Malcolm and Juliet (12 page)
‘Kevin. Sorry to call so late. Look, the thing is, I have to have that camera back. See, it doesn’t belong to me, and I can’t afford to lose it.’
It was Malcolm, Kevin’s other problem.
‘Ah, come in. Yeah, have a seat. Sorry about the mess. Would you like something to drink?’
‘I just need the gear, then I’ll go,’ Malcolm told him.
‘Look, I can give you the camera back, but you have to delete the file. Sorry.’
‘Right. Um, perhaps we could negotiate.’
‘There’s nothing to negotiate,’ Kevin told him, trying to sound more certain than he felt.
‘Look, I know why you want to delete it. You’re scared people will find out, aren’t you? About your feelings for Brian.’
‘Not people. Brian. I’m scared Brian will find out.’
‘Well then,’ Malcolm told him, ‘as I’m the only other person who knows, if you give me the camera, I promise not to tell anyone, not a soul.’
‘But that’s the thing,’ Kevin pointed out. For a supposed genius this Malcolm guy was being fairly thick. ‘It’s on the camera. So me letting you have the camera, so no one will find out what’s on it, doesn’t make much sense does it?’
‘I don’t need that bit though. I’ll edit it out.’
‘I’m sorry but I don’t trust you. It’s nothing personal. I don’t think I would trust anybody in these circumstances. I can’t afford to. So you’re not having it. End of story. Goodbye.’
Kevin tried to be forceful, even though he knew what would happen next. To be fair, Malcolm didn’t look like he enjoyed saying it.
‘Ah, you have to trust me Kevin, because I’m afraid if you don’t give me the camera then I will tell everybody what I heard. Promise. I will ring Brian, this very evening, as soon as I leave the house, and I will tell him.’
‘That’s blackmail,’ Kevin protested, hoping he could at least stop himself from crying.
‘I know, and I don’t like using it but, well, it is very effective and I really do need that footage. Sorry.’
‘But, but…’ Kevin was as desperate as he was short of ideas. He would have to fold, and hope he could trust this scientific pervert. ‘Can’t I just give you something else instead? Anything you want, it’s yours. Name your price. Please!’
‘Kevin,’ Malcolm said. ‘You don’t have anything I want. See, that footage is the thing I need most. It’s my future. But I don’t want to hurt you. So give me the camera, and what I’ll do, for nothing, is I’ll ring up Charlotte and get her to promise not to tell anyone either. She will. She loves me, remember.’
It wasn’t fair and Kevin wanted to shout it out, stamp his feet and throw things round and cry why why why until the neighbours rang to complain about the noise. He wanted to turn back time, so he could keep his big mouth shut. He wanted to be transported to an alternative universe, where Brian was his stalker. He wanted Malcolm to notice the tears in his eyes and take pity on him. He wanted a thousand impossible things, but there was no point wanting. Wanting was what had caused all the trouble in the first place.
‘Okay. I’ll get it for you. I couldn’t find the damned file anyway.’
‘Oh right. They are quite tricky. It’s my auntie’s. She’s a digital junkie. You want to see her house. Computer in every room, blue-ray recorder, the car’s got wireless, the kitchen table’s a converted photocopier.’
Photocopier.
It hit Kevin just in time, a reproductive flash of recovered memory. Nothing to offer indeed!
‘No wait. I’ve changed my mind.’
‘What?’
‘I want to bargain again. You delete the file now, but I give you something much much better.’
‘I’ve already told you. There’s nothing—’
‘No, listen first. This is good. See I know something you can film. I work at the school, as a cleaner, and well, it’s all to do with Mr Ramsay.’
As Malcolm walked the corridors on the way to Mr Ramsay’s office, he was sure of one thing. He was a Scientist. If this whole film debacle had taught him nothing else it had taught him this. Sure, he was other things too. He was a son, and a friend, a teenage ball of confusion, a hormonal maelstrom and a failed lover; but most of all he was a Scientist. That’s why he felt so lightheaded, laptop under his arm, the clip digitised and ready to play. Malcolm was coming home. Home to Science.
Malcolm knocked on the principal’s door and let himself in without being invited. Mr Ramsay, who was in a meeting with the ailing Ms Margin, Head of Economics, did not look impressed. Not impressed turned quickly to furious when Malcolm, ignoring them both, went about setting up the laptop in the corner of the room.
‘Malcolm, what on earth do you think you’re doing? Can’t you see I’m in the middle of a meeting?’
‘Oh, she’s most welcome to stay. In fact, you might want to call in Ms Charters too. She’s come out rather well on camera.’
‘Malcolm, I have no idea what you…’
‘Did you know, Ms Margin,’ Malcolm continued, enjoying the power more than he’d anticipated, ‘that Mr Ramsay here has accused me of being a pervert? Well I’ve got a little something here that I’m sure is going to change his mind. Perhaps you’d like to stay and give your opinion.’
Ms Margin gave the smile-without-understanding she was famous for and Mr Ramsay, finally realising what this might be about, cut in.
‘Ah, Ms Margin. I think it’s best we continue this discussion at a later date. Thank you.’
‘Oh, I really wouldn’t mind, if you think it might be helpful…’
‘It’s sex Ms Margin,’ Malcolm added. ‘I think you might enjoy it.’
‘Another time,’ and Mr Ramsay manhandled her through the door, then turned and slammed it behind him. Pure hatred filled his eyes now as he lumbered towards the student he had once favoured.
‘I have of course made back-ups,’ Malcolm warned. ‘So don’t try anything stupid.’
Mr Ramsay stopped, hesitated and then retreated to his desk.
‘All right Malcolm, what do you want?’
‘No so much. Just let me enter the Science Fair. And maybe you could let me have an interview too.’
‘You realise blackmail is a serious crime?’ Mr Ramsay tried.
‘So how long have you been shagging your secretary then?’ Malcolm replied.
‘Malcolm, I’m warning you, you can only push me so far.’
‘All right then. I suppose an interview would be a bit much. You’re actually a bit disappointing on film anyway. But just so there’s absolutely no misunderstanding, I have here the official entry form, so if you could just sign it here, where it says Principal…’
He placed the piece of paper on the desk and watched as the principal laboured his name, as if every letter was written in his own blood.
‘Thank you ever so much. I will of course do you proud.’
Malcolm felt sure Juliet would be proud too, but her reaction was disappointing. She wasn’t convinced it was a good idea to drop the television angle and put all their energy back into the Science Fair. Malcolm pointed out to her that the first prize was worth $1000 and he’d be happy to let her have it, because all he wanted was the ego-feed of victory, but she brightened only slightly at the offer. Malcolm understood her unease. So much would still be left to chance. There was always the risk of the unknown competitor, or the unbalanced judge.
But Malcolm was confident nevertheless. He knew things Juliet couldn’t know, and felt things Juliet couldn’t possibly feel. He had caught one of life’s great waves, he could feel the surge of it beneath him, and he wasn’t going to get off until he felt the grind of sand beneath his board. So many things were coming together, and the excitement of it was making sleep difficult.
Things like the unexpected victory over Mr Ramsay, which had been handed to him. And the film itself, now that he was deep into the editing stage. It was better than he’d dared hope. The clarity, the composition, the content and the continuity, combined to form a record of endeavour he would always be proud of. Finally, and if he was honest with himself, most importantly, there was Charlotte.
It was awkward of course, ringing her after his hurried departure from the caravan, but ring her he did, because he knew he might never catch another wave like this again. He rang, she answered. He apologised, she listened quietly. Then he listened while she apologised back, although he couldn’t quite work out what for. Then he asked her to help with the editing of the film, because it was easier than asking her to go back to the caravan, and she said yes. She asked how long it would take and he told her quite a while, because it seemed silly not to make the most of the opportunity. Every evening this week, he told her, just the two of them, in the dark confines of the converted library storeroom which the school prospectus called its Editing Suite.
And she didn’t seem to mind at all. She didn’t mention the caravan, and how she’d said she loved him, and Malcolm didn’t explain how he was beginning to think he might love her too, because a wave is still only a wave, and there’s nothing worse than getting too fancy and falling off halfway through the ride.
They spent the next four evenings together, pressed close about the mac’s wide screen, and those four evenings were undoubtedly the happiest times of Malcolm’s short life. The smell of her deodorant, the sound of her voice, softening with familiarity, the curve of her finger on the mouse, these things swamped his imagination. And the thought of the coming day of triumph, standing there on the Civic Centre stage, accepting first prize, with Charlotte looking on, well that was almost more than his poor body could take.
From the first night it was clear there was more to Charlotte than Malcolm could ever have hoped for. Her mind was sharp, her concentration unbreakable and she possessed a knowledge of the film-making process which bordered upon the unnatural. Each evening Malcolm looked for a moment where he could divert the focus from cut and paste to matters hormonal, but each evening he found excuses not to. So the emotion was transferred to the screen, the shaping of their little baby, and some nights the unspoken passion was so palpable the painted walls of the makeshift studio turned red with embarrassment.
Malcolm took to walking the long way home each night, trying to find relief in the cool evening air, but he would still arrive back in his bedroom with a headful of unseasonable heat. Sleep was impossible. It was in those small disturbed hours that he made himself a promise. After the competition, he said to himself, once the prize is mine, then I will tell her how I feel.
According to competition rules Malcolm was allowed to invite five people to the official dinner and prize-giving ceremony. He asked Charlotte, of course, his parents, Juliet, and lastly, Kevin, who seemed in need of cheering up these days. It turned out that Juliet had already received an invitation in the mail, something to do with her father probably; so Malcolm invited Mr Ramsay. Predictably, the good principal declined the opportunity to view first hand the work of a fellow pervert.
Although the prizes would not be announced until after dinner, the reception opened at 4 p.m., giving the guests a chance to wander through the exhibits of the fifty national Finalists. As a place-getter last year, Malcolm had his entry accepted straight into the Finals, so it would also be the film’s first screening. Malcolm spent all morning getting ready: washing, combing, shaving and practising his acceptance speech. He even filmed it, so he could view and refine his performance. He wore a tuxedo his mother had rented especially for the big occasion. It was a bit over-the-top, but if you couldn’t get down and geeky at a National Science Fair Final, well there was something quite wrong with the world.
There was something quite wrong with the world, Juliet decided, when the quality of her future could be decided here, in a competition she hadn’t even entered. She was sick with worry, and lack of food, and too little sleep. She wandered through the exhibits, trying to see the displays as the judges would see them, looking for the spark of imagination, the taper of talent, that could incinerate Malcolm’s greatest day.
On first appearances there didn’t seem to be much to worry about. Natural disasters were popular again this year: two earthquakes studies, three on floods, and another on the Forces of Nature in general. There was the usual worthy attempt to convert waste products into fuel and a psychological experiment involving lights which she didn’t quite understand.
Juliet was also captured for a moment by exhibit number seventeen, which consisted of nothing more than a wall-mounted camera that had somehow been programmed to focus on onlookers such as herself and then project their distorted images onto a blank screen. A superimposed
WE’RE WATCHING YOU
pulsed over the top. It was all a little creepy, under the circumstances, but without any sort of explanatory legend it was difficult to see how it had made the Finals.
The sight of a growing crowd around Malcolm’s exhibit lifted Juliet’s spirits. Maybe he was right. Maybe his product was simply too good not to win. She looked around but she couldn’t see him anywhere so she hung there with the other viewers and watched the thirty-minute presentation right through. She’d seen most of it before, but not in its finished state. Going by the reactions of those around her it was making its mark. They chuckled at Malcolm’s commentaries, gasped at Kevin’s flesh, laughed out loud at Brian and turned away in embarrassment at some of the more explicit scenes.
Juliet was surprised to see almost all of her interview included, and felt awkward standing there as it aired. One old dear, thick make-up plastered over the cracks, leaned towards her and whispered, ‘good on you’ which made Juliet smile. By the time Malcolm arrived, Charlotte on his arm, Juliet was feeling almost optimistic.
‘You two, come here.’ They looked good together, happy in a way that is hard to fake. Juliet hugged them both. ‘It looks wonderful, and everybody loves it. You must feel good.’
‘I’ll feel better when I’ve got that prize,’ Malcolm replied. ‘Have you had a look around yet?’
‘Briefly.’
‘Quite a low standard this year don’t you think?’ But he didn’t sound confident.
