Purple People

by Kate Bulpitt

  Duncan put the television on.

  ‘I shouldn’t let you watch films when I’m here, you’re watching so much telly that your eyes will go square.’

  ‘Square eyes and Purple skin,’ he said. ‘I’ll be a medical marvel.’

  Eve squeezed his shoulder and then, her sight roving to the uncovered patch of skin above his collar, without thinking, she stroked his neck. Duncan’s unwittingly sleeve-less hand immediately shot into place to cover the bare spot; Eve shielded it with her own.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said.

  ‘I can’t see it, and I don’t want you to see it.’

  He sighed, fidgeting, shifting position so he was now facing her. ‘Do you want to go and look at something more interesting?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Eve followed Duncan to the back door. He raised the hood on his sweatshirt.

  ‘Is there anyone out there?’ he asked.

  ‘Not at this time of night, I shouldn’t have thought,’ said Eve, opening the door and peeking out. ‘Nope.’

  They crossed the garden to his shed, which was almost as wide as the lawn. Inside, a workbench took up one side of the room, covered in tools and blocks of wood. To one side was an armchair, a birdwatchers’ guide, and a pair of binoculars.

  ‘This is cosy,’ said Eve.

  ‘I can spend hours down here,’ said Duncan. ‘It’s very relaxing. Though now, what with the windows… I’ve not really come down as much.’

  ‘You could put something up, some net curtains.’

  ‘Not so good for seeing the birds.’

  Duncan leant towards the window. ‘Look.’

  Eve peered out, towards a hedgehog shuffling across the grass.

  ‘Oh, sweet,’ she said. ‘I can’t remember the last time I saw one of those.’

  ‘He’s called Spike,’ said Duncan.

  Eve laughed.

  ‘Not my idea, I might add. The girl next door christened him.’

  ‘It’s the same one?’

  ‘I think so. Though it could be another Spike. I hear it’s quite a popular name in hedgehog circles.’

  ‘I’m sure it is.’

  Duncan turned his head, as though listening for something.

  ‘Can you hear it?’ Eve asked.

  ‘The hedgehog? Oh no, they’re very quiet. I was waiting for you to regale me with a funny hedgehog story.’

  ‘I see.’ Eve considered this. ‘Do you know, none are coming to mind.’

  The only tale Eve could remember was inappropriately prickly for this conversation. It involved a poor hedgehog who’d been rescued after being used as a football, kicked about by some irredeemably unkind soul who she couldn’t bear to imagine (she guessed even Simon wouldn’t do something so cruel). What on earth must the wee creature have thought, Eve had wondered, to be subjected to such an astonishingly awful attack, as it pottered about, being a hedgehog and minding its own business. She’d been particularly struck by that story, had kept meaning to contact the sanctuary that took it in, to ask about its recovery. And what had happened to the person that treated it so? (This was hardly the time or place to think such a thing, but were they off colour?)

  Eve leaned against the bench.

  As if there weren’t enough things to be confused about, Duncan now seemed to be behaving in a notably tactile way; Eve couldn’t tell if this was the result of his understandably conflicting needs – appreciating some comforting contact but keeping any potential intimacy at fully-sheathed arm’s length while he negotiated the emotional labyrinth of having been Turned (raising the drawbridge to emotional entanglements. There was something Eve knew well).

  If she was honest, she’d felt an attraction to him since their unexpected meeting at The Shifty Fox; he was calm, certain, kind, and in spite of the discomfort of his current situation, remained perfect company. He also had that uncanny quality of putting people at ease, of making you feel like the truest, shiniest version of yourself. No wonder Simon liked him so much, Eve thought. She remembered this to be a super skill that Magnus also had. Eve winced at the thought of their canteen encounter, and closed her eyes.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Yes, sorry,’ said Eve.

  She put a hand on Duncan’s chest.

  He looked down – an automatic, shame-filled response these days, which only put them in closer proximity. Eve tilted her face towards his, and kissed him.

  Duncan’s head hovered forward. ‘I don’t think you want to—’

  ‘Oh, pipe down,’ said Eve, lacing her fingers through his.

  Duncan kissed her, their hands untangling as she reached up to his shoulders and he put his arms around her, pressing her against the bench. The proceedings were interrupted by a rattle as Eve’s elbow knocked against a part-whittled piece of wood which teetered on the table. Eve gasped as Duncan grasped this work in progress, his Purple hand in view, just stopping the carving from toppling over.

  ‘Close,’ she said.

  ‘But no cigar,’ said Duncan.

  ‘As you were,’ Eve whispered, as they puckered up.

  His hand returned to the small of her back. Hers ran along the hem of his sweatshirt before she slid both underneath, fingertips running along his torso. He didn’t flinch, which though distracted, she half-registered as progress. A hint at removing the shirt, sliding the fabric upwards as they busily embraced, didn’t work so well. Duncan pulled away, reaching round and tugging at the material, ensuring he was fully covered.

  Eve bit her lip, again placed a hand gently on his chest. ‘Are you thinking we should show some restraint at this point, or attempting to combat any sight of yourself unwrapped?’

  Duncan tilted his head as though trying to discreetly shake a thought from it.

  Eve said, ‘I don’t want you to feel…’ What? Weird, desperately uncomfortable, undeniably Purple? Easy for her to say. ‘I just see you, you know.’

  Duncan opened his mouth to protest, but then stopped, resting his forehead against hers.

  Eve said, ‘Shall we go indoors?’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Eve had woken up in the night, lying next to Duncan in his indigo entirety, a vision in slumbering plum. She’d touched his arm, his chest, almost expecting the colour to rub off, to see it transferred to her fingertips. Every part of him was Purple: head, shoulders, knees and toes, and unlike fables involving frogs and kisses, no fairytale caress could fix it.

  Now, then, waking to an empty bed, she almost wondered if this development had been a hallucination, if a mauve fog was clouding her dreams. But no, the strangeness, and unexpected familiarity, had been intensely real. Such sudden intimacy with someone whom she’d known through her formative years, and then barely seen at all, could have been a garish mistake, but had felt both safe, and new. Perhaps Duncan wouldn’t feel the same. Maybe she was grasping a passing rock, trying to avoid the churning romantic rapids she usually flailed in, the ones just the thought of Magnus always reminded her of. Safety net, port in a storm, true object of affection? Eve sat up, in the shadow of the closed curtains, and told herself that she was sure this attraction to Duncan was pure, and well-intentioned.

  Hearing clattering in the kitchen, she wandered downstairs.

  ‘Good morning,’ Eve said.

  Duncan was prodding the contents of a frying pan with a utensil. Eve took a breath at the sight of him, relieved to see the unruffled, assured Duncan in this unguarded moment, where, purposeful, he’d forgotten about his Purpleness. She sidled over to him to deliver a morning kiss. Before returning his attention to the pan, Duncan lightly touched Eve’s cheek, gazed at her briefly, his face glazed in an expression she couldn’t quite read.

  ‘There’s a cup of tea ready for you,’ he said.

  ‘Ah, my hero, thanks. I’d have joined you earlier, but I didn’t hear you get up, sorry,’ she said. ‘Have you been awake for ages?’

  ‘A while,’ Duncan said.

  He slid pieces of egg-dipped bread onto a pair of pla
tes and dunked the empty pan into the sink.

  They sat on the sofa, her legs stretched across his lap.

  ‘Delicious,’ said Eve, licking her lips appreciatively.

  They ate quietly, before placing empty plates on the coffee table. Duncan tipped his head back, staring at the ceiling. Eve reached into his sweatshirt sleeve and clasped his hand, which he squeezed in return. She said nothing, waiting for him to speak.

  Eventually Duncan said, ‘Last night… I—’ He stopped.

  ‘Go on…’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Eve yawned and leaned against him, wanting for this to feel normal, to ease any pressure.

  Duncan spoke again. ‘I hate the way I am. Hate it.’

  ‘I wish I knew a spell that would make it go away,’ said Eve.

  Head resting on his shoulder, she slipped her free hand under his sweatshirt, fingertips touching his torso, gently caressing his hidden skin.

  ‘Last night,’ he said, ‘was a distraction. A good one.’

  ‘I know,’ said Eve. She thought, oh, I know.

  ‘I wasn’t thinking about being this. But…’

  He was quiet again; cogs silently turning.

  ‘But?’ Eve nudged.

  ‘Pity?’ Duncan asked. ‘Curiosity?’

  ‘What?’ Eve sat up, smacking his chest with a kitten-soft punch. ‘Neither!’

  ‘That you saw…’ Looking pained, Duncan swung a hand loosely in front of him, implying this body as indirectly as he could. ‘Doesn’t it disgust you?’

  ‘No! I like you, Purple or not.’

  Duncan let this sink in. Uncertainty cautiously converting to pleasure.

  Eve prodded him, teasing. ‘Are you fishing for compliments?’

  A slow laugh; a smile. ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘Good. Stop fretting and kiss me, would you.’

  Duncan obliged.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Eve. ‘There is another problem.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Simon might be a smidgen annoyed about this.’

  ‘He’ll be fine.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘It won’t be his favourite thing, sure. But he wants me to be happy. And, um…’

  ‘Right. He owes you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it like that.’

  ‘I know you wouldn’t.’

  They sat still, cosy, Eve believed, though Duncan’s heart rate was less sedate. Outside traffic passed, then the postman; they heard his conversation with a neighbour before the rustle of mail through the letterbox.

  With a look at the clock, Eve said, ‘I suppose we should hop about and get ready.’

  ‘Maybe we shouldn’t go out,’ said Duncan.

  ‘Whatever you like,’ said Eve, noting that the one third of open curtain that had been letting in light yesterday had now been reduced to a quarter. ‘Though you said you wanted to. And you’ve arranged to meet your dad.’

  ‘My first proper appearance in public.’

  ‘It wasn’t so bad when we went to the police station, was it?’

  ‘It went as well as could be expected, I guess.’

  ‘And I’ll be there.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘We could get a bottle of wine, something nice for dinner. Or go to a restaurant, even, if you feel like it.’

  Thinking of the man who’d been accosted near the TV studio, Eve instantly regretted saying this.

  ‘Hm,’ said Duncan. ‘One step at a time.’

  ‘It’s going to feel daunting, of course it is,’ said Eve. ‘But it’ll be okay.’

  ‘We could just stay in.’

  Eve laughed. ‘Nice try, Romeo. Come on, let’s go out and have a change of scenery. You might feel better for it.’

  *

  Suspicion clouded the newsagent’s face. Frowning slightly from where he stood, he was framed by the rows of cigarette packets behind him. He laid his hands solidly on the counter, as though readying himself for action.

  An elderly customer approached the till with a couple of magazines – a women’s weekly and a puzzle compendium – exchanging familiar pleasantries with the shopkeeper. He was chipper with her, but kept glancing towards the potential troublemaker in their midst. The old lady turned to leave, bidding a cheerful farewell, before spotting the Purple person. Her eyes narrowed – possibly in curiosity, probably in disapproval – as she made her way back through the shop, inadvertently knocking a couple of greetings cards onto the floor with her boxy shopping bag as she did so. A burly man in a straining t-shirt paid for a loaf of bread and some tobacco before grunting towards the door. He gave the mauve man a disgusted look.

  ‘Ought to be ashamed of yourself,’ he said, so focused on commenting that he almost clonked into the elderly lady on his way out (she was hovering, goggle-eyed, near the exit).

  The doorbell chimed, signalling their departure.

  Duncan stood holding a wildlife photography magazine, appearing to be transfixed by a feature on pelicans, while really seeing nothing at all.

  ‘Do you want to get that?’ Eve asked, gently.

  ‘What?’ Duncan replied. He looked down at the magazine, almost surprised to see it in his hands. ‘No,’ he said, returning it to the shelf.

  Eve steered him alongside her to the till. She smiled at the shopkeeper, placed a couple of newspapers on the counter, then looked to Duncan.

  ‘Do you want anything?’

  Duncan was looking down, avoiding the newsagent’s gaze, but he needn’t have worried – the shop owner was avoiding eye contact too.

  ‘No, thanks,’ he said.

  ‘Just me then,’ said Eve, placing a Texan bar and packet of mints on top of the papers. It was heartbreaking to see him so dejected and rejected, and as she handed a five-pound note to the shopkeeper with another friendly smile, she willed him to say something to peaceably acknowledge Duncan, but he did not.

  Who knows what trouble he might have experienced here, Eve thought. There had been plenty of stories about the increase in shops being robbed over the last few years, and a Purple person might seem to be more of a threat to the newsagent than people on the street who could walk past and tut. But still, surely he recognised Duncan as a regular customer, knew him to be dovish and perfectly polite.

  They left the newsagent’s and made their way towards the main drag of the town centre, keeping away from the high street itself. It was strange experiencing the public reaction, where everyone clocks you, whether they attempt to conceal their reaction or not, making for a never-ending conveyor belt of double-takes and wide-eyed stares. Eve hadn’t expected this to be so extreme, so relentless. At one point she stopped to show Duncan a display in an electricals shop window – not that she was truly interested in it, but figured even just a moment of distraction, seeing something other than all eyes on you, had to be a good thing – and noticed that people who they’d just passed would stop and look back, watching Duncan, waiting to see him go on his way. It felt like an inescapable B movie, where folk froze upon seeing the spaceship or aliens, incapable of shifting their attention elsewhere.

  A young boy wearing a superhero costume and painted face was so astounded by Duncan’s appearance, mini mouth agape, that he nearly tripped over the family dog (Eve noted that so far the puppy was the only being unfazed by the Purple skin; it glanced at Duncan briefly before sniffing a nearby crisp packet). The boy’s mum, holding the pet’s lead, stopped to whisper to her son not to gawp, but Eve could see that she herself was almost as agog, though from the apologetic look she shot Eve (interestingly not to Duncan himself, Eve thought), it was obvious that she was one of the anti-Purpling brigade, if still amazed when encountering one in person. Before they walked away, the little lad stopped, taking a step towards Duncan and pressing a tiny fingertip against his hand; to see if this was crayonned colour, like his own, or real, bruised and tender, Eve couldn’t tell. Duncan mustered a smile, which the boy returned as he was led away, peering back over his shoulder, his costume’s cape b
obbing. But Eve saw Duncan’s eyes glisten and a pained gulp that implied such an occurrence was impossible to swallow.

  A couple more people muttered insults, and then one skinny scally gave Duncan a smirking nod of approval. Eve saw Duncan was as disturbed by this leer as the looks of disdain. And to all of them, whether they commented aloud or with an uncloaked observation, she wanted to say: he’s a good ’un, really, he’s done nothing wrong. She gave Duncan’s hand a squeeze in solidarity, but he pulled it away.

  *

  The café where they’d arranged to meet Duncan’s dad had been quiet when they arrived, but was getting busier. Eve had watched as Duncan picked the least visible spot to sit, away from the window, with his back to most of the other tables, facing the wall, trying to minimise his ordeal as the resident freakshow. Thankfully this was homier than some other local establishments, more sentimental tea shop than greasy spoon, which Eve hoped would mean that its ambience might be a little calming. Old tea tins and caddies lined the walls, nestled next to coronation mugs and commemorative plates, while the teapots wore no-two-the-same hand-knitted cosies. Theirs had blue and white stripes, with a scalloped frill at the bottom. Eve touched the soft, and warm, wool. A waitress came over with their food. She tilted her head to address Duncan as she placed his plate before him, pulling back slightly as she saw his off-kilter shade. He sensed rather than saw this, and his shoulders sagged.

  The waitress leant forward again and, looking him directly in the eye, said, ‘Can I get you anything else? Any sauces for your chips?’

  Duncan smiled gratefully. ‘Some ketchup would be great.’

  She nodded. ‘Right you are.’

  Duncan looked at Eve. ‘We could just go home.’

  ‘Whatever you want,’ Eve said. ‘We should wait for your dad, but it’d be perfectly understandable if you want to give all this a break. People’s behaviour just boggles the mind. I’m sorry I said we should come out.’

  Duncan shrugged. He didn’t look at her, but said, ‘It’s not your fault. It had to happen sooner or later.’