The Paper Eater (22 page)

Hannah looked up. The young man had pale eyelashes. Eyes the colour of indoor swimming-pool water. The shallow end.

– Pleased to meet you, said Benedict, looking at her steadily. He was as tall as Pike. Hannah, suddenly aware of the envelope in her hand, flushed, and dropped it on the table. Benedict Sommers’ eyes followed it, then moved to the computer screen with Harvey Kidd’s face on it. Registered. Then shifted back to Hannah. When he grinned at her, she
saw a flash of green in his mouth and her stomach did a slow, ugly turn. She was trapped.

– We’ve met before, said Benedict, working the gum over to one cheek and holding out a big hand for her to shake. The Festival party in Head Office? He grinned again.

As they shook hands, Hannah felt something pass between them like an exchange of static.

That’s it
, she thought with sudden clarity.
I’m dead, like Leo. They’ll crater me
.

Just when I was beginning to live.

BLAME

After the documentary was over, we were assigned cabins, and the engines roared to life. I was alone at first. Then put with a Greek, Kogevinas, who spoke no English. But at mealtimes, in the mess, I’d strain to overhear the conversations of the other cons. They were a revelation. Many of the Atlanticans – about 70 per cent, I reckoned, actually were criminals. Another 10 per cent borderline. But they all knew whose fault it was that they were there. The Hoggs’.

The psychology’s pretty simple, when you think about it. No one likes to admit they’ve done wrong. I listened to grown men close to tears, telling how they’d been manipulated by followers of the Sect. To intelligent fraudsters and extortionists claiming they’d been brainwashed into committing crime. To sex offenders explaining how they felt vindicated, in little huddles by the poop.

– But how d’you know they even exist? I ventured once over breakfast, after a burly bloke had been holding forth about what he called Hogg filth. He rounded on me then, and a couple of other blokes shot me angry glances.

– Oh they exist all right, he said. Only I didn’t know that was who I was working for, did I. Others were murmuring in agreement. – I thought it was an ordinary delivery job, didn’t I, he said. Taking stuff from A to B, I’d done it a thousand times, I never asked what was in the consignment, just drove the van. Well, now I know for sure it was them Hoggs. If
I’d known it was stuff to sabotage a crater, well, fuck, I’d never’ve – well.

– Doesn’t stop you feeling like a mug though, does it, said another guy. I should’ve known it was them pushed me into doing it. They got me drunk and the next thing I knew there was blood everywhere. All along I said I was innocent, it wasn’t me, but when I saw those faces –

– Yeah, said another guy. I recognised them too.

– Where from? I said.

– Dunno. Around. I’ve seen them around. On the streets. And posters and stuff. You know.

– Me too, said another one. That Sid bloke. You can tell just from his face that he’s a porn merchant, I’ve seen him hundreds of times. He’s
everywhere!

There were more noises of agreement. The other prisoners seemed to be putting the same pieces of their private jigsaw together. As they did, stuff began to fall into place for me too. As I listened to them, it dawned on me what was going on. Whatever it was they felt guilty about – and who can put their hand on their heart, and say there isn’t something? Whatever it was, they wanted to blame someone else for it. I can relate to that, I thought. To err is human. And so’s wanting to pass the buck. Even scapegoats need scapegoats. Even the blamed need to blame.

And people are more stupid than you think.

It was after the first couple of months that I learned about the geologists, soil physicists, structural engineers and crater workers who were in solitary. They’d all been aboard about a year which meant that our Mass Readjustment wasn’t the first. Something must be going wrong with the craters, I began thinking – perhaps with the whole industry. But why drag my family into it? Why the Hoggs? I couldn’t work it out. Why hadn’t they just invented their own scapegoats? And left me alone? Fuck it, I thought. WHY PICK ON ME?

We’d been sailing a long time – a month, maybe – before it began to dawn on me. It wasn’t personal. Machines don’t have any imagination, do they. What they’d stolen were my dreams. And those are the best things to steal, aren’t they? Since the Hoggs didn’t exist in the flesh, they’d never be caught. They were immortal. They could take the blame for everything. From whoever wanted to throw it.

For ever.

On we sailed, through the waters of the northern hemisphere. It didn’t take genius to work out that all the Atlanticans on board would turn on me if I gave them my version of the truth. The best policy for me was to stay clammed up. So I did. It was a hard thing to do, knowing what I knew. So many times – too many to count – I was on the verge of telling someone. But I developed a technique for nipping the impulse in the bud.

I stuffed paper into my mouth.

And it evolved into the fruitful hobby it is today. Result, a year on: a chess set. Mine.

– Fishook and Hooley and Mrs Dragon-lady and Mr Stress, they’re the knights and the bishops, I tell John briskly, laying out the pieces on the craft table.

Outside the porthole, there’s a dazzling sky that makes the waves shudder and tinsel with light. Still no call from Fishook, and my cell-mate’s feeling buoyant. (He ate four helpings of aubergine lasagne at dinner last night, and even played badminton with the Portuguese sex offenders.) I see it as my job to keep his spirits up.

– And these are rooks, look. Gwynneth’s the one I’ve finished, and Tiffany’s nearly done, you put her on this square here. This is the queen, she’s the Liberty Machine. She goes here, look. And this is Pike. He goes next to her, because it’s his job to protect her.

– And the little ones? he goes, as I finish laying out the black pawns.

– They’re customers. You put them all on the row in front of the others. You can sacrifice them to save the more important ones. Now white always plays first, I tell him, setting out the pieces. These two rooks here, they’re Mr and Mrs Najima from the Snak Attak. This knight, he’s Keith the cat, and this bishop’s Dr Pappadakis.

– And the other one?

– That’s you.

Another silence.

– Me?

– The man himself.

John looks suspicious.

– But he’s a good guy, right?

I nod.

– Why not?

He’s looking pleased now; flattered.

– It’s a game of strategy, I tell him. Clever people and computers usually win because they think ahead better and they make fewer mistakes and they’re good at mind-reading.

He looks downcast at that.

– But stupid people sometimes triumph, I add hopefully. Sort of by accident.

That idea seems to go down OK.

– And you’re the king, right? he goes.

– Correct. Now where do I go, d’you reckon?

– Here?

– And next to me, you put the queen.

I put Hannah down gently. She feels more fragile than the others.

– And your job, it’s protecting her, right?

Suddenly there’s this ball in my throat, and there’s silence for a while. Outside, a gull with an empty yoghurt carton in its beak flaps at the porthole and then disappears, sucked into a vortex.

* * *

Week after week I wrote to Hannah. Long letters, telling her everything – stuff I didn’t know was inside me until I saw it there on paper. Love letters.

She never replied. So I got desperate. Started to panic. I began to guess things, and my guesses got wilder and madder and scarier. I wrote to Personnel. Could they tell me the whereabouts of their associate, Hannah Park? Had she been posted somewhere else?

You never said what happened to her, says John. I mean did you ever – But he breaks off. – Oh fuck, he says. He’s squinting out of the porthole.

I look up. Follow his eyes. A distant hump on the horizon.

Oh fuck indeed.

Atlantica.

As if on cue, there’s a sudden clangy din, followed by a buzz of static from the tannoy. The volume’s right up. A blast of music: the Liberty anthem –
Independent and Free
. And then Fishook.

– Voyager 1-0-0-8-7, comes Fishook’s voice, you are cordially invited to join your Captain on the bridge today at 1500 hours GMT.

The tannoy clicks off, leaving just an eerie echo before the anthem kicks in again.

That didn’t happen
, I’m thinking.
He didn’t say that
.

But he did. I look at John, and John looks back at me. He’s gone completely white. I guess I have too. Time chokes to a halt.

– 1-0-0-8-7, says John finally. That’s not my number, mate. It’s yours.

ON THE BRIDGE

Garcia escorts me to the bridge, nudging me along the corridors with the butt of his stun-gun. Fishook stands at the wheel, a little metal bullet of a man, capsule body foursquare on stumpy legs, salt-and-pepper shaven head, pebble-spectacled eyes squinting at the horizon through cigar smoke. The chunky Havana perched in the metal ashtray on the sill. The radio’s tuned to the twenty-four-hour weather channel. – Pitkie, Skagwheen, Mohawk, St Placid’s Reef, Canary Bight … it drones faintly. Fresh, southerly …

– Welcome, Voyager Kidd, he goes, a smile in his voice. His silver-framed glasses flash at me in greeting. In the distance, the spume of a whale fountains up and descends in a scatter of rainbows. – Come and join me, he says, all fake
bonhomie
. It’s like we’re old buddies. Members of the same club. Except the gag is, we aren’t. Hesitantly, I step forward next to him. A tattered sheet of seagulls whips past, squawking. It sounds like jeers.

– Would you like to take a turn at the wheel? he asks, grinning. Have a go at steering this mighty vessel?

I remember now. I’ve heard of this from other blokes. It’s a prelude to mind-games. He once got Flussman to do forty sea-miles, then told him his daughter had been knocked down by a tractor on her boyfriend’s farm. Flussman was so shocked he couldn’t speak: he just carried on steering for
another forty sea-miles, trying to work it out. His daughter was a lesbian, and lived in the city.

Eventually he’d ventured to ask Fishook – Is this a joke, Captain?

It was, Fishook confirmed, roaring with laughter and offering Flussman a cigar.

– Very funny, Captain, was all that Flussman could muster. Fishook isn’t mad, though; just has a very particular sense of humour that doesn’t obey the normal rules of comedy. So when he stands aside, grooms his cigar and gestures at the wheel, smooth dark wood and brass, I’m nervous. I grip it tight, relieved to grasp something, though the warmth left by his hands gives it the revolting intimacy of a shared toilet seat.

– Fairbairn, St Mornay, Butt of Cortez Lighthouse, Ganderville, easterly winds, veering south … says the radio.

– You know, in some primitive societies, Fishook goes, tapping out ash from his cigar, this horizon would represent not the future, but the past. They see the past ahead of them, and the future behind. They are travelling backwards through life. The stretch of water ahead of them freezes over as time passes. That’s the past, solidifying before them. The water at their back is fluid and unknown. That’s the future. Waiting to freeze.

I can’t think what I’m supposed to say to that, so I just go uh-huh, as though he’s said something meaningful. The future, waiting to freeze? What kind of gobbledegook bollocks is that?

– I understand from Garcia that you received a letter recently, he says after a while.

– I haven’t opened it.

My thoughts jump around but can’t find anywhere safe to land. So in the end I just listen to the monologue of the weather channel and stare at the sea. It looks cold. You could
feel powerful up here, steering a massive ship, I guess. But only if you’re its captain.

– Well, perhaps you should, goes Fishook. Some men find, when they are faced with a situation such as yours, that friends and family can be a comfort.

A situation such as mine? Friends and family? What’s he talking about? From the corner of my eye I notice that he’s put his cigar down and taken the microphone of the tannoy system from its holster. He’s fondling it near his cheek like an electric razor.

Then he clicks it on and speaks.

– Wind east-north-easterly, he says, switching to DJ mode. His processed voice ricochets about the vessel, setting up a million tinny vibrations. – Steering a steady south-southeasterly course, due to exit Northern Waters Section at 0500 hours GMT tomorrow, destination, Atlantica. He gives a little pause, then, and looks at me. Where we will be celebrating Liberty Day with the Final Adjustment of a leading Sect member and Enemy of Libertycare. Another pause, in which he looks at me more intently. – Some of you know him on board as the Paper Eater. (
What?
I’m thinking dumbly.
What was that?
) It still hasn’t sunk in. And it still doesn’t, even now when he’s looking me right in the eye and saying slowly into the microphone –
His name is Harvey Kidd
.

I just think, hey, that’s my name too.

– Light vessel automatic, winds westerly, says the radio. The words catch me in a smooth trap of language. Turning to gale force later … winds fresh, southerly … It’s mesmeric. If you stay very still, the words sort of imprint themselves in your head, and giddify you. That’s the way mantras are supposed to work. I read it somewhere, in the Education Station, when I was searching for the meaning of life and came across the knitting-machine theory. I looked up love too.
Devoted attachment to one of the opposite sex, esp. temporary
. Fishook is looking at me.

– What? I mumble. I really am feeling a bit confused, as if the geography of the shipping forecast has somehow dislocated me. – Me? I ask finally. Stupidly.

Fishook gives me a sideways look. And a little nod that says yes.

That’s when my knees give way, and I’m sagging to the floor, clutching the wheel to stop myself.