The Paper Eater (17 page)

– How could you, Harvey! she hissed. How could you do this to us? You’ve destroyed our family!

– I’m sorry, I moaned, I’m sorry, Lola, please forgive me, I love you, I’ll always love you, I didn’t mean to –

Then Uncle Sid and Dad turned up, together. They each put an arm round Cameron and Lola, so they were standing like a threatening family portrait, scrummed against me.

– It’s bad enough that you do this to us, says Sid.

– But to do it to your mother – says Dad reproachfully, and looks sideways. And there she is.

– Mum!

I’d never seen her like this before. She looked terrible. Normally she wore her magic salamander dress, but now she was in an ugly grey sweatshirt with a smear of something on it – beetroot juice, or dried blood: a million miles from her usual get-up. A terrible anguish distorted her face, dragging down the corners of her mouth, haggarding her eyes.

– Oh Harvey, she sobbed. The tears which slid down her puffy cheeks were bulging and metallic, like Christmas-tree decorations. – You’ve let us all down!

– Please, Mum, let me explain, I begged. Please! I can! I want to!

But she put up her hand to stop me. She was wearing fluorescent orange driving gloves.

– I’m sorry, Harvey, she said. Her voice was flat and weary with disappointment. – You just can’t be my son any more. You were my favourite. But Cameron and Lola are my only children now.

And then they all vanished.

Hannah must’ve had a bad night too, because when we got to the interview room she was sitting further away than usual.

– Ready? she said.

She was on her rails again. I wondered if she sort of psyched herself up for these meetings. There was something creepily intimate about the questions this time. After a while, I began to wonder what Gwynneth might have told them, if they’d questioned her. What Tiffany might have said in her statement.

What was the nature of my sexual feelings towards my sister Lola? Had I favoured Lola over Cameron in certain financial transactions? Which ones, and why? And so on. After Lola – the questions were extra nosy about Lola, it
seemed to me – it was the turn of Uncle Sid. What were my anxieties about him? Why? Why had I chosen that face? Why the naked torso and the youthful, muscular physique? If he were to commit a crime, what would it be?

I kept breaking off from writing the answers down to explain to Hannah Park some of what had gone on, over those years. I wanted her to appreciate them in the same way I did. It was important, if we were going to get to know each other better, if we were ever going to have a chance of –

Even if we weren’t.

– We all watched
Far From the Madding Crowd
together once, I told her. With Julie Christie and Alan Bates. Dad and Uncle Sid, they loved all those old films.

Her eyes met mine again, and something frazzled the air between us.

– Cameron and I were more into adventure, I went on, hoping it would strike a chord with her. Remind her of her own family, perhaps. – But Mum and Lola, they liked the romantic stuff. Romantic comedy, you know. Oh, and Lola, I said, laughing as I remembered, she loved a horror movie. She’d really go for those films with the music that goes bong, bong, bong, and there’s a tingly sound in the background, and it’s dark, and you just know a hand’s going to come out and grab the girl. Lola really went for the idea of being scared shitless.

She laughed then, and clapped her hand over her mouth.

I liked that. Perhaps in other circumstances we could have a proper talk, I thought. And I could ask about
her
family.

But then she seemed to remember something and she went cold on me again.

– Could we address the questionnaire, again now, please? she asked. It’s just, we need the data in that format. It’s more structured.

I sort of snapped then. I felt betrayed, to be honest. Just when we’d had the beginnings of a normal discussion, she’d had to go and put the dampers on it.

– I’m on strike, I told her. As of now.

She looked shocked, but I didn’t care. In fact, I was quite glad. I was sick of her behaving like an automaton.

– No more questions, I said. Forget it. I’m having a break.

– But Mr Pike says –

– Fuck Mr Pike. Fuck Mr Pike, and fuck Libertycare.

She winced, and there was a long silence. She looked at her nails; I saw they were all chewed, with bleedy bits round the cuticles. I felt sorry for her. Then she shoved her hands in her pockets and a curious muffled popping sound emerged from under the desk.

– What’s that noise? I asked. That popping.

– Nothing, she said, blushing.

The popping stopped as suddenly as it had begun.

– Look. I’m – I mean. See, no one’s told me anything, I said. Misery was ballooning inside me; it made my voice all forced and savage. – I’m a customer, aren’t I? Isn’t the customer always right?

She flinched again when I spoke to her like that.

– It’s just a slogan, she said, her voice flattening itself even more. It’s just something we use for motivation. Anyway, you aren’t on the outside any more. You’re here.

– Look, I said, I just want some answers. I thought, she probably isn’t used to people raising their voices. It isn’t that sort of place. – I can report you, I threatened.

But it sounded feeble even to me. I was still clinging to the idea that I had human rights, I guess. Still wanting answers, still believing I could get them. Silence had dropped on us. It lasted a long time. She was looking out of the window. I caught myself clocking her profile. The chaotic pale hair, the big glasses, the little chin, the cleverness and the breakableness of her.

– I’ve got a question for you, I said at last.

She looked up, surprised. Like it was a trap.

– Do you ever go out? Like, to a movie, or dinner and stuff?

I hadn’t meant it to sound aggressive, but she must have taken it for cruelty, because she pulled quickly back into her cardigan like an alarmed snail. The smile faded. I’m a clumsy idiot, I thought.

– I mean, how long since anyone invited you out for –

– I’ve never been invited to dinner, she blurted. Nobody has ever invited me out to dinner.

She looked so small, and so pathetic.

– Or a movie, she added.

It suddenly made me feel bad, like I was a bull-in-a-china-shop kind of bloke. Or maybe there was simply something wrong with Hannah Park. An abnormality. She was clearly very clever at her job, I thought, whatever that was, or she wouldn’t be working at Head Office. Everyone knows about the IQ level required to get in. But she was – well, I’m afraid freakish is the word.

Suddenly, in spite of all the anger and the misery churning around inside me, I needed to clear the air between us, and see her smile. We were both humans at the end of the day, weren’t we? I tried to imagine her having a good time. I tried to imagine how I might tell her a funny story – perhaps the story of Keith going to live with Mrs Dragon-lady but coming home to be sick – and how she might laugh at that. I wanted to see her face light up because of me.

– Well, I’d like to invite you out to dinner, I said, and smiled at her winningly. – When all this is over.

I was feeling gallant, old-fashioned, protective. Charity for the socially handicapped. But she looked at me as though I was offering her dogshit.

– Impossible, I’m afraid, she said, wincing.

I didn’t like the way she recoiled like that. I felt rejected. It crossed my mind that maybe she’d had a bad experience. Gwynneth’s magazines were full of stories of women who’d survived terrible man-related indignities – botched cosmetic surgery, cowboy gigolo scams, multi-generational
incest, serial rejection – perhaps she was one of those. But I pushed it further anyway.

– Have you got a boyfriend? I said, like a twat.

Hannah hugged herself again, and I regretted saying it.

– No, she said, it’s not that.

As she turned to face me her glasses flashed and those watery-blue eyes seemed bigger than ever, distorted by the lenses. She cleared her throat.

– I suffer from Crabbe’s Block.

– What?

– Crabbe’s Block. It’s an irreversible condition. It means I–

The wind seemed to drop from her sails, and she stopped as suddenly as she’d begun. After a moment, she began fumbling about for a handkerchief, and then blowing her nose loudly. So leaving isn’t practical, she said finally, sniffing. Again, her face went into a kind of wincing spasm.

– Crabbe’s Block? I asked. I was completely baffled. – I’ve never heard of it.

Hannah Park looked at me, and then turned her eyes pleadingly to the clock.

– Ah, it’s lunchtime, she said, her voice flooding with relief. And the guard knocked.

INTIMACY

It’s the third day since Fishook announced our return to Atlantica, and the ship is buzzing with bad vibes. One day soon – in four days? Three? – we’ll wake up and there it will be. Not even on the horizon, but right slap-bang there, outside the porthole. I’ve stepped up my chewing schedule, determined to complete Tiffany before we dock. The latest batch of paper from the Art Room (courtesy of Libertycare’s recycling policy) consists of transcripts from the Hotline.

The lengths they went to, to serve the customer!

I hereby accuse my mother-in-law, Mrs Scarlett Foster, of 11 Ovenhill Drive, Mohawk, of conspiring to defame and slander both myself and my …

That caller had rung thirty-three times in three days. There had been a row over a tin of sweetcorn. There were others.

…
knew as soon as I set eyes on him that he was trash. I mean, there’s a type of person that’s likely to join this Sect, right? Well, he fits it to the max. For a start he’s …

That was a man called Ron, jilted by his gay lover, who had run off with a systems analyst who wasn’t even attractive. And so on.

Tiffany the rook is shaping up. I have given her a bobbed hairstyle which doesn’t suit her, and a dress that reaches to the floor, shaped like an old-fashioned lampshade. I’m pleased, and even John’s impressed as I spin her on the craft table like a little top.

– I almost fancy her, he leers. Go on, give her another twirl!

After that, he wants to know who’s next. Who I’ll be making.

– There isn’t a next, I tell him.

– Why?

– Cos she’s the last.

I was going to teach him to play, once I had the set ready. But he’ll be dead.

– Fancy lunch, I ask, changing the subject pronto.

Big mistake: when we get to the canteen, the midday news from Atlantica is on, and Craig Devon, my childhood tormentor, is staring out at me from the screen. I’ve never quite got used to seeing his face again – which is why when I lived in Gravelle Road, I’d get my news from the net. Just the sight of him now – all chunked out, that porky pampered look – makes me want to do damage.

Having proven there is no constitutional reason why the Liberty software shouldn’t be considered as a candidate
, goes Craig, pretending to be a grown-up,
the indications are that the people are increasingly behind the idea of a non-political federal service provider managing their nation
.

An animated graphic with lots of arrows shows how easy it is to do: a little man-shape in Washington bursts like a bubble, to be replaced by a CD, representing Libertycare, with the bird logo fluttering around it. The CD pulses gently, sending golden waves across the whole map of the United States.

Craig Devon’s smiling now, as though it’s his idea.

So, with legal hitches a thing of the past, the next question is how the ordinary citizens of America are reacting to the prospect of a president-free superpower
, he goes.

– Well, I’m impressed with the way Atlantica’s handled its Marginals, says a fat lady. Ship ’em out.

A big groan from us lot.

Next they show a clip from a political ad for Libertycare: it’s Mount Rushmore, peopled by giant Muppet caricatures of past presidents, yammering inanities and shooting missiles around the globe. You can’t see their dicks but it’s clever; you can tell they’re using the missiles to see who can pee the highest and furthest.

– Don’t worry! yells one of them, breaking off to waggle his muppety face at the camera. We’re in charge!

I groan. I had no idea it’d come to this. Serves me right for opting out, I guess. Till now, I’ve operated a one-man news blackout on myself.

The current surge in support for Libertycare is thanks to the efforts of one man
, says Craig Devon.
Who, over the past year, has been campaigning tirelessly to achieve just the victory that the polls are now predicting in next Wednesday’s election
.

–
Next Wednesday?
I shout. Isn’t that just before Liberty Day?

– Shh! goes the bloke next to me.

Up on the screen appears a fat man, going ape. As he whoops and jumps about, the slogan dances on his T-shirt:
Let’s go for it.
I remember him from TV before, during the Festival of Choice, more than a year ago. This is the famous Michigan taxi driver who led campaign marches, and bombarded the Internet. Earl.

– And believe you me, we’re gonna win! He beams cheesily beneath his baseball cap. – We’re gonna tell them just where they can shove it! A huge cheer rises up behind him. – This is the future
I
want, proclaims Earl, pointing to the fried-egg map of Atlantica. Sunny side up!

– Jesus, says John under his breath.

An echoing murmur runs round the canteen, then hushes. Blokes are exchanging pale glances. Someone groans. Inside my head, I take a careful step back. You could get worked up about all this, I’m thinking. But if you’re powerless – well,
feeling stuff about your fellow humans is a mug’s game, isn’t it? If I’ve spent the past year with my head forcibly stuck in the sand, it’s for a reason.

So when Craig Devon pops up on the screen again, I look away.

– Fifteen more new ones today, says John sighing and picking the mushroom out of his omelette. You can smell it on their clothes.