by Kate Bulpitt
A thought occurred to Eve.
‘I don’t suppose Inspector Watt is here?’ she asked.
‘Who?’ said the usher.
‘She’s a police officer.’
‘No. Haven’t had any police in here.’
‘Oh.’
‘So, it’s orange juice with Ella Breally?’ said Helena. ‘I think it’s time we went home.’
*
The last of the protesters were rolling up a banner as Helena drove past. Eve watched as they diligently packed everything away, obviously old hands at activist pursuits.
‘What a shame we didn’t get to see Magnus,’ said Helena. She reached over and gave Eve’s arm a squeeze.
‘He seems very…’ Rory paused.
Eve pursed her lips, and tried not to catch Helena’s eye.
‘Involved,’ said Rory, finally, ‘in the Purpleness. How do you know him?’
‘We met at university,’ said Helena. ‘And I have to say, he seems exactly the same now as he was back then.’
Helena began to tell the story, and while it partly made Eve feel like poking herself in both eyes, she figured it was at least a distraction from Womble and Helena’s plum contention. Plus, there was no escape: the Magnus chapters had already begun replaying in her head.
*
They’d met at a pub near their university, at a fundraising bash in the December of their final year. A tinny yellow-gold plastic ‘Merry Christmas’ hung across the bar, while the walls were decked with concertina’d paper bells and snowflakes, and worn-looking tinsel with kinks from where it had spent repeated years stuffed in a box in the cellar. Eve had tugged Helena’s sleeve and indicated towards a lad stood by the jukebox, a palm pressed against the window of its audio delights, considering his options whilst swigging from a bottle of German beer. His dirty-blond fringe would occasionally swing forward, obscuring his view until he swept it back using the hand in which he held the bottle, the other remaining fixed to the jukebox.
‘That’s him,’ Eve said. She had seen this guy posting flyers for the fundraiser around the student union and he was the reason she had impressed upon Helena that they come.
‘Hm,’ said Helena, noncommittally, biting on a crisp. Given the unlikely suspects Eve seemed to latch onto, and not always to be easily dissuaded from, even Helena was learning to hedge her bets.
Greg, it would transpire, had grown up not far from Eve, a fact which was about all they had in common. Though it would take her a while to realise this, and in the meantime she cultivated a crush, based on little more than looks, and lacking in lively conversation, or any other form of engagement, for that matter.
Not so with Greg’s friend Magnus, who was unassuming and perceptive, with a sharp sense of humour and a sweet sense of mischief. Eve had been hovering near the jukebox when Magnus appeared. Tallish, with short, scruffy brown hair, and wearing a ‘Bells Not Bombs’ t-shirt in reference to a military campaign the government had started the previous Christmas.
‘Are you choosing the playlist for the entire night?’ Magnus had teased Greg, approaching him with a bottle of beer.
Greg mumbled and again moved his fringe out of his eyes.
‘I thought you might need one of these.’
‘Thanks, man,’ said Greg, finally removing his hand from the jukebox, downing the remainder of his present drink, and turning to accept the new one.
A jangling tune began to play.
‘Oh, I love this,’ said Eve, technically to Doug and Helena, but hoping Greg would overhear.
Apparently not hearing her, but turning to the jukebox with a frown, Greg said, ‘What? I didn’t pick this.’
‘What did you pick? Something festive – a bit of Kit Barbary?’ Magnus grinned, referring to a crooner from some years back who’d had a string of yuletide hits.
Greg had groaned.
Eve took this comment and shoehorned an opportune moment into it.
‘If I’d known Kit was on the cards, I’d have worn my Christmas jumper!’ she said.
Helena, turning briefly from the Snowball Doug had bought her (she’d considered it sceptically as Doug had handed them over: ‘Two for one!’ he’d said. ‘I thought you girls might like them’), wore a rare look of surprise at Eve’s diving in without any wing-girl assistance.
‘A Christmas jumper!’ said Magnus. ‘Excellent. What’s on it?’
‘A disco robin and some fetching sprigs of holly,’ said Eve, ‘though possibly it’d be a bit small these days – I don’t think I’ve worn it since I was twelve.’
‘A disco robin?’ Magnus asked, twisting slightly and lifting an arm in the direction of a decorative reindeer as he moved into a disco-dancing finger-pointy stance.
‘Yup!’ Eve smiled. ‘And do you, or your friend,’ she turned to Greg, ‘have any Christmas jumpers hidden away in the cupboard?’
Greg had looked across to a gaggle of giggling girls who’d just arrived.
‘Do you have a Christmas jumper, Greg?’ Magnus nudged.
There was a pause and then…
‘No.’
At this Helena, her back to their conversation but all ears, repeated the look she’d given the unexpected Snowball.
Still waters, thought Eve.
Leaning forward, Magnus confided, ‘I had one. My aunt knitted it. A lovingly made, one of a kind number featuring Action Man’s head – ’ he indicated towards his chest, outlining a large oval – ‘wearing a scarf and a woolly hat – with snowmen on.’
‘No!’
‘Oh yes. It was a work of art.’
‘Your friends must have been… envious?’
‘I think so. I’m Magnus, by the way, and this is Greg.’
Greg nodded, his fringe swooping.
‘I’m Eve, and this is – ’ Eve swivelled round to her friends – ‘Helena, and Doug.’
Swivelling back, Eve asked, ‘And what do you two do?’
‘Ah, well now…’ said Magnus. ‘When not carefully considering the jukebox options, Greg is a smart, alluring soul who studies English lit with a side order of philosophy. He was in the habit of cycling everywhere, but a few days ago had a particularly riotous night out and has yet to remember where he left his bike.’
‘Thanks,’ said Greg, looking embarrassed.
‘Also, he has a pet spider plant.’
‘My sister gave that to me, so I have to try not to kill it,’ said Greg, with a smile (a nice smile, Eve thought; it had been worth the wait). He was about to say something else when there was a high-pitched squeal, apparently emanating from a microphone.
‘Hi everyone, thanks for coming,’ said a chap on the raised platform in one corner of the room that constituted a stage. ‘I’m Adrian, I run the student union, so some of you will have seen me around. I wanted to do a quick introduction, and thank you, to the bloke amongst us who’s made all this possible. He’s been so dedicated to these events for the last few years – well, they were his idea – and I don’t know how we’ll find someone so ace to fill his shoes next year. He’s a—’
‘Genius!’ someone shouted.
‘A prince amongst men!’ called someone else.
Adrian laughed. ‘Exactly. Actually, for a genius – studying physics, no less – who seems to know a ridiculous amount of things, he does a really princely job of not making anyone else feel stupid.’
‘He must be good, Ade, not making you feel stupid,’ a member of the crowd teased. ‘Aren’t you doing P.E.?’
There were some laughs and Adrian said, ‘Sports therapy! Anyway,’ he continued, ‘as well as these parties, he’s been doing an excellent job of monkeying around lighting gigs at the student union. I’m definitely going to miss having him here next year. Now, where are you Magnus?’
Greg patted Magnus on the back as he made his way across the room.
Taking the microphone from Adrian, Magnus said, ‘Thanks Ade, that was quite the introduction.’ With a smile he added, ‘If you see my eyes watering, it’s ju
st that I’m… allergic to tinsel. It’s been really heartening doing these events, and seeing how enthusiastic everyone’s been, I’ve been a bit bowled over by that. Now, I know there are loads of things to be worrying about in the world – can you go to that bloke from your Thursday lecture’s party and finish your essay on time? Is there any bread in the cupboard that hasn’t got mould on it?’ Magnus grinned. ‘But you know, if those are our problems, then we’re lucky, and if we’ve got time to hop down the pub and have a beer or two with our friends, why not do that for a good cause? We’ve done this for the last couple of years, donating to a different local organisation, and this evening the cause is the county hospital’s sadly underfunded A&E unit. Some of the staff have joined us this evening – hands up those of you… don’t they look lovely? And now you know who to go to if you have a funny turn this evening.’ Magnus laughed as a piece of lime was pinged towards him. ‘Fair enough,’ he said, running a hand through his already mussed hair, leaving one clump standing on end like an antenna. ‘Oh, and actually that’s a good reminder – Gloria the charming landlady here has asked me to mention that there’s going to be an open mic night here from January. So if you fancy yourself as a budding songsmith or comedian, you know where to come. You’ll be relieved to know I won’t be entering and flinging any more terrible jokes at an unsuspecting audience! On that note, I’ll pipe down and let you get back to the task at hand. Thanks everyone for coming tonight – it really is great to see so many of you here. Now, please drink and be merry!’
There were some whistles and a round of applause.
Eve tried to clap without spilling any of her half-empty Snowball; Helena whistled, loudly. Magnus made his way back towards Greg, slowly, as people kept stopping him to chat or to congratulate him on a successful evening. Eve noticed an enviably handsome guy called Rick, or rather, Slick Rick, known around campus for, one, having done some modelling (he’d allegedly auditioned for a big jeans brand’s TV ad, but while the facts surrounding that were hazy, it was undisputed that he had appeared in the poster for a range of pork pies), and two – not unrelated – having a different girl in tow every week. Just now he scowled as the lass he’d been chatting to (or up) turned to catch Magnus’s attention.
Back in Eve’s circle, Doug leant across to Greg. ‘Have you been taking the post-war British literature class? I think I’ve seen you at the Monday lectures.’
‘Yeah, that’s right,’ said Greg. ‘There’s a way to start the week.’
Eve gave Helena a glance which said: that turned out nicely! Now they had an in with the attractive, if not so chatty, Greg.
The next morning, she commented to Helena, ‘That Greg’s an enigma, isn’t he?’
‘Not the word I’d use,’ Helena had replied.
And that had been the start of it.
*
Water splashed onto Bob’s Iron Maiden t-shirt as he rinsed out test tubes while humming an old heavy metal song. It seemed incongruous to be able to do such a thing as melodically as he was, Eve thought. She was perched on a stool in the first row of benches, the only time she could claim to have been at the front of the class in science. In her school years she’d sat at the back, daydreaming or doodling on her notebook. Bob wiped his hands on a cloth, then returned to his desk.
‘So, Womble says you’re working on the mysteries of the Purpleness,’ Bob said. He tapped his fingertips on the table. You could tell he was a drummer. Aside from the tribute-tastic turn, he and Womble had played in a band together for a while.
‘I’d like to understand how they’re doing it. I’m intrigued to know what the possibilities are.’
‘Mm, wouldn’t we all,’ Bob agreed. ‘And I’m pleased you asked, because I’ve been thinking a lot about that. I’ve studied quite a few interviews with Purple people, and I can’t find any clues. That may be because all output is being strictly controlled. The government are definitely being more cagey than usual with what information they release.’
‘Especially since the Landell Responsible Reporting legislation was passed,’ said Eve. ‘They’ve been saying less rather than more for a while now, certainly since before the Purpleness started.’
Bob nodded sagely. ‘So, basically, there’s very little to go on. But, a scientific sort could deduce some facts. An environmental infection seems unlikely, as specific individuals are targeted, rather than groups of people. And if there was something in the air, then other people might get accidentally Turned, and we’ve heard in many cases there were other people around who weren’t affected. Unless they were and were given an antidote and we just don’t know about it. But for now, let’s assume the Turning agent isn’t airborne. There doesn’t appear to be any direct physical contact with anyone – at least, not consistently – during which they could have been injected. And none have, as far as I’m aware, reported feeling anything that could have been an injection or its obvious side effects, such as broken skin or swelling at the point of entry, which you have to imagine there would be some cases of, given blood types, and allergies. It’s possible that the Turned people have consumed some fluids or food which could have been doctored. I’m not sure about that.’
From the corridor, there came a loud crash. Bob glanced in the direction of the noise, eyebrows gently raised.
‘Just a second,’ he said, moving from his desk towards the door. He leaned out into the corridor.
‘Drew.’
‘Sir.’ This from someone Eve couldn’t see.
‘Everything alright?’
‘As ever, sir.’
‘Great. I figured as much. Setting fire to bins, for example, has less impact after school when there’s no one here to see them.’
‘Right, sir. Like a tree falling in the woods. Nobody hears it scream.’
Drew came into view; he would have been a quintessential shaggy-haired teenager, shirt half-untucked, tie askew, had it not been for his hair being dyed bright blue. Behind him appeared another dishevelled boy.
‘Mo.’
‘Sir.’
‘Are you alright? Were you two fighting? Is that what I heard?’
‘I think they call it horsing around, sir,’ said Drew.
‘Mo, anything you’d like to add to that?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Off you go, then,’ said Bob, watching them meander away.
He closed the door, returned to his seat. ‘Sorry about that. Now, where were we?’
‘Well,’ said Eve. ‘We’d reached, if it’s not airborne or injected, but might be ingested – what could it be?’
‘Just the question!’ With a glint in his eye, Bob reached for a bag, from which he pulled a stapled set of papers. ‘I do have a theory,’ he said.
Eve tried not to smile.
‘Recently, a pharmaceutical company was about to launch a new tanning product. A new treatment that, with only one application, would tan you for an elongated amount of time – months, at least.’
‘Crikey,’ said Eve, thinking of the lithe, gilded girls who had been an epitome of beauty for as long as she could remember – athletic limbs stemming from bikinis on LP covers and in perfume ads, representing the elegantly exotic, glossily and gloriously implying life’s a beach (here was another type of tinted person that the papers loved to describe: bronzed beauty, sun-kissed stunner, golden goddess). Though those perfect pictures neglected the risks: skin cancer, a leathery hide later in life (like aging tennis stars, and idle souls who’d accumulated years on yachts and cruises), and, more recently, the orange glow of those cheaply emulating the look.
‘That’d be bound to be a money-spinner. What happened to it?’
‘It got withdrawn not long before it was due to be launched,’ said Bob. ‘You’d think it would be for health or safety reasons, or because they needed to do more testing or something. But there were no risks or complaints filed with the drug administration, it just vanished without trace.’
‘Maybe they hushed up the bad press?’
&nb
sp; ‘Perhaps. But usually, the failure of a massive new product would at least result in some big executive being fired, or the downturn in projected sales harming share prices. But I looked into that. This was going to be their most major product launch for over a decade, and not only is there not a ripple of negativity, their share prices have gone up.’
‘They could’ve created a better product?’
‘But if you’ve invested so much money in this one and it’s all set to go, and there could be negative rumblings if you pull it for no good reason, wouldn’t you launch it, and worry about more new products later? That way you’re going to be a market leader, and one seen to be constantly upping your game. Basically, the tanning market is like male baldness.’ He ran his hand through his own thick hair. ‘So providing there wasn’t a safety or recall issue, they’d have to have been in line to make a fortune.’
It was an interesting story, though Eve noticed they seemed to have veered rather off topic.
‘But what does this have to do with the Purpleness?’ she asked.
‘I think Crayne, the pharmaceutical company, sold the patent to the government.’
‘For tanning?’
‘For colouring people. Orange, purple, it’s all the same.’
Eve’s mouth gaped in a silent gasp as she grasped what he was saying.
‘I see… Wait, though… How was the tanning thing supposed to work? Usually it’s a cream or a spray or a pill, all things that you’d have to use knowingly, right?’
‘An excellent question. And that’s the beauty of it: this was to be a new, specially created system.’
Eve waited expectantly for Bob to reveal all. He was quiet.
‘What system?’ she asked.
‘To have such a long-lasting effect, logic would dictate that it must be something taken internally, so not a spray or a lotion. But I’m not sure, yet.’
‘You don’t know what the actual product is?’
‘It changes people’s pigment in a revolutionary way!’
‘But you don’t know how. It could be an injection, or a digestible liquid – a drink, maybe? – which wouldn’t fit with the Purple Turning scenario.’