Bright and Dangerous Objects

by Bright

  “Oh, aye,” he replies. “It can be, it can be. How long have you been trying for, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  I purse my lips. “Technically, one day.”

  The man doesn’t laugh, as I expect him to, but nods slowly. “Well, good luck, hen. I hope it works out for you.”

  I feel stupid now. The whisky is like truth serum. “I’d better get back,” I say, forcing out a yawn.

  “You’re not staying at the hotel?”

  “No, it’s just a short walk away.” I notice that I’m being protective about where exactly I’m headed. I think I trust this man. But I don’t trust men.

  “Right you are.” He winks. “Mind out for wild beasties on your way home.”

  I button my parka all the way to my chin. There are no street lamps outside, and I don’t have a flashlight, so I take out my phone and shine its pathetic greenish light ahead of me.

  Ten minutes later, I hear a scream. It’s coming from one of the fields. It’s a woman.

  I stop, rigid, listening.

  There it is again. The first time I heard it, I thought it was a scream of pain. This time it sounds different. It’s a war cry.

  •

  I can barely breathe when Lizzie answers the door.

  “I’m an idiot,” I say, panting. “Can you help me?”

  “Och, you look freezing,” Lizzie says. “Do you want to come in?”

  I put my hand to my mouth. “I just left a woman for dead.” Lizzie takes her coat from a hook by the door. “A woman? Where?”

  “Up towards the hotel. I heard a scream. Two screams. Coming from the fields.”

  Lizzie pauses, arm midway through her coat sleeve. “Did it sound like this?” She imitates the scream.

  “You heard it too?”

  Lizzie laughs. “That’ll be a wildcat, dearie. It’s mating season.”

  “Oh,” I say. “I was right about being an idiot.”

  Lizzie squeezes my shoulder. “You’re not the first to make that mistake. Now listen, did you have a good time earlier? Up Ben Hiant?”

  I’m still panting. I hope my breath doesn’t stink of whisky. “Yes. Thanks for the crampons.” I put my palms together in a prayer position. “I think I’m going to head home in the morning.”

  “Nae bother,” Lizzie says, unaware of the momentousness of the decision I’ve just made.

  As she advises me about checkout, I hear her daughters squawking like parrots in the kitchen. Before I turn to leave, I consider, for a split second, whether it would be appropriate to ask Lizzie to meet them. Obviously, the answer is no. Not my family. Not appropriate.

  Back at the hut, I get the fire going and pace up and down. Two steps in one direction, two in the other. This tiny space doesn’t feel as reassuring as it did before.

  I light all the candles in the hut, switch on the electric light by the bed, and send James a text. Back tomorrow, I tell him. Dive cut short.

  Now, I set about cooking up every item of food I have left in the hut. My blood is pumping, my slate is clear, my appetite is back.

  That four burners theory is a load of rubbish.

  I’m going to switch on all my burners, all at once, and see what happens.

  13

  Entrant: Solvig Dean

  Title: Why I Want to Be One of the First People to Live on Mars

  Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve wanted to do something so momentous that it alters the course of humankind forever.

  Does that sound narcissistic? Maybe it is. I’m just not satisfied with small achievements. A job promotion here, a marathon there. Nice as those things are, they don’t help propel humanity into a new era.

  When I was five, I watched a programme about the Apollo 11 space mission. I learnt about how Armstrong and Aldrin almost crashed into the moon, only surviving by the skin of their teeth. I remember my dad saying something like: “Ruddy hell, kid, who’d put themselves through something like that?” And I remember looking up at him, smiling sweetly, and saying: “Me, Daddy. I would.” My dad probably laughed, ruffled my hair, and asked if I wanted a chocolate Nesquik.

  Now that I’m older, I’m wiser. I know what happened on the first Apollo mission. When Grissom and the others couldn’t evacuate the spacecraft during a fire, and they burned to death before they’d even set off.

  And I know what happened to the cosmonauts in Soyuz 11 as they were returning from the Soviet space station. How they looked after their spacecraft landed, strapped to their seats, blood oozing from their ears.

  And I know what happened to Christa McAuliffe, the teacher who beat ten thousand applicants in a competition to be the first private citizen to be sent to space. I’ve seen footage of the kids on the ground, eagerly counting her down to liftoff, and I’ve seen the horror on their faces two minutes later.

  I know what Ronald Reagan said when he addressed the nation afterwards too. “It’s hard to understand, but sometimes painful things like this happen.” His white handkerchief was poking out of his jacket pocket as he looked straight into the camera. “It’s all part of the process of exploration and discovery,” he said, unwavering. “It’s all part of taking a chance and expanding man’s horizons. The future doesn’t belong to the faint-hearted.”

  When I think about those words, they make me want to shout out affirmations to the universe.

  I want to expand man’s horizons!

  I want to take a chance!

  Pain is part of the process!

  PART TWO

  14

  “The thing I love most about Caribbean food,” says James, “is that it’s such an interesting fusion of cuisines.” He washes down his curried goat with a mouthful of Jamaican Ting. “African, Cajun, Indonesian,” he continues. “Creole, Asian, European. I mean, there are so many influences.”

  I’m having ackee and saltfish with rice and plantain. “Yeah,” I say, reaching for my mocktail. “It’s tasty.”

  It’s our three-year anniversary today. Three years since we first had sex, in a tent in the Lake District. I broach this. “Do you remember that first night in the Lakes? Where was it we were staying? Somewhere near Buttermere?”

  “Wasdale Head,” says James. “By Scafell Pike. There was that woman who had a tick on her back. You had to pull it out with tweezers.”

  I smile. “Yes. And then she gave us those scones as a thank-you. We couldn’t eat them because the raisins looked like ticks.”

  James grimaces. “I love you.”

  “Love you too,” I echo.

  After the Lakes, I left my place in Liverpool and followed James down to Falmouth. As a way of forcing myself to stay in one place for a while, I decided to buy somewhere. The plan wasn’t necessarily for James to move in with me, but he did. Not stopping to think it through is probably what made it work. We just got on with it.

  “A big reason that the Caribbean is a melting pot of so many different cultures,” says James, skewering another lump of meat, “is down to its bloody past.”

  One of the waiters is looking at us.

  “This saltfish is delicious,” I say. “Want to try some?”

  James leans towards me, and I guide the fork into his open mouth. Here comes the aeroplane . . .

  I’m expecting James to give me a detailed flavour profile of the mouthful he’s eaten, but instead he says: “Listen, Solvig. I’m finding trying for a baby with you to be really gratifying. But if you ever feel like you’re not ready, then say.”

  “I want to do it. I do. Honestly.” I raise my mocktail and we clink glasses.

  The shepherd’s hut happened three months ago. I told James everything when I got back. About Rich. About leaving saturation early. About driving to the west coast to get my head straight.

  Well, I guess I didn’t tell James everything. I didn’t mention applying for the Mars Project. But why bother him with that? It’d be like stirring a pot that doesn’t need stirring.

  Since returning to Falmouth, I’ve tried to get on wit
h normal life. I’ve been running every day. I’ve eaten loaf after loaf of sourdough. I’ve had coffee with Anouk a couple of times while Nike’s at school. Anouk still looks tired, but she hasn’t doled out any more magic stones—and I haven’t told her what happened to the last one. Haven’t told her about trying for a baby either. Apart from that, it’s business as usual.

  My periods are back. An article in the paper recently said that over 60 percent of people trying for a baby conceive after three months. Over 80 percent conceive within a year. My next dive is in August.

  The newspaper article also said that after deciding to try for a baby, couples have sex an average of seventy-eight times before getting pregnant. Since I returned from Scotland, we haven’t had sex anywhere close to that number of times. But we did decide to quit drinking four weeks ago, after reading that it helps. Other things I’m doing: drinking decaf coffee, using an ovulation tracker app, and thinking maternal thoughts. Like, for instance, when I see a baby, I think about how nice it might feel to kiss its head or rub ointment onto its bottom.

  But the article said other things too. Bad things. About how a woman’s fertility deteriorates exponentially as she gets closer to forty. Not just affecting her chances of conceiving in the first place, but affecting everything: pregnancy complications, birth defects. If a woman has her first baby when she’s over thirty-five, the article said, she’s deemed a “geriatric mother.” I turned thirty-seven in February.

  “What do you fancy doing after this?” James asks. “We could go to the cinema. There’s that film Rampage, about a silverback gorilla who genetically mutates into a monster.”

  I shake my head. “Let’s just go home and have sex.”

  A young couple walks into the restaurant. Probably students. The girl’s lips are a wild shade of pink, and she exudes a confidence belied only by the magenta lines on the back of her hand: a tally of lipstick testers counting off the hours to go before her date.

  “Would you like it if I wore make-up?” I ask James.

  “I’d like you to do whatever you like,” he responds.

  “But would it turn you on?”

  He puts his hand on mine. “Seeing you happy turns me on. Speaking of which, I got you something. For our anniversary.”

  We don’t normally bother with anniversary gifts. I haven’t even bought James a card.

  “I know we’ve said we aren’t going on holiday this year,” James says. “You know, in case the timing is wrong.”

  I don’t remember agreeing to that. My hand drops first to my abdomen, then my thighs.

  “So instead of a holiday,” James continues, “I’ve used the money I’ve been putting aside for something else.” He reaches into his trouser pocket and pulls out a small black cube.

  I hope that’s not what I think it is. If it is, the answer’s no.

  “Here we go.” He opens up the tiny box. Inside is a silver ring studded with a line of diamonds. “It’s not an engagement ring. Don’t worry. I know how you feel about marriage. It’s an eternity ring.”

  “An eternity ring?”

  “To symbolise our never-ending love,” James explains. “Technically, this is a half-eternity ring, because I couldn’t afford stones all the way around.” He takes it out of the box. “But the symbolism is the same.”

  I can’t hide my shock. For my birthday, James got me an oscillating hoe and an ergonomic garden trowel. This is no trowel.

  “I don’t know what to say,” I stutter. Do I need to be on my guard every time we come out for food from now on? When James asked if I wanted to try for a baby, we were in a café. Now, it’s an eternity ring in a Caribbean restaurant. What next? Getting engaged in a chophouse? Renewing our vows at an all-you-can-eat buffet?

  “You don’t have to say anything,” James tells me. “Wear it and enjoy.”

  Hesitantly, I push the band onto my left-hand ring finger. The marriage finger. It looks like a mistake. Something so delicate, so sparkly, on me. “Thank you. I didn’t get you anything. I feel overwhelmed. I’m sorry.”

  “It suits you,” James says, with a look of pride. I’m not sure if he’s talking about the ring, or the notion of being with him for eternity.

  15

  “Can I play with Mr. Wobble now, Soffig?”

  Finally, Anouk has taken me up on my offer of babysitting. I got a call from her late last night.

  “It’s time I made some space for myself again,” she said breathlessly. “So I’m trying out a new yoga class.”

  It’s the first time Anouk has asked anyone to look after Nike. This evening, after she put her coat on, it took her twenty minutes to leave the house. She hovered in the hallway, checking and rechecking that I had everything I needed.

  “Just go,” I laughed, practically pushing her out of the door.

  Anouk stood on the doorstep. “You’ll be okay, won’t you? Make sure he has his cocoa before bed.”

  It might have been nerves, but I swear Anouk seemed shifty. She wasn’t looking me in the eye. I wonder if the yoga is a smokescreen. She could be on a date. That would be the first time she’s gone out with anyone since I’ve known her. I didn’t even realise that she was a lesbian when we first became friends. It didn’t come up in conversation for months—not because Anouk was trying to hide it. She’s just happy being single. And she was insistent about wanting to adopt a child without anyone else in the picture. “Why complicate things further?” she once told me with a shrug. But having a kid has brought out a new, softer side to her. So, who knows?

  We haven’t had one of our red-wine-fuelled heart-to-hearts for ages. I remember one such evening at the Star & Garter, on “Bluegrass and Brisket” night. As always, the place was buzzing, and it gave me a strange boldness with my best friend.

  “I nearly kissed a woman once,” I told her.

  “You’d better not be coming on to me, Solvig Dean.” Anouk waggled a finger at me, eyes sparkling, lips plump and wine-stained.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.” I winked. I’m not sure why I was flirting. I didn’t see Anouk as anything other than a friend. I never have. I mean, she’s gutsy, clever, gorgeous. Her parents are Buddhist volleyball players: she’s of the coolest stock. But I’m straight and she’s my boyfriend’s friend. Boring, but true.

  “So,” Anouk said, leaning across the table, raising her voice above the bluegrass, “why didn’t you kiss her?”

  “It was when I was doing my dive training. She had a shaved head and looked so tough I didn’t dare speak to her for, like, the first five classes.”

  “That’s so you,” said Anouk.

  “But on the last day, she stopped me as I was heading out of the building. She practically pinned me against the wall. Told me she’d got herself a job in the Gulf of Mexico—God knows how. Said she was leaving in a week. Asked if I wanted to go for a drink.”

  “And you were tempted?”

  “I said no to the drink, but I very nearly leaned in for a kiss. She was attractive—like Demi Moore in G.I. Jane. But you know what did it for me? She was about to leave the country. That’s what appealed.”

  Anouk laughed. “I don’t think that’s all it was.”

  I thought I understood what Anouk meant when she said that at the time, but now I wish I’d asked her to explain.

  “Soffig? Can I play with Mr. Wobble?”

  Nike is sitting cross-legged on the carpet, looking up at me with big, dark eyes.

  “Sorry, sweetie. I was daydreaming. I’ll get your toy out of the cupboard and you can play with it while I make you some cocoa. How about that?”

  Nike nods.

  I get up off the sofa and fetch Mr. Wobble. I’ve seen Nike playing with this thing before. It’s a wooden clown shaped like an egg, with a weight in the base, so that even when you push it over, it rights itself.

  “Take that, Wobble-Gobble!” shouts Nike, as he punches Mr. Wobble in the abdomen.

  I head into the kitchen feeling proud of myself. I’m not bad at thi
s parenting business.

  Anouk’s left a tin of cocoa on the counter. I shake some into a saucepan of milk and put the pan on the hob. I’m not sure what to do next. Do you add sugar? I chuck in a couple of spoonfuls to be sure.

  I can’t help noticing my eternity ring as I pour the mixture out into a mug. My hand looks like it belongs to someone else.

  “Come on then, big boy.” I head into the living room, where Nike is flicking his toy clown in the face. “Time for your cocoa.” I sit and pat the sofa beside me.

  Nike’s jaw drops. “We don’t have cocoa in here, stupid. We take it upstairs to my bedroom and then you tell me a bedtime story. That’s what Mummy does.” This is the first time I’ve heard Nike refer to Anouk as his mum. I’m so taken aback by it that it takes me a moment to respond.

  “Okay, chicken. Let’s go up. Leave Mr. Wobble on the carpet. I’ll put him away for you. That’s it. Chop-chop.” Where are all these words coming from? Big boy? Chicken? Chop-chop?

  He gets down on all fours and begins climbing the stairs slowly and clumsily.

  “Is that how Mummy likes you to go upstairs?” I ask dubiously.

  “Uh-huh,” he pants theatrically.

  When we reach the top, Nike takes me into his room.

  “What about your teeth?”

  “Mum lets me do them in the morning.”

  This doesn’t sound plausible. I’ll get him to brush them after the story. For now, I tell him to put on his pyjamas while I select a book from his shelf.

  “Don’t read one of them,” he says, racing over to his chest of drawers and pulling out a pair of striped pyjamas. “I’ve heard them a million times. Make something up.”

  “I don’t know if I can do that,” I laugh, trying to disguise my fear. I’ve never made up a story before. I don’t know how it works. Do you know what the ending will be before you begin? Do you make it up sentence by sentence? Do you start with a character? Or a setting?

  I look up at the ceiling as Nike starts changing. He has the same glow-in-the-dark stars that I had as a kid. His walls are painted blue, and there’s a wallpaper border featuring cartoon rockets and planets. “Are you into space, Nike?”