by Kate Bulpitt
‘Yep. I’m sent before a judge who deems the minimum amount of time before I can be considered for being returned to normal.’
‘Okay. So, what, a few weeks?’
Duncan’s body slumped. ‘Two years.’
‘Two years?!’ Eve was stunned.
‘That’s the minimum for everyone. I’m on probation in the meantime and can only be Turned back if I’ve shown perfect behaviour and passed a psychological test. I’ll be kept on an anti-social database for another ten years. If I’m involved in any other crime or misdemeanour I’m Turned indefinitely and sent to prison.’
‘For a post-pub brawl? Surely you can appeal?’
‘I’ve admitted guilt, and they have proof of my crime, so no. That’s how the chips are falling.’
‘This is insanity,’ said Eve. ‘They can’t do this. We’ll find a way to sort it out, get you back to normal.’
‘You’re sweet, but there’s nothing to be done. I just need to accept it.’
Duncan reached up to the hood of his sweatshirt, rubbing the soft material between two fingers, like a comfort blanket. Coincidentally, or not, this shielded one side of his face from the car window.
Eve opened her mouth, about to attempt further bright-eyed promises, when Simon, slowly shaking his head, gave her a look which implied: hold your horses.
Eve looked out of the window.
‘To figure out how they’re doing the Turning, I could get myself Turned,’ she said.
‘No way,’ said Duncan. ‘Absolutely not.’
In the rear view mirror, Simon looked at her.
‘The last person in the world to get into trouble,’ he said. ‘Fat chance you’d have of being Purpled.’
‘I could engineer it. You could come with me,’ she told Simon.
‘No,’ said Duncan. ‘Besides, if you get Turned that’ll hamper your ability to investigate, won’t it?’
That shut Eve up.
‘We all know I’d be most likely to get Turned, anyway,’ said Simon, evenly.
‘No, Si,’ said Duncan.
‘If it helps though, mate,’ said Simon.
‘We’d need to get into an altercation,’ said Eve.
‘Shouldn’t be too difficult,’ said Simon.
They exchanged a smile.
‘Then Eve still might get Turned,’ said Duncan. ‘I could come.’
‘You’re not ready to be out and about, though,’ said Eve, gently.
‘And I reckon we’d probably have more chance of getting Purpled at night,’ said Simon. ‘When you’re tucked up with a Horlicks.’
Funny how Simon could make a comment like that – honest about Duncan’s curfew, and yet it didn’t seem to upset him; there was solidarity in it.
‘We need three of us,’ said Eve, thinking the plan through. ‘Two to be in a dispute, and one to observe.’
She let out a satisfied murmur.
‘You alright back there?’ asked Duncan, amused.
Simon pulled a face.
‘Finn,’ said Eve, thinking of how he’d been proud to be Purple. And even if he’s been Re-Turned, I’ve a feeling he’ll be game, she thought. Plus his uncle… Well, best not to mention that some folk had a Get Out Of Jail Free card. ‘He’s a lad I met recently. I think he’d be willing to be Purpled. We should ask him.’
‘I’m not sure about this,’ said Duncan. ‘It could go horribly wrong.’
‘Dunc, all this grief – it gives me a chance to try an’ make it up to you,’ said Simon.
Duncan sighed.
‘That’s settled then,’ said Eve. Surely, she thought, even if the consequence is someone being Turned, this had to be a foolproof plan?
Chapter Fourteen
It was Friday night, and Simon and Finn were in a pub, while Eve sat in Duncan’s car, watching as the town’s weekend shenanigans began to unfurl.
Finn had been only too happy to take part in a clandestine operation. He’d already been Re-Turned, and assisting Eve gave him the double whammy of a win: he was helping Jason (who naturally wanted scheme-unravelling justice for his brother Luke), and being Turned twice would, Finn believed, enhance his post-Purple, edging-towards-edginess reputation. Eve had been curious as to how he’d explained his reversal to a less mauve hue – preferential treatment seemed an unlikely crowd-pleaser – and Finn assured her that everyone had swallowed his tales of sweet-talking his way out of it. Eve worried, too, what the police commissioner uncle’s response would be to his nephew potentially being Purpled for a second time, but Finn had responded with a youthful, cross-that-bridge nonchalance.
So, here they were, with the odd couple downing beers which Simon had insisted that Say Fantastique! paid for (though slightly peeved, Eve had to admit this did make sense), and Eve, perched in the car, writing extensive notes about those who passed by, her bare legs making a velcro-like de-suctioning sound each time she shifted in her seat.
Thus far, her observations looked to be a list of banalities, beginning with an assortment of workers – on their way home, carting groceries or a carrier bag betraying the shape of a single bottle of wine, or refreshment-ready, leaning in the pub door for a swift pint. Later came gals with the night-out sheen of hair lacquer and lashings of lip gloss; eager new couples, bright-eyed, and soon to be puckered up against the walls of darkened shops clutching at one another with octopus arms; and the bored or comfortable long-term pairings, who said little on their way to, or from, the bustling Thai restaurant a few doors from where Eve was parked. There were also dog walkers who ambled through the festivities, patiently waiting as their canine pals sniffed at the delicious stenches they found laid out for them like a banquet along the pavement.
All of these things appeared unremarkable, but of course, somewhere amidst this tableau of ordinariness lurked the lavendering truth. Such a scene would be replicated in towns across the country, and, come tomorrow, how many of the revellers would find themselves as damson and undesirable as Deadly Nightshade?
Eve wondered how the boys were getting on, and whether they had found any common ground. They were a Jack Sprat combination, contrasting in age, height and temperament. She imagined that Simon would be milking his impressionable audience, and guessed Finn likely to be lapping up his elder’s tales of mischief.
A few feet away stood two women in matching denim shorts; one wore a blue top, and the other, the shorter gal, a tiger-print t-shirt. A loud and lively conversation between them had erupted into an argument.
‘How dare you!’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I knew I should never trust you.’
‘That’s rich coming from you—’
‘You’re disgusting.’
‘I’m not, you’re the one—’
‘You disgust me. You’re a liar, a filthy liar!’
Blue Top was becoming increasingly intimidating, leaning forward, her face getting closer, crowding Tiger T-shirt, closing the space between them. Eve remembered, before the Repeal, seeing a heated row between two men in the street become physical, and how, instead of intervening, folk had stood by, entertained, filming it on their PortAbles. Right now, people simply walked past; this wasn’t their business. But then Blue Top raised her arms, as though about to shove Tiger T-shirt, who was already standing near to the kerb, her back to the road. One push and she could fall in front of any oncoming traffic.
Eve swung open the car door, and hopped out.
‘Hey!’ she shouted.
It took the women a moment to extricate themselves from the enveloping fug of their brawl, but eventually they turned around.
‘Are you okay?’ Eve asked Tiger T-shirt.
‘What’s it to you?’ said Blue Top.
‘I wasn’t talking to you,’ said Eve. She looked at Tiger T-shirt, who stared back at her with disdain.
‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘but you can keep your nose out.’
Blue Top raised a middle finger in Eve’s direction, and they walked away, if not now reunited, to
continue their argument elsewhere.
Eve got back in the car, a little shaken. She had long been aware of the unsettling frisson between tribes of different temperaments: the sensitive and non-confrontational versus the bolshie and antagonistic (like the woman on the train the other day and the lady she’d assaulted with such verbal acidity). Eve could feel it, crackling invisibly through the air. It frequently felt as though kindness made you vulnerable, and open to ridicule: a soft touch, easily manipulated, or dismissed; the chink of any helpful, non-judgmental aspirations just waiting to be crowbarred into a chasm filled with empathy-less exploitation and well-intentioned regret. Gentleness and compassion could paint a target on your back. Where was the justness in benevolence making someone easy prey? In spikiness – like a cactus, or a poisonous pufferfish – granting protection as a reward? And yet, did Eve appreciate the Purple prospect of the spikier, frequently toxic tribe being most likely to be Turned? Reciprocal protection for the temperate, like her?
Her train of thought returned to Tiger T-shirt and Blue Top. Eve realised that it might have been a qualifying Purpling incident, but her instinct to help had distracted Eve from what was happening around them. She sighed, frustrated, fidgeting in her seat, further annoyed as she unpeeled her thighs from the vinyl. Definitely don’t wear shorts tomorrow night, she told herself.
The pub door was flung open, and the boys appeared, Simon with his usual confident swagger, Finn beaming, gleaming as though some of Simon’s naughty lustre had rubbed off on him. Simon was smoking a cigarette, which Finn playfully reached for; Simon’s retaliating swipe, with a sharp, accompanying ‘Oi!’, knocked the fag to the ground, so he swiped again, this time to Finn’s head. The predetermined tussle was afoot.
Eve glanced around. A couple came out of the Thai restaurant, jackets on, about to head home, and only registered the boys’ scrap with a glare of vague disparagement. ‘They’ll probably get Purpled,’ Eve heard the man say. Here’s hoping, she thought. A woman walked by with a yapping Jack Russell, which stopped to lick a littering crisp packet before it was yanked away. A trio of well-dressed lads strode purposefully along, laughing and clapping each other on the back. And an elderly man stood outside a phone booth, having a cigarette; the phone must have begun to ring, though Eve couldn’t hear it – his head jerked up and he stepped inside the red kiosk, lifting the receiver, fag still in hand.
The pub door opened again and a woman leant out.
‘Lads!’ she called to Finn and Simon. ‘Pack it in. You know as well as I do that you might get Turned, and I don’t want that on my doorstep. Go home.’
The boys appeared to grumble, shoving each other a couple more times before wandering away and around the corner.
Eve started up the car engine.
*
Saturday night, now. Neither Simon nor Finn had become even the slightest bit aubergine, much to Eve’s chagrin, so they were on Operation Purposefully Purple part two.
Another pub, in another town.
There were the usual comings and goings; people a little ritzier and glitzier, bouncing with elastic, relaxed cheer for having now fully unwound into the weekend.
Eventually the boys appeared, again orchestrating a scrap in the street. This time, a pair of police officers had passed a few minutes beforehand, but weren’t in view when Simon and Finn began to fight. A man walked a pair of Boxer dogs, one black, one white. He’d taken a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, stopped to light up, before seeming to think better of it, drifting on as one of the dogs saw a cat and began to bark, tugging on its lead as it tried to give chase. A hen party dressed as beauty pageant contestants – with sashes such as ‘Miss Guided’, ‘Miss Fortune’ and ‘Miss Taken’ (a large badge identified the latter as the bride-to-be ) – giggled as they conga’d haphazardly down the road, some with one hand holding a plastic party-favour crown in place or clutching the skirts of a cheap, voluminous gown so it didn’t trail along the pavement. One of the women accidentally stumbled into Finn, mumbling an apologetic ‘Oops’ before hurrying onwards.
‘How’d we do?’ Finn asked, when Eve picked them up a few streets away.
‘Great,’ said Eve. ‘Thank you, both of you, for this.’
‘It might not work,’ said Simon.
‘I know,’ said Eve.
‘But it was a laugh!’ said Finn. ‘Right, Simon?’
‘First time I’ve actually been asked to get into trouble,’ said Simon.
‘Are we out again tomorrow?’ Finn asked.
‘Let’s see what happens,’ said Eve, glancing in the rear view mirror. As far as she could see, the boys had got away surveillance-free. They’d soon find out whether or not that was a good thing.
*
Sunday morning, and Eve was back at Womble and Helena’s. She had spoken to a still un-damson Simon, and while she had yet to get hold of Finn, was prepared for disappointment.
The phone had stopped ringing, but Helena’s hand hovered over it; Eve watched her fingers wiggle, itching to lift the receiver.
‘Womble must have got it,’ said Eve, hoping it might be Finn.
‘Yes,’ said Helena, sitting down and resting her elbow on the table, her chin tucked into her palm.
‘You okay? You look perturbed. You’re not thinking about the silent calls again?’
‘Not those, no. But Womble’s had a couple of odd calls this week.’
‘Odd?’ Eve asked.
‘I don’t know. Secretive. He didn’t sound as though he was greeting someone we know – sounded more business-like. He took them in another room.’
‘Well, if it’s business, maybe he’s just trying to save you from a conversation about the school music curriculum or something.’
‘I suppose so. But something doesn’t feel right.’
‘It’ll just be boring school stuff.’
‘Maybe.’ Helena glanced again towards the kitchen door, this time to see if Womble was about to return. ‘It’s just… I’ve got a bad gut feeling about this. Women’s intuition.’ Helena leant over and whispered, ‘What if he’s having an affair?’
Eve almost laughed. ‘He wouldn’t,’ she said, ‘he’s besotted with you. And besides, he’s not the type. After growing up with my dad trying to charm every woman within lasso-ing distance, and then ten years of dating in New York, I think my philander-o-meter is pretty finely tuned. Nothing surprises me, as you know, but Womble cheating? Less likely than people turning Purple.’
‘People are turning Purple,’ Helena sighed.
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I know things have been tricky lately, but I don’t want him running off with some other woman.’
‘He wouldn’t do that! Honestly, I can’t imagine it, Hels, I really can’t.’
‘So he hasn’t said anything to you?’
‘Nope.’
Helena briefly glanced upwards, listening, before changing the subject.
‘No word from your mum or dad?’
Eve shook her head. ‘Nothing. They’ll just carry on as usual, thinking it’s all blown over. And knowing that me and Simon have been spending time together while we’re keeping an eye on Duncan, they’ll think everything’s hunky dory.’
Mr Bailey, the Golden Retriever, ambled over to Helena and put his head in her lap.
‘Hello, my lovely boy,’ she said, stroking his ears.
‘I keep thinking about that woman on the train the other day,’ said Eve.
‘That sounded dismal.’
‘It was. Such anger, and nastiness – the kind you could feel in your bones. And I’ve been wondering about those children, how they are, and how they’ll turn out, having a mother like that.’
‘You have to think too, though, how did she become that way?’
‘I suppose.’
‘The mum’s another layer of tragedy, and there are probably more before that,’ said Helena. ‘Doesn’t excuse her behaviour, but it’s so sad. Womble sees it at school, and you think,
where does it end? Which reminds me, he’ll tell you this, but they found out that one of the kids he teaches has been Turned.’
‘No!’
‘Yes. Hideousness,’ Helena shuddered. She was quiet for a moment, then said, ‘You’re sure you don’t think he’s doing anything?’
‘Absolutely. Why don’t you ask him? There’ll be a logical explanation, and then you can stop worrying about it.’
A few minutes later Womble ambled into the room. Helena smiled broadly.
‘Who was that on the phone?’ she asked.
‘Work,’ Womble replied, opening the fridge, and peering inside, rendering himself out of sight.
‘A school thing? On a Sunday?’ Helena continued, affecting a casual tone but looking intently towards the fridge door, as though if she concentrated hard enough she’d be able to see through it and capture his expression.
‘Yep,’ Womble mumbled, towards a bag of lettuce and the cheese dish.
‘What school thing?’
‘A boring thing.’ There was the sound of plastic packaging being snapped. Womble closed the door, a yoghurt in hand. ‘Mm, raspberry.’
Helena’s eyes narrowed slightly, not that Womble noticed, his attention instead focused on the cutlery drawer as he located a spoon.
Helena turned to Eve, her expression silently questioning Womble’s present behaviour.
‘Hels said someone at school has been Turned.’
‘Yes,’ said Womble. ‘We thought he’d been bunking off, which wouldn’t be unusual, but no.’
‘Isn’t he a bit young to be Turned?’
‘Exactly,’ said Helena. ‘It’s criminal.’
‘I don’t know. Maybe it’ll do him some good. He’s always in trouble,’ said Womble, who popped a spoonful of yoghurt into his mouth, then added, almost to himself, ‘Can’t imagine the purple goes so well with his blue hair.’
‘That’s an awful thing to say,’ said Helena. ‘How can you be so flippant?’
‘Drew?’ Eve asked.
‘Yes,’ said Womble, surprised at her knowing his name.
‘Bob was talking to him that day I came in. When did he get Turned?’