter, how are you feeling?’
‘Alright, love, thanks,’ then with a chuckle that turned into a raspy cough, he added, ‘I’d feel a whole lot better if you could sneak me in a beer and a fag.’
The nurse smiled. ‘I don’t think the doctor would approve of that, would she?’
‘Can’t blame a bloke for trying, eh?’ said Vince, with another wheeze. He squeezed Linda’s hand. ‘You being here the whole time, it’s really something.’
‘Anything for you, you know that,’ said Linda.
‘I’ll go and get us some tea,’ said Eve, already feeling the need for more gin.
*
Twenty-four hours later, Eve was waiting at a bus stop. A sticker for an enterprising taxi company had been bunged onto the framed timetable introducing an element of public transport roulette to anyone wanting to catch the number 93 on a weekday evening, which reminded Eve of the days when folk would simply order a car service from their PortAble. That night she was going to the recording of a televised debate; she looked at her watch, calculating how much time she’d have to get ready before going out.
Vince had been given the all-clear and was due to be discharged the following day; he’d be going to stay at Linda’s while he recuperated. Even an end-of-the-pier psychic could accurately predict what would happen next; the way her parents were behaving, Eve wouldn’t be surprised if they were officially re-entangled before she’d escaped back to New York. But for now, of course, there was still the Purpleness, ripe for unravelling.
The information she’d gleaned from Jason was enlightening in some ways. It seemed most likely that Luke had been part of the Purple trials, hidden away while the government figured out whether the science of the scheme would work. Less illuminating was the mystery surrounding the method of transformation. Eve hadn’t anticipated no one knowing how it had happened to them, instead assuming they simply weren’t allowed to say anything. And strangely, there was no comment in the newspapers as to how people were being Turned. Eve was certain that other reporters were investigating – surely? – but it seemed that the best chance for jimmying any kind of useful information into the proceedings would be a pretty substantial leak from someone in the know. Presumably this meant slippery-lipped police or senior government officials. Eve remained determined regarding the overall task, but doubted her ability to rustle up either of those. Her first attempt, to sweetly procure details from Frankie, had failed, and if she was going to have an intel-rustling shot with an
y officer of the realm, it would have been him. She’d read him bedtime stories, for goodness’ sake (his favourite had been one about a daredevil turnip).
Eve had just visited the pub where Finn seemed likely to have been Purpled. The landlords had gone for mid-century décor: crimson velour banquettes, starburst clocks and ads featuring Brylcreemed lads and polished, nip-waisted ladies. This was matched by the music including tunes by a band that her dad had used to like – and the sensory overload of timewarpiness, added to the increasingly brain-fizzing puzzlement of the Purpleness, quickly threatened to make her feel quite woozy. But she had returned the collection box, and the appreciative pub owners had let her take a look at the ISON footage from that night. Eve watched a recorded Finn pinch the box and tipsily hide it, not at all convincingly, under his shirt. She saw him go outside to his friends, return to the bar to retrieve the remainder of his just-bought round, then loiter outside again, laughing and larking about. Eve didn’t see anyone approach him, or bump into him. She couldn’t even see anyone paying Finn any particular attention, and the owners said they hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary. She scrolled back and forth through the footage, thoroughly perplexed, until the landlady loudly cleared her throat, asking Eve if she wanted a drink. Eve had politely declined, handing back the ISON monitor, and with parting words of gratitude, made her way towards the door.
The bus arrived, and as she took a seat, Eve glanced at the headline on one passenger’s paper: ‘Lav Thug Killed my Hamster’.
Five days in, with few new developments and little information, most papers were coasting as best they could, continuing to fill pages with strident opinion pieces heavily peppered with public reactions: ‘“What they need is a war to go to,” said Cliff Barr, 76’; ‘“I fear this isn’t a very Christian approach,” said vicar Ewan Dunn, 47’; ‘“Oh, is that really happening?” said Nellie Hughes, 92.’
The papers were also padding out minor sightings of Purple people. Eve’s favourite of these: a milkman in Stockport almost crashed his float when he passed someone who’d been Turned; he was fine, but there was plenty of spilt milk. (That, Eve had selected for Say Fantastique! – certainly a good ’un for deftly bridging the daffy and topical, and seasoned with a typically British quirkiness which would sell well overseas.)