Ivon lays his hand on the ball and states clearly and loudly: ‘Fun, style and excellence!’
There is another cheer, and the men and women of the Fellowship of Dig turn to each other in a flurry of Welsh hand-shaking and a murmuring of mantras. Garbo approaches Ivon with hand outstretched again. As they shake, he dips his head slightly and says: ‘Dig deep for your soul, brother!’
Ivon nods, and soon he is surrounded by friendly well-wishers.
Dusty pulls away from the Swansea West Hostel for the English. Within moments, he is drifting serenely along the M4, in and out of the Lapsed Era cars of the Welsh, soon to leave behind their endearing sturdiness for his lonely journey into England.
He is tingling from the events of the day before. If the ramparts of his discipline, built up over a lifetime in the Perpetual Era, have been crumbling these past few months, yesterday cracked open the soft core at their heart, the essence of something delicate they had been protecting from the outside world – or imprisoning, deep within himself. He cried. It was tentatively at first. The little droplets in his eye and on his cheek confused him. But then, just as Wales felt like home after his first visit, so he settled into tears, once he became familiar with the curious relief they seem to provide. Now he feels he could slip into them at any time.
He and Dee wept in each other’s arms for long stretches of the afternoon. She, with all her experience in emotion, gently eased him in. Dusty had felt naked and vulnerable, but she helped him see the natural, eternal truth of what they were doing. Her tears fell on his shoulder, and his in her hair. It has created something between them. That and the years. Mutual recognition of the long history between them, which isn’t there in the eyes of his old acquaintances in England. He can’t get Dee out his mind, or the afternoon they spent in each other’s tears.
And then there’s the figure presiding over it all, this Lapsed Era cricketer, David Gower. It makes sense – to a degree. They read the biography of his life as if it were the biography of their own, the life they never knew they’d led, because they hadn’t. Only the memories of it must have been lying all those years in their minds, and the spirit – the noble, subversive spirit – that had all the while tried to infiltrate Dusty’s consciousness, no matter how model a Perpetual citizen he became. Now, it floods through him.
Dee and he had nodded in recognition at the details of that life. The Tiger Moth Gower had flown low over his teammates in defiance of authority. Of course he had. The car he’d driven across a frozen lake and lost beneath the ice. The childhood in Africa, the adolescence in Canterbury, the afternoons under a wide sky, the shots, the laughter, the revelry. And, underpinning everything, the notion that it should be fun, stylish and beyond analysis.
This man was the skill host for the ill-fated TMS procedure of 2111. Dee and Dusty knew it immediately. Ricky would know, too, or Daniel Attention or any of the others, if they could see what Dusty and Dee have seen. But why? Why would the Institute of Improvement have chosen a man from the Lapsed Era as skill host? It was the very first Transmigration of the Skill procedure. Surely there were more suitable candidates from the Perpetual Era. This is where the sense runs out.
‘And why did we receive all this stuff from our host, these memories and attitudes?’ asked Dee, banging her head with the heel of her hand. ‘We were only supposed to get his cover drive.’
Dee.
He will bring Ivon home to her. He must. He imagines her reaction to seeing him again. The tears. Could Dusty be there to share in them?
He comms Ivon now. The voice at the other end is faintly hoarse.
‘Why are you vocalising, Ivon?’ says Dusty.
‘I feel rough as a dog.’
The roughness fills Dusty’s head. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Oh, Dusty, I got shit-faced last night. Absolutely wrote myself off.’
Dusty has no idea what he’s talking about, but he is anxious suddenly. Ivon’s gravelly voice, twisted with the contortions of his vocal chords, is very Welsh, far from the perfect sonorousness of a voiceless comm. There are many obstacles to Ivon’s repatriation, not least the threat of summary apprehension. London is tolerating his eccentricity for now, but patience could run out at any moment. If there is to be any hope, his very Welshness must play itself down. Dusty’s instinct tells him that this latest affectation is the result of activity quite the opposite of that.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I got drunk. I’m hungover. I’ve got to play today.’
‘You’ll be all right, though,’ says Dusty, more in hope.
‘Yeah. Course I will. It’ll be like the old days.’
‘What were you doing?’
‘Ah, these people! It was like being back at home! I got picked up and taken to Canterbury last night. They were all sitting round in this cathedral, and they welcomed me like I was, I dunno, a long-lost brother or something. There was this old geezer going on about the way sport used to be. The way it still is in Wales, I told them. Then we all went to the pub and drank. What a laugh! This is more like it! English people who are fun!’
‘Who are these people?’
‘They call themselves the Fellowship of Dig.’
‘Never heard of them.’
‘They’re a bunch of reprobates, I tell yer! Proper laugh. It’s a secret society dedicated to the undermining of Perpetual values. Brilliant! They have meetings around the country. It’s got regional branches and everything. All run by this old man.’
A chilling thought dawns on Dusty. ‘An old man? What do you mean? How old?’
‘Proper old. Welsh old.’
‘You mean he’s an Exempt?’
‘If you say so.’
‘Did you get his name?’
‘Sicarus, or something.’
‘Syracuse Garbo.’
‘That’s the one.’
Dusty vocalises his next words, as he tries to remain calm. ‘I should very much like to speak with Syracuse Garbo.’
‘Not a problem. We have an arrangement. If I ever need him…’
‘Be careful, Ivon. Be very careful.’
He is drunk no more. Where his head had been awash only a few hours ago with the bubbling currents of a long night of revelry, now the waters have receded to expose the hideous pulsar of fear, heavy and intense. The transition from drunkenness has been inexorable and is now complete, uninterrupted by anything so sensible as a night’s sleep.
He has eaten pasta. Not as much as he’d have liked, but hopefully enough. In Wales he had found eating pasta the most effective way to conceal alcohol on his breath. For his lunch at the refectory today, he tried to sneak in an extra portion, instead of his match-day quota of fruit, but Perpetual Era technology scuppered him again. He’d had his 207 grams of enhanced pasta, 3 hours, 47 minutes before game time; the dispenser would not let him have any more. At least he was on his own. His teammates have more efficient digestive systems than he does, and the first of them were coming in for their allotted lunchtimes just as he was leaving his. He was careful to turn his face away, or at least his mouth.
Not that it made much difference. His new teammates are so indifferent to his existence not one of them would voluntarily look him in the eye anyway, still less smell his breath. He’s beginning to miss the guys at URL. At least they were hostile towards him, showed evidence of feeling. Some of this lot are as impenetrable as the shiny glass fabric of their city. Ivon swears he can see a field of vision shine forth from each pair of eyes, like headlights from a car. The young ones, these new DGF athletes they keep going on about, don’t seem to register anything beyond their raison d’être, rugby.
Only a few of the older ones have acknowledged his existence of their own accord. A couple of them on his first day went so far as to be aggressive.
‘You’re the one who won’t take his genetic modifiers, aren’t you?’ said one of the front-row forwards, a man of formidable width, with a swarthy, handsome face.
At the time,
Ivon had groaned inwardly at yet another display of hostility towards the Welshman, but, in light of the indifference since, he looks back at it now almost with affection. ‘That’s right,’ he replied.
And another of the older players, a No. 8 by the name of Mike Bulstrode, came over to join the conversation. ‘Why would you do that? A chain is only as strong as its weakest link. You’re putting us all at risk.’
‘I’m not going to be your weakest link. You’ll see.’
‘You’ll take them eventually,’ said Bulstrode.
‘I will never take performance-enhancing drugs,’ said Ivon, the blood rising within him.
His two inquisitors studied him for a moment, looked at each other, then walked away conferring with each other.
He can’t find any purchase on his new teammates. He’s been an elite for only three days, but there are no promising kinks in the team’s uniformity for him to wheedle his way in through, no Tim the scrum-half among this lot. The half-backs here are as serious as the forwards, as serious as the coaches, as serious as the computers running the show.
There’s not even a captain for him to appeal to, or be chastised by.
‘We don’t need captains in elite,’ said Doug, one of the scrum-halfs, on Ivon’s first day. ‘We have ProzoneX.’
Now the indifference is starting to close in. Ivon is hungover. He is ill at ease. He is in pain. He sits deep in the bowels of Twickenham. The ominous rumble from the crowd warming up throbs throughout his head. It is not as harsh a transmission of sound as at the White City Stadium, but it is more diffuse, all around, part of the walls, the floor, the air. He is afraid of emerging from his cubicle. This is not Ivon. He is on the bench today, although no one has put it to him like that. He is part of the elite squad. They are all here, all available, with fifteen of them starting the game. He can discern no hierarchy, no personalities. They are all London Rugby. And, today, Tyne and Wear are the opposition.
The fear is strong in him now. When they come out into the stadium, he and the other forty-four members of the squad not starting the match take their place on ergonomic seats, down by pitch-side. The stadium is vast. Ivon guesses there are more than ninety thousand people present, but it’s hard to tell with the levers flashing round the four steep tiers, like arms brandished against the fainthearted. When the teams take to the field, the levers are brought to rest, and a hush descends, forcing Ivon to confront his situation.
He has never been a reserve before. How can he prepare when he doesn’t know if or when he’ll be on? What should he be doing, what thinking? He can’t think. He can’t focus. The Rhossili stone felt alien in his hands when he tried to commune with it earlier in the changing room. He is cut adrift. His mother and father are far from here. His father is a drunk. He is a drunk. Why didn’t they run a fitness test on him before the game? They should have run one. They just assume he’s fit. Like all the other elites around him. But he’s not. He’s not fit. Not for this. The bench. He should be great on a bench. Just play. As and when. Fuck it. No pressure. Be brilliant. His head is sore. Sore afraid. This is not Ivon.
He looks to either side of him. Square jaws and eyes set with focus. Not a fidget or tremor. The line of elites is strong, and oblivious to him.
An hour into the game, he is called. The voice of one of the coaches is in his head. Neither of the other fly-halfs in the squad are fully fit. He’s going on for the last 20 minutes. Just follow the instincts, the coach tells him, whatever they may say.
Ivon rises from his seat and is admitted into the transition compound where he begins to warm up. London are losing, but their performance is improved. Their starting fly-half, Spencer, approaches the transition compound, clutching his elbow. His collarbone has snapped. Out for two weeks. He is short and powerful, in contrast to Ivon’s longer, more languid bearing. Ivon watches him enter the compound. No words or glances are exchanged. Ivon is released onto the pitch.
His fear recedes, as he walks onto the stage. But this is still not Ivon. It doesn’t feel like his stage today. He is a guest. There is meekness in him. That is what it is. The will is missing.
He receives the ball from a line-out, his first touch, and knows before he knows that he is to throw a miss pass to his outside centre. It is executed immaculately, for this is still the body of Ivon. His array of skills remains extensive and of a premium grade. It will be put to good use in the minutes that follow. ProzoneX knows precisely what its new asset is capable of. Ivon’s head is fuzzy and unsure, but no matter. He has ceded control of it to the computer. The body responds. Smoothly, the ball is sent to those areas of the field the computer targets in its shifting engagement with Tyne and Wear’s Strategy and Direction software.
At one point, Ivon sees the eyes of a defender drift from him to the man outside. He knows what this means. He has seen it many times. Where the eyes lead, the focus follows, and with it the body. The defender inside doesn’t have him covered. A dummy, a step, and Ivon would be away, no matter how strong these new opponents, no matter how quick. But ProzoneX has other strategies, and Ivon turns the pass inside to set up the next ruck. He does not resist, even though he will lie awake in the nights to come despairing over the opportunity missed.
With five minutes remaining, London trail by six points. They are awarded a penalty, when the Tyne and Wear No. 12 is offside. Ivon steps forward to take the ball. The kick at goal is straightforward, and he is aware of an instinct to gesture at the posts for the attempt at three points. This time, though, he stops himself.
‘Wait!’ he says in appeal, if not to ProzoneX, then to the coaches at least. ‘Surely we go for the corner! I’ll put us close, then we go for the drive.’
‘The decision’s been made.’
‘But we’re six points behind! We need to score a try!’
‘Take the kick, 10!’
‘This is the fucking computer again, isn’t it!’
Ivon is visited once more by the impulse to point at the posts. He follows it. The kick is successful, and the thunder of 90 000 workouts strikes up. He turns to jog back into position, urgency gathering within him. He knows he must win them this game now or suffer the agonies of his darkest mood when next he is alone. Even if he does win it, will he ever forgive himself for ceding control to a computer?
Two minutes to go, and Ivon shapes to punt for the corner. The contact is sweet, and the ball erupts from his foot with that special propulsion, seemingly greater than the force he has imparted on it. It spirals towards the corner, some 60 metres away, over the head of the covering winger, lands just a few feet infield and scuds poetically into touch. Ivon imagines the lyrical roar from the St Helen’s faithful at so divine a kick, but the din from the Twickenham crowd does not fluctuate, as they continue to pump through the points from his penalty.
London’s forwards run towards the corner bellowing exhortations at themselves, which Ivon can barely hear above the noise. Tyne and Wear win the line-out but are unable to gain much ground with the clearance. When London secure the next line-out, they develop a rolling maul. Tyne and Wear collapse it 10 metres short. Penalty to London. Thirty seconds remaining. The stadium falls silent, the latest points pumped through.
Ivon feels the alien inclination again. ProzoneX wants him to kick at goal and settle for the draw.
‘No!’ he cries, in protest.
The forwards jog past him towards the halfway line, the penalty won, the decision relayed. Ivon runs up to a few of them, trying to make eye contact.
‘You’ve got these fuckers on toast!’ he yells. ‘Let’s go again! The corner! We can win this, boys!’
None of them responds. He runs in front of Mike Bulstrode, determined to force his attention. With a fearsome fist, Bulstrode brushes him aside and jogs on.
‘Ten!’ says a voice, loud but steady in his head. ‘We’re taking the kick. It is decided.’
The impulse to point at the posts overtakes him one last time, and he gives in.
‘But we can win
this!’ he pleads. ‘You’re settling for the draw! And that’s if I land the kick!’
‘ProzoneX computes that, on this form, there is a 73 per cent chance of you doing that. The probability of a try from this position is 23.2 per cent. We are on a losing streak. We will take the kick and bank a much-needed pump of 20 minutes for the draw. If you convert it.’
A corridor of light has lit up under the turf from the point of the offence, leading away from the try line, parallel to touch. From anywhere along it he may take the kick. Ivon lines up the ball, 30 metres away from the try line, 10 metres in from touch. There are 90 000 people in the stadium, but he does not feel their eyes upon him. Most are not watching. There is murmuring, conversation. His soul is disengaged. Going for goal is not his decision. This game has not been his, even if it lies within his compass, and his alone, to secure the result. He takes his regulation steps away from the ball – three back, two to the side. He pictures the ball leaving its tee, turning end over end on its ascension, the poise at its height and the sighing descent towards a resting place beyond the posts. He commences his run-up and strikes. It is good.
The stadium pumps roar into life, but Ivon is already heading to the changing rooms.
There are Perpetual handshakes all round. In Wales, a room of this size would be steaming with the sweat and mud of so many rugby players, but here the air is clear. Ivon still doesn’t know how they do that. He sits on the bench, away from the earnest congratulations being passed about among his new teammates.
In Wales, Ivon would have had his first slug from a can by now. Kit would be strewn across the floor, the air thick with steam and song, shirts off, lesions livid and untreated, the pain throbbing blissfully through wracked bodies at the end of their ordeal, soon to shower, soon to dress in shirt and tie, from the primeval to the civilised in 45 minutes, with just a hint of trauma maybe, on the brow, or across the cheek, to wear as the reminder of what they’d been through that afternoon. He should be going from here up to the bar to meet Cerys, Mum, Dad and carouse the night away with teammates and loved ones – is there any distinction? – in that happy Welsh haze.
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