Acid Song (25 page)

He had them back, not on-side perhaps, but listening. And that was all he asked. All he could ever ask.

‘But eventually there must come a time to question what has become the great liberal complacency, the superstitious belief that it will always be thus, that each and every one of these studies can simply be denied, because the truth will not betray us. From where do we draw our confidence that the evolved world will only ever behave in ways we find acceptable? That nature should demonstrate such manners; now there’s a wild speculation.

‘When we started this institute we nailed our colours to the mast of scientific endeavour. You were there Susan, and well I remember our discussions. Well, science is a demanding ally. It is only by denying us the comfort of certainty that science can offer us the possibility of progress. One day our most cherished notions of human evolution may well be challenged. Perhaps that day has arrived. Perhaps not. But when it comes our stories had better be ready. The instinct to deny the unpalatable has dealt to institutions far stronger than ours. By denying Galileo, the church opened the door for The Enlightenment. Those faiths that closed their ears to Darwin confined themselves to recruiting simpletons. The truth is a formidably persistent opponent.

‘When was it decreed our stories of equality must depend upon stories of sameness? Nobody insists race is nothing but a cultural construct when it comes to developing medicine. We understand that susceptibility to certain conditions has a racial profile, as does the response to certain treatments. Nor are we shocked to find that all of the ten fastest one hundred metre times in history have been run by black athletes. This is a fact of the world we have comfortably accommodated. Cast an eye over any first fifteen rugby match in New Zealand and note the disproportionate number of early
developing athletes from the Pacific Islands. There is more to this than culture. And again we cope. You have not felt the need to boo me as I pointed out these characteristics of our racial landscape. Different peoples are on average represented by different genetic packages. This may not be true of our future, but it is true of our present. This should not, must not, does not, lead any of us to draw conclusions regarding the worth of the individuals within those populations. What is it then about the ability to manipulate abstract symbols that frightens us so, and demands this skill be treated differently from the ability to run fast, resist Malaria, or execute a bone-crunching tackle?’

Richard headed now for the peroration, which he would present in the form of an accusation.
Give the buggers something to do
. Edelman, wasn’t it?

‘What if we are the problem here? What if the unspoken assumption which fuels your rage is the belief that your ability to succeed in a world of symbolic abstractions has made you cleverer and more worthy?

‘What is it you believe sets us apart as a species? For my part I believe it is empathy: that ability to imagine ourselves into the lives of others, to see the other as an extension of the self. It is empathy that allows us to rise up above the genetic imperative, to value kith alongside kin. It is empathy that gives us a welfare system; that draws our eyes to humanitarian crises in lands we have never visited; that forces us to see our planet as the sustainer of future generations. Extending the circle of our concern is the closest thing to progress humanity can claim, and it is the great project not of the intellect, but of the spirit. And after empathy I would rank creativity, and after creativity I would rank social grace, and after social grace curiosity, and after curiosity our capacity for humour – and so my list continues. And where does IQ come? I have no idea. I’ve never managed to extend the list that far.

‘And so I have come to the conclusion we have nothing to fear from this research. And yet you hound a man to death. I speak and you try to shout me down. Why? The trouble with us liberals is this. We think we are smarter than the others, and we think this makes us better than the others. This is the contradiction which in the end will destroy our Institute.’

Silence hovered over the room, as if deciding whether or not to land. Susan stepped forward. There were tears in her eyes.

‘You’re wrong,’ she told the microphone, her voice breaking. ‘You couldn’t be more wrong.’

THE BAND HAD started and Sophie had to shout into his ear to be heard. She rested her hand on his shoulder and leaned into him.

‘What?’

‘I said is this too loud for your old ears?’

‘What?’

‘The music. Is it too loud?’

‘Yeah, good.’

He gave her an uncomprehending thumbs up and smiled. She laughed. He made her laugh. She didn’t know why. The drinks he’d bought her, she supposed; that was part of it. But only part. He wasn’t trying. He didn’t have to try. With Ollie, it was like he was always heading somewhere else, to a place he thought he was meant to be. You never got Ollie, you got Ollie’s latest version of Ollie. And then there was Sophie’s version of Sophie too, with Ollie. She’d
spent three years trying to work out where it was she was meant to take herself, the place Ollie would take himself, so that they might collide. This made no more sense now than it had five minutes ago, when she’d tried to explain it to Mr … to Luke. With guys, you were chasing shadows, your shadow and theirs, so even when you met … Ah fuck it, it made no sense. It didn’t have to make sense. His hand was on her shoulder now, she was leaning in, to hear. With him she was just what she was, suddenly comfortable with the forces throwing her about, like the bumper boats her dad took her on once when she was little. Whatever it was, it had something to do with that. He was trying to tell her something now. She watched his mouth for clues.

‘Can’t hear you,’ she pointed at the band. He looked, as if trying to work out her mime.

‘Nah,’ he shook his head. ‘I don’t dance.’

‘Wasn’t asking.’

The song finished to polite applause. She wouldn’t tell Ollie. She wouldn’t text him either. She felt the decision slam into her and spun with it.

‘Let’s get out of here.’

‘And go where?’

‘Somewhere we don’t have to shout.’

‘Any suggestions?’

She could trust him too. That was the thing. He wasn’t a guy like that. He was married, a teacher. They were playing a game, and the game was safe. It wasn’t all about getting her drunk so he could feel her tits. She could relax. Loose, that was the word. Not that sort of loose, but… ah, fuck it, words. Just words.

He held up a key.

‘I’m staying just round the corner. The hotel, you know, The … something beginning with H.’

‘Why?’

‘Complicated. It’s quiet though, if the …’

The band started and she lost the rest.

‘Does it have a mini bar?’

Sophie stood and felt a head rush, tripped into him as they tried to negotiate the table. His hand brushed against her arse as she steadied herself, but he didn’t grope her. A gentleman. She draped her arms around his neck, felt his breath on her. Laughed again. They were dancing, sort of dancing. Shit, she was more drunk than she realised. Never mind.

‘Get your fucking hands off her!’

Out of nowhere, a hand on Sophie’s shoulder in the half dark, pulling her back hard so she felt her neck wrench. Suddenly right there, larger than life and beery breathed, right in Luke’s face.

‘Ollie, what the fuck are …’

‘It’s okay, I’ve got the fucking paedophile now.’

Ollie came forward so their noses were almost touching, his and Luke’s … Mr Krane’s. Sophie felt embarrassed for Ollie, for herself for knowing Ollie. She tried to pull him back.

‘It’s nothing. He was just in here, that’s all. We were having a laugh, that’s all…’

Mr Krane had his hands up, like there was a gun pointed at him. He looked suddenly out of place, as if he’d fallen through some hole in time and had just only realised. There was a hand around Sophie’s waist. She turned to see Ratchet, his face broken in two by an ugly grin. The band was getting louder. All around people were dancing. The movement spilled over, jostling and pushing. Ratchet let himself fall against her.

‘It’s okay Sophie,’ he whispered. ‘We’re here now.’

‘Calm down Ollie, I’m just in a bar, having a drink, I saw Sophie, you just need to …’

Mr Krane was having to shout to be heard, and Ollie was just smiling at him, nodding his head, waiting for the moment. Out of
it. He was definitely out of it, now she looked. She needed to warn Mr Krane. He wouldn’t get that. He’d think they could talk about it, like it was at school. He needed to back away.

‘Ollie! Fucken listen to me!’ Sophie screamed.

‘I’m dealing with this cunt. Fuck up.’

‘Come on now, you don’t need to talk like …’

Ollie pushed him hard, two hands on the chest. Mr Krane stumbled back, caught off balance, looking soft. Sophie tried to break free but Ratchet wasn’t letting go. She saw Bomber, back near the bar with Gash, watching, ready to block the way if anybody tried to get involved.

He stood again, Mr Krane, hands still out in compromise.

‘Ollie, I just …’

Ollie was bobbing from the waist. He came again, leading with his head. Maybe it was luck, maybe skill, but Mr Krane weaved and Ollie tumbled. He reached out for support as he went down and caught hold of a dancer’s hair. The woman screamed, stepped back. Asian.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’

Ollie glared up at her.

‘Let me fucking go,’ Sophie hissed.

‘Settle love, you’re making me hard.’ Ratchet took a handful of arse and squeezed.

Ollie didn’t apologise to the dancer, just smiled a leery smile and blew her a kiss. The guy she was dancing with pushed forward.

‘Fuck off mate.’

‘No, leave it Simon,’ the Asian girl told him. ‘Come on, it’s okay.’

He was tall: an Islander by the looks of it, clean cut, a big bastard. Bigger than Ollie. A lot fucking bigger than Ollie. He didn’t have to leave it if he didn’t want to.

‘Just back off mate, okay?’

Like magic they were beside him, Bomber and Gash.

‘This nigger giving you trouble?’ Bomber demanded. Ratchet
pressed forward, loosening his hold of Sophie’s waist. She slipped away and reached out for Mr Krane’s hand. He was her responsibility. She’d get him out of this safely.

The band hit the chorus and the crowd began to sing along.
Welcome Home.

‘Come on, let’s go.’

Mr Krane looked at her like she was using the wrong language. Why were people always the most useless when they could least afford to be?

‘Look here, you fat fuck.’

That was the Asian, raising her voice, making it hard for all the people pretending they hadn’t noticed.

‘Eve, leave it.’

‘Yeah, that’s right you fucking Nip, listen to your nigger.’

The four boys pressed forward as one, like they had so many times. Sophie was pulling Mr Krane towards the stage. They could get round the back and out the door on the other side. He was resisting. Like he thought there was something he could do about this. Fucking school teacher. Through the dancing Sophie could see the bouncers, leaning on the door, sharing a joke with a barmaid who’d gone out for a cigarette. But they’d be there once the punching started.

The Islander stepped forward, trying to push his way past Bomber. The Asian had his hand. They were just trying to get out of there. They weren’t making trouble. Ollie launched first. Sophie got a clear view of it. Out of nowhere, a straight punch, but the guy moved and it only grazed his chin. It still hadn’t started. Then Ollie went again, losing it this time, arms flailing. The bouncers were already moving when the first clean punch landed. The Islander caught Ollie hard on the nose and he fell like a kid, crumpled. A pressure wave surged through the crowd as the bouncers tried to push people aside. Bomber was in there, landing his big fat punches. The Asian was screaming. Gash was laughing, dancing about, his black eyes tripping out.

The noise pushed in on her. There was no room. That was the problem. No room for dancing, for escaping, no room for making choices, for being either in or out. No room even for a proper fight. Just one room, one noise, everybody part of it, and the noise growing louder. One scream rising above all the others: above the swearing, the grunting, the demands, the crazy beating from the drummer who was playing through it all.

Sophie saw it. Saw Gash looking down at his hand, saw the flash of metal, the blood.

‘YOU’RE WRONG!’ SHE screamed it at him, and somehow as the noise began to rise around him, Richard found himself screaming back.

‘I am not wrong.’

This is what it had come to. Thirty years of posturing to be resolved in a playground fight. It was personal now, him and her. The audience just happened to be there. There just happened to be a microphone between them, and a camera running.

‘Of course I don’t trust the people,’ Susan screamed at him. ‘I’m one of the people, and I don’t trust myself.’

‘I can see why,’ he retorted, but they were well past being cute.

‘Forget Rousseau,’ she told him, leaning right into his face like she was calling him out in a bar. It was farcical, he knew it was farcical, and yet he wasn’t stepping back. Couldn’t step back. ‘We’re not noble savages. We’re not noble anything. You want to know what we are?
We’re stories. Layers and layers of stories, all the way down. The Institute was never built on science, and I’m sorry if that’s how you remember it. The Institute was built on story. We recognised a responsibility, to be part of the stories of the next generation. And this, this …’ she flailed her arms about. If only he’d used PowerPoint, she’d have had something concrete to accuse. ‘This story doesn’t belong here. Who do you think lives out there Richard? You think they all spend their lives sipping Pinot and reading Proust?’

‘I hate Proust.’

‘You hate people.’

‘That’s outrageous.’

‘What do you think the newspapers are going to do when they get hold of this, you pompous old fool? Run a four page feature on the theory of social contract, or lead with a headline that reads “Smart Gene found in Europeans”?’