The Blue Book (3 page)

‘I know one and one is two, yes.' She tries to smile calmly, because this might be the correct response.

When he looks at her directly there is something about the deep of the man's eyes which makes her reach and find Derek's hand, tug him round by it to stand beside her. Elizabeth is not absolutely surprised when this doesn't make her feel more at ease. She seems only to be demonstrating a public weakness, a lapse in taste.

The stranger continues, apparently concentrating on forcing himself inside his words, increasing their density, and yet staying as motionless as he can be while still managing to speak, ‘Then what would be the number you would pick – just a game – can we play a game? – one number between one and ten – what would you pick? – you might want to think for your number carefully, search, maybe discount inappropriate options – or else you could choose the first one, your very first choice, the one that seemed right, that immediate choice. Or you could change your mind. Because everyone's free to do that. Of course.'

He could be an entertainer.

Either very successful, or very not.

‘No. Really. Indulge me. Genuinely think of a number between one and ten. You can't be wrong. Just give me a number.'

He waits politely.

A paid entertainer.

He continues to wait, but with no suggestion that he doubts she will eventually oblige him.

‘Seven.'

‘Really? Seven. You're sure?'

Stage clothes and pretending. An act.

When she says it again, ‘Seven,' she sounds sharp and has the sense that she has become a small focus for others' interest. She wishes the man would go away.

Instead, he very carefully smiles at her. ‘And another? He shows her exactly the face of an understanding friend, a man to whom she could say anything in any way and be entirely understood, a gentle man and a gentleman, a rare thing. He shows her precisely and tenderly calibrated fellow feeling. For the space of two words it roars and flares and is unpreventable. It comforts. It is built to do nothing but. Then he puts it away. ‘Another? If you wouldn't mind.'

‘Two.'

‘And another?'

She can feel Derek's arm leaning against hers, but he says nothing to help her. She is the one that speaks. ‘Five. No, eight. Eight.'

‘You're good at this. Now reverse them – those numbers. Do you need a piece of paper to work this out? I think I have a piece of paper . . .' He contemplates his coat and its pockets again severely.

‘
Seven five eight
in reverse is
eight five seven.
I can remember that much.' Which didn't seem petulant and ungrateful before she'd said it, heard it, but it clearly was – undoubtedly she is being a bad sport. No, she is being put in the wrong – when none of this is anything she asked for.

The man blinks, takes himself close to the edge of a grin, conspiratorial, charming. ‘But you chose seven
two
eight . . .' He pauses to clear his throat. ‘If seven
five
eight would be better . . .' The amusement flickers in again.

‘It would.'

‘Beautiful.' Although for an instant he frowns, considers, then, ‘So now you can subtract them from each other –
seven five eight
from
eight five seven
. What would that make ?'

‘That would be . . . Nine . . . That would be ninety-nine.'

‘As opposed to sixty-six, if we picked another point of view . . . And if you add those numbers together – nine and another nine – that would be . . .'

‘Eighteen.'

‘And then subtract the one from the eight. Because we can't leave it be. Poor eighteen.'

‘Seven.'

‘Seven. Which is the number you first thought of, isn't it . . . ? Oddly. Seven. And I'll show . . . I'll show you seven. In a manner of speaking. I have it here.' This time he is more assured as he manhandles his coat and fetches out a thumbed book from one of its pockets – she can't see the cover. ‘Would you say you were determined, a determined person? If you don't mind my asking . . .' The man angles his head towards Derek and grins, rapidly boyish and then smoothed again. ‘Is the lady determined? I have no idea, but she does seem that way – admirable, if I can say so – which is why I asked – I wouldn't ask if I thought it wasn't probable – determination, that shows in the face – like . . .
mercy
, for example –
kindness
– betrayal, grief . . .'

He can't shut up. He's stuck in this, talking it through to the end. Patter. Spitting out the patter, no matter what. A man who memorises nonsense and then inflicts it.

‘You're her husband? Boyfriend? None of my business – but
lovely
idea, to go on a cruise together. Nothing better, I would say.'

And the stranger nods back at Elizabeth, refocuses, winks, while he speaks and speaks, voice quiet but unavoidable. He hands her the book and tells her, ‘Determination can change who you are. Changing who you are can alter almost anything. Do you believe that?' And no space for her to answer, because rattling, bolting in after it comes, ‘I can prove it. In a way. In a trivial, though perhaps diverting, way. If you take the book and you think of your number, you think of
seven
, strongly enough – if you feel
seven
in your chest, in your pulse, if inside your head you scream it – if you internally
yell
– and that seven becomes so
true
that its
essence
, its
strength
, is irresistible – and when you do that and keep doing that, then you can open up the book and turn it to page seven and you will see . . .'

Obedient, she opens the book where she's told to and sees nothing unusual.

‘And you keep on screaming and you turn over that page . . .'

Which she does and finds that neatly, predictably, there is no page eight. There are only two pages, one after the other, both numbered seven – as if seven were somehow contagious, had soaked through the paper.

‘And page eighteen, as we might imagine . . .'

Delivers itself as another page seven.

‘The numbers.' She passes him back his trick. ‘Clever. Thank you.'

‘Don't mention it.' And he puts on his coat, which seems unnecessary – the waiting area is bleak, but not cold.

‘It must be odd to read – a book like that.'

‘Maybe.' He repockets the book which is maybe odd to read, shakes his sleeves, his lapels, until whatever order he sought to impose has been established. ‘Books aren't about numbers, though, are they? They're stories – words. They're people's stories. The numbers wouldn't be the part you'd notice, I'd have said. Even if you ought to . . .'

The man forces out his hand abruptly and surprises Derek into shaking it.

And, perfectly normally, Elizabeth is next for the chill, smooth pressure of his grip, the tamp of his thumb in the heart of her palm. There is something overly naked about the man's skin, as if it is a terrible, white secret. She tries to disengage a moment before he allows her to which makes her feel rude again, intolerant. She tells him, ‘Some people would notice.' Which is intended to sound placatory, but is mainly patronising and also mumbled.

‘Many wouldn't. Many, in fact,
would not
.' This as he turns from her, as he is leaving with that faintly dragged and staggered walk, that atmosphere of discomfort, the uneasy head.

All at sea.

Elizabeth intends to keep an eye on him, watch where he goes, but then the queue fusses around her in a kind of irritated ripple and manages to propel itself forward by at least a yard. The excitement of this means she loses the man completely.

‘God save me from amateur magicians.' At least the incident has broken Derek's sulk. ‘I think we're getting somewhere finally, though . . .'

And he's right. As mysteriously as they were trapped by inaction, they are now bustled through and can fully partake in the joys of flip-up plastic seating and sturdy tea, no biscuits. Elisabeth feels she might want to buy a bag of chocolate nuts from the machine, but then reconsiders her intention, does nothing.

Docile blocks of humanity are summoned from their benevolent detention and disappear through doorways which smell of oily mechanisms, fuel and – unmistakably – salt water.

Almost on our way.

And this thought squeezes her with panic, raises a true, sick welt of fear that means, when the appropriate passenger grouping is called, Elizabeth almost stumbles from her seat. She has small difficulties with her hands as she picks up her bag. Over to her left she can hear voices.

‘And if we subtract
two hundred and thirty six
from
six hundred and thirty two
. . . ? We get?

‘Um . . .
three hundred and ninety-six
. . . ?'

‘And three plus nine plus six?'

‘That's . . . seventeen.'

‘That's . . . ?'

‘Oh, eighteen. Yes. Eighteen.'

‘And we can't leave poor eighteen alone, though, can we? Poor eighteen. One from eight?'

‘Is seven.'

The second time around it's less impressive: the working starts to show and maybe she's sorry for the man and his puzzle which no longer does.

And maybe you're sorry for him also, have compassion for his inadvertent and public failing. Perhaps you would find it uncomfortable if your book mentioned the way Beth continues to watch the man until he shakes his head, glances away from his work and – before Beth can stop this – meets her eyes again. He tries to construct a type of smile, but his face is soft suddenly, perhaps ashamed, and he turns away and seems to sink slightly. He drops his book, has to stoop and fumble for it – nervous fingers.

This is unfortunate for him and you can imagine how he feels.

You're aware of how easy it is to make these minor errors.

There are times when you've personally known things
to misfire – the sentence that fell badly, the dull gift, slapdash comment, hobbled punchline, tight-fisted tip – trying to be too stupid, trying to be too clever, too silly, too carefree, too caring, too free. You can think back to those long and hollow pauses when you realised that you'd misjudged a mood, weren't paying attention, had taken the wrong risk.

You don't worry about these occasions, or not that much. There are a few past humiliations which, yes – if you ponder them, truly enter in – can still raise a significant sting and that queasy and sticky ridiculousness of you being inappropriately yourself. But there's nothing destructive about your reflections and you can laugh at them with ease. You can enjoy allowing others to laugh, too. You don't stand on your dignity, you aren't stuffy or prickly unless you've been given good cause and this means you can be relaxing company. Those who know you would say this, if they were asked.

And those you know, the people you care about – mistakes with them can be more serious. Going wrong can hurt so much when you're only beginning to care, when you're delicate and don't know your situation and something extraordinary could be ruined before you reach it. But it's probably worse when you love, fully love, what you've got and yet could still crash in and spoil it. You want to avoid that – anyone would.

You cope, though. In some areas, you excel. For this and many other reasons there's a good deal about you that others could admire. You're a survivor, although people might not notice this and you don't make a fuss.

You're a good person at heart.

You're sure of this and your book's sure of it, too.

There are things good people shouldn't do. Most of these are well established, codified as precepts, but you can be certain that – with laws or without them, overseen or unobserved – your own nature would prevent you from straying too far into harm.

You wouldn't consciously injure, wouldn't murder, wouldn't steal.

Although stealing can sometimes be difficult to define: more than your fair share of mints in a restaurant, hotel soaps, ashtrays in bars – some objects can seem ownerless, lost, attractive. This doesn't mean that you would take crockery from the restaurant, or light fittings from the hotel, or fire extinguishers from the bar – any more than you would walk out with the mirror from a changing room, or a coat set down for an unguarded moment on a chair, or drive away with someone else's car.

You wouldn't study a person who, in a strict and pedantic sense, belonged to someone not yourself – you wouldn't slip into wanting them, imagining, overtures. Just as you wouldn't defraud an insurance company, or falsely claim a benefit, or avoid paying any portion of your taxes.

Not to an unacceptable degree.

You only have these ideas, just very occasionally these quite natural ideas. When, for instance, the person ahead of you in the bank queue is carrying bags of money, just obviously a great weight of unmarked cash, or when security guards stroll past you with simple, tidy boxes of who can say how much – you do very slightly have this impulse to find out how heavy solid wealth could be, to make yourself better informed on that small point – to grab, to snatch and run.

This doesn't imply that your integrity is tarnished. You have thought a thought, no more than that.

And maybe you have picked up coins, banknotes in the street, or from the floor of a shop, a cab, a bus, in the car park at the back of a rowdy pub – so many people have paused there – rendered careless, eccentric, helpless by their pleasures – and have burrowed into pockets and bags for their keys, have ended by dropping, losing everything as they search. This wasn't money which was yours and yet you kept it. Like a stranger's little gift.

But there was no fault involved, not on your part.

And you would never damage an animal or a child. Unless, of course, it was to spare them greater hurts. And
perhaps animals are frightened, sacrificed in the production
of your food, even though you do everything reasonable to avoid this. You assuredly have good will, but also distractions – it is sometimes hard to apply yourself for others' sakes and to stay comprehensively informed. Child labour, for instance, can ooze into places you might not suspect and undoubtedly ruins lives, but you may unknowingly support it, buy its fruits. Nevertheless, if you heard of a young individual who was growing without the benefit of an adequate education, who was forced to work, who lost a finger in machinery, or an eye perhaps, then you would act. You would make complaints.

You have defended those weaker than yourself. You were pleased to discover you couldn't do otherwise.

You have a great capacity for kindness.

That's why you give to charities – you can't donate to everyone, wouldn't be foolish about it, but you still try your best. And there have been times when you have enjoyed doing something for nothing and payment would have been unwelcome, if not insulting.

You like the way it feels when you can help.

It's clean.

It makes you feel useful and clean.

And you can rest assured that you're more honest than most people.

Which means you'd prefer to be careful about your employment and it could only seem strange to you, quite terrible, if you slipped into earning your living by doing wrong.

You wouldn't choose to be associated with an unethical company, or criminal behaviour, deception.

So you wouldn't do this.

You wouldn't stand in a moderately spacious civic theatre (with poor acoustics) and address
750
people (the place is full to capacity this evening) having assured them that you have knowledge of their dead. You wouldn't present yourself as being controllably possessed, rattled by the voices from buried throats, gone flesh. You wouldn't peer off beyond yourself into what observers might believe to be a stirring but vaguely melancholy space in which you'll seek out messages of love.

You wouldn't do this.

But your book has to show you the man who would.

This man: tall, pale, golden-headed, and an ache in him that's plain when he raises his hands – long fingers, delicate, uneasy – and when he paces, rocks. He offers his audience – mainly female – a pain that's as bright as his hair, as his skin under the lights. He is alone for them and burning in the bleak space of the stage and any reasonable spectator might want to help him, to touch him, to believe.

And none of this happens by accident. He is not an accidental man. He is prepared. He is never, if he can avoid it, outside in the day – night walks at home and sunscreen with the homburg when he's on the road. No red meat, not ever – rarely meat in any form – a diet he constrains to thin essentials, minimums, as poor in iron as can be survivable. The anaemia refines him, tunes him, lets him flare.

Because appearances matter. Everyone judges the cover before the book.

The man wears a good suit, elegant, his tastes beginning to turn more and more expensive. A quiet tie which he may loosen but not remove. And the jacket stays on, no matter what. Dark, hard leather shoes with a good shine, an uncompromising impact at each step. Dark socks. Plain cufflinks. Shirts of a definite colour, not distracting, not flamboyant and not white – he needs a firm contrast to his skin, a way of quietly showing he's almost translucent, all fragile veins and watered milk. A sense of austerity in his haircut and a hint of service, also the suggestion of precious thinking, perhaps, of heat in the stubble gleaming at his neck.

And his thinking, if not precious, is certainly precise.

Deception is only unforgivable if it is incomplete. Leave any access for doubt, for exposure, bad revelations, and then you're much more than failing – you're
committing a type of delayed assault. Be utter and undetected and then no forgiveness will ever be required.

The man's job is to be the perfect liar, because that's what his audience needs. Blood, words, skin, face, eyes, breath, bone – he must lie in his entirety. The enquirers
deserve nothing less. So that when he names out relatives
and pets, describes familiar jewellery and clothes, episodes of romance, pleasant outings, birthday parties, misfortunes, habits, griefs, coincidences, arguments, birth signs, jokes, uncommon journeys, illnesses, cars and motorbikes, hospitals, buses, armed intrusions, injuries, scrambled efforts at evasion, running and narrow paths, terminal bewilderments – most particularly when he speaks of the terminal things, of deaths – they will be true. He will give them, most particularly, true deaths.

His job to be the window that lets them see through, the door that will open so they can walk back to the times and the places he'll resurrect. And when he tells his enquirers worlds, they will seem true worlds. They will be truer and better than the world they have.

Tonight
750
strangers have watched him convincingly let other souls slip into his blue-white self and then speak through him. Over and over, he's brought loves closer, invited them, called them in. This has been his little gift to everyone.

And he's the best. No one is like him.

Not sure that anyone would want to be.

And almost done and tired and tired and tired, he's shaken his head as if freeing himself and let his shoulders drop, he's sighed and rubbed his cheeks and felt his audience lean their will against him, the broad, warm press of how they still want more, could easily stay here – row on row – and drink him all away. But this is it, show's over: a nod and a handful of sentences, an appropriately small and quiet bow and he'll walk to the bland little dressing room and wash his face and sit, lean back and sit.

‘You didn't let me speak to Billy. When you were here before you let me speak to him.'

Woman right at the front – quite naturally right at the front and in the centre – directly at his feet, in fact, only the height of the stage between them. ‘Why didn't he want to speak to me?' She has left her seat, is tensed almost on tiptoe.

Pink sweater – polo neck to deal with slightly ageing skin, overly glamorous jewellery, trying too hard – and she is yelling. The man assumes that she is mentally unable not to yell. The man has met this kind of thing before.

‘Didn't he want to?'

The theatre stiffening, clinging round him while he remembers his previous visit – it was in the spring – and having made this woman happy about her dead son. This time, for three hours – plus interval – she has been carefully avoided. Too anxious, too bereft.

Female, 35–45, single and childless: difficult, they lack the usual entry points, are all needs and lacks and fretting and last-minute hopes, they suffer cruel and salty lunges of impossibility. So you offer them dreams.

Female, 35–45, divorced after her child was taken: easy. Give her back the boy.

But just because it's easy that doesn't mean I should.

The room waiting for a proper remedy, the man's authoritative resolution.

If I help her now she'll come to every session when I'm in town, she'll start to follow me about.

The man can taste her: something sour from her like illness and panicky – the flavour of instability there and obsession. He always understands things partly with his mouth, is currently swallowing bitter metal and earth, something moist and stagnant mixed up with dark earth. Having paid attention, he would know her in great detail if they were ever to meet again.

‘No.' And a beat while the rest of the audience almost relaxes, prepares for more trust. He pulls in a breath and lets his hand twitch. ‘Last time I was here Billy said his goodbye. He said he loved you.'

She cries at this – happygreedy tears – hands curled and lifting near her lips.

‘He told you what he couldn't, what he didn't have the chance to say. That satisfied him and put him at rest.'

Nobody is with her, she came by herself, is pursuing this by herself – arms falling to flutter at her sides: if someone was here for her to hold, they would catch the signal and step in, she would be embracing and embraced. Grief seeping around her, rises in clouds, travelling.

‘He told you.'

She nods, little girl nod, all compliance and listening.

The man straightens his spine, widens his attention to take in the room. ‘We do have to finish.' He watches this make her tremble. Of course, it would. ‘But if he gives me more for you I will tell you afterwards.' He's firm when he looks at her, pauses until her eyes lift, and is firmer still until she sits and the man can roll on into the final phrases, can coil up his performance and tidy it away.

He's slightly too fast as he walks for the wings.

And he won't tell her anything afterwards.

He won't see her.

He'll use the office exit and be in his car and gone before she gets outside. No stage door rendezvous in the rain.

The man feels this is for the best.

He wants to be a good person. He wants to find the right ways to do wrong.