The Violent Century (8 page)

– Atten …
tion!
Sergeant Browning says.

They all turn back. Look at him, the sergeant examines their faces, one by one. His face is darkly tanned, it is lined, Fogg instinctively thinks: He is not one of them.

Neither is Turing, standing beside him. A kid, looks like he belongs in a lab, a library, anywhere but here on this Devon farm, facing Fogg and the other changed.

– We will make something of you yet, Browning says. Paces slowly, hands behind his back. Walks past them again. Says, Show me what you can do.

30.
THE FARM, DEVON
1936

The dormitory building is long, divided into boys’ and girls’ quarters, and different rooms for the different classes. It is cold inside. From the outside it is a low white stone house, with ivy growing over the cracks. Inside there are bunkbeds and shower cubicles, a row of clean white sinks, a row of sturdy wardrobes. Fogg shares a room with Tank and Mr Blur and a couple of the others. We know. We see. Mrs Tinkle sticks her head through the open door. Cooey! she calls.

– Hello, Mrs Tinkle, Mr Blur says.

Mr Blur is an achondroplastic dwarf. He has the head of a regular adult, a small body with short arms and legs. He is rather muscular and the blue shirt sits tight over his chest. He is busy shaving.

– So what do you do, big guy? he says, turning to Tank. It’s easy to see what Tank does, though. He’s a giant, and has the curious action of a very large person who tries to make himself seem smaller, without success. Tanks says, This, and plucks a steel bar from the windowsill, as if it were a twig of dried hay. Tank bends the steel bar, knotting it effortlessly, like the bow on a birthday gift.

– Name’s Tank, he says, shyly.

None of them have been properly introduced yet. Browning dismissed them. Turing led them to a medical lab where they were each measured and tested. Then they were sent to the dormitories to settle down. Dinner’s coming; they can smell cooking from the main building. Tank’s stomach keeps rumbling, loud booming sounds as of the roiling sea. Mrs Tinkle, her head still through the door, making her look like a turtle, says, Big lad, aren’t you!

Tank, shyly: I wasn’t big before. The change made me big.

Tank looks at Mr Blur. Did the change make you small? he says.

– No, Mr Blur says. I was born small.

– So what do you do? Tank says.

– This, Mr Blur says.

Mr Blur … blurs. His features seem to distort, as if each molecule in his body is moving suddenly at exceptionally high speed. He seems to blink in and out of existence as the cloud of distortion shoots across the room, around Tank, returns before anyone’s had the time to even move. The shape settles again, distortion easing, and Mr Blur stands there, grinning, holding a locket in his hand.

– Call me Mr Blur, he says.

– Hey, that’s mine! Tank says.

Mr Blur smirks. What is it? he says. Girlfriend?

– Give it back! Tank says.

Mr Blur blurs. Disappears rapidly down the room. Tank chases with a roar, smashing things in his wake.

– Oh, dear, Mrs Tinkle says.

Her head disappears from the doorway. Fogg sighs, continues to fold his clothes over the neatly made bed. This wasn’t quite what he had hoped for.

31.
THE FARM, DEVON
1936

Food is served in a common hall. Students, if that’s what they are, all these young men and women, serve the food from large metal trolleys that can be wheeled around. Everyone is in the common room. Fogg notices a very tall, pale man standing with a short, dark-haired girl. Both look in his direction for a moment, then look away. It’s just like school, Fogg thinks. The same uncomfortable, childish, spiteful environment, the same quest for who to sit with, choosing a table, the hidden undercurrents of popularity and rejection. But he’s not a child any more. None of them are. Fogg takes his tray and finds an empty table and sits down. Close to the window. A clear night outside. His fingers tense on the blunt knife, making a little bit of fog rise outside. Makes him feel better.

Has his schedule in front of him. Mimeographed, blue ink on thin rice paper. Digs into his food, without a huge appetite. Fish and chips and mushy peas. Heaps on a fork, puts in his mouth. Chews. According to the schedule he is to work in the kitchens as of tomorrow. The Farm is kept running by the students themselves. Others are on pots and pans, or dormitory cleaning, or working in the vegetable patch. Fogg didn’t know there
was
a vegetable patch. Sits alone. Likes it that way. A shadow falls on his tray. Fogg looks up to see the shy face of Tank. Mind if I join you?

Fogg shakes his head. Tank sits down opposite. Out of nowhere Mr Blur appears. Takes a seat next to Fogg, without being asked. Suddenly Fogg isn’t alone at the table any more.

A feeling he didn’t expect. The fog clears outside. He says, So you two sorted your differences out?

Feels lighter. Mr Blur grins. Just having a laugh, he says. Tank fingers the locket around his neck. Us new kids got to stick together, he says.

Fogg smiles through a mouthful of food.

32.
THE FARM, DEVON
1936

The adults, for lack of a better word, have a table of their own. Browning, Turing, a couple of other young men in smocks, the gatehouse guard, a few other faces: the staff at the Farm seem to be equal parts military and scientific, with a few Devon women working as cooks and den mothers. It is a strange mix of summer camp and military training camp, Fogg thinks, watching them. A fresh-faced girl at a nearby table throws her water in a companion’s face, following a remark Fogg didn’t catch. The water flies in a curved line but does not hit the other girl. The water squishes together into a ball, in mid-air, it seems to shimmer like a cut diamond, then shoots up and explodes like fireworks, spraying water over the other diners, who shout out. The girl laughs. Browning glares disapprovingly from his own table but says nothing. The Farm, Fogg thinks. It is a place in which the laws of what is real seem suspended, for just a moment. It was beautiful in the daytime, the bright primary colours of blue sky and yellow sun and green grass and white stone. At night it is more of a chiaroscuro, the play of light and shade. The colours leach out of the day when night settles. The air feels colder, though inside it is warm from the cooking and the pressing together of human bodies.

Tank and Mr Blur are chatting. Fogg pushes the plate away. Look, I’ll catch up with you two, he says. Need fresh air. Picks up his tray. Takes it to the bins, empties the leftovers, hands his tray and dirty dishes to a serious-faced boy in the uniform of the Farm. Walks out. Cool air. Fog rising from the ground. Comforting.

33.
MINSK, BELARUS
1941

The two British observers are not meant to be here, not now, but the Old Man had decreed, and the Old Man always has his way. Fog masks them. German tanks dance across the ice like migrating geese. Artillery fire turns the old city into a demonic fairground, the air burns with sulphur, the city is awash with red light. Smoke and fire make a second sunset in the sky. Oblivion passes Fogg a bottle of vodka, liberated. Lines of civilians are being evacuated out of the city, Soviet artillery returns fire on the approaching Germans but each burst is like an apologetic cough, a tacit acknowledgement that the city is lost. What the hell are we doing here, Oblivion says, Fogg takes a sip of vodka. They’d been parachuted down, their only hope of getting away now lies in themselves and in what they can do. Does that make them heroes or fools, Fogg wonders. The truth is there is nothing they can do for the city or its people. They are here merely to observe. They had found shelter in this abandoned house, on a thick rug beside a massive fireplace. But the fire burns outside. Family portraits glare at them from the walls. What’s this, Oblivion says. Fogg looks at the thing, says, It’s some sort of Jewish candelabra, I think.

It’s cold. Gunfire outside. They lie down on the rug. Cover themselves in liberated blankets. Huddle close, their bodies against each other’s, for warmth.

– Miss the Farm? Oblivion says.

Outside, the city burns. The house is surrounded by fog. Invisible. Tomorrow they will make their way back through enemy lines, to the pick-up point. The Farm, Fogg says. Remembering.

They press closer against each other, trying to find warmth.

34.
THE FARM, DEVON
1936

His steps make almost no sound on the thick grass. Night, from inside the dining room the lights shine behind windows but outside it is cool, dark, quiet. Fog surrounds him like a well-worn coat. Away from the buildings the field stretches out, a silver moon hanging like a pendant in the sky.

A voice startles him. Soft feet coming through the fog. A tall, slim figure, pale white skin, fine cheekbones. Even the ridiculous uniform doesn’t change his inner silence, this sense of completeness in him.

– New boy, he says.

Fogg pauses, turns. What do you want, he says. The other one makes a motion with his hand. You’re not in there with the others? he says. Fogg says, It’s like a zoo. The other smiles. It
is
a zoo, he says. And we’re the specimens.

Fogg reflects on that. How did they get you? he says. The other laughs. I volunteered, he says. Takes out a cigarette case. Opens it. Proffers it to Fogg. You want one? Fogg says, Sure.

The other lights the cigarette for him. Fogg takes a drag. Coughs as smoke enters his lungs. The other smiles. Like he knows things. Fogg’s never really smoked before. He makes the smoke dance across his knuckles. A white snake of it, crawling. The other says, There’s a girl in there, she can make fire. Clicks his fingers. Says, Like
that
.

– Must be handy, Fogg says.

The other shrugs. Takes a drag. Blows out smoke. Fogg, idly, makes it into tiny airships that burst apart.

– Girl in here, she can spit at stuff. Break it. Like she’s firing bullets, the other says around the cigarette.

– That sounds disgusting, Fogg says.

The other looks at him. Those deep dark eyes examine Fogg. The other says, You’re not very sociable, are you.

Fogg shrugs.

– It’s Fog, isn’t it? the other says.

–
Fogg
, Fogg says. With two Gs. Henry Fogg. Chews on it. You? he says.

– Oblivion, the other says.

Something passing between them. Fogg says, These names are stupid. Oblivion says, These names are necessary. Suddenly serious. Even angry. But his voice is even. Says, You want to use your real name? You want everyone to know who you are, what you do? You think they’re going to like you? To thank you for it? I make things not exist. You know what would have happened if the Old Man hadn’t found me in time?

He’s in a rare talkative mood that night, as Fogg later learns. Oblivion, usually, is a man of few words. Fogg just shrugs. Says, Why are we here?

– Training, Oblivion says. So we can be useful.

Fogg, a little petulantly, repeats himself. It’s like a zoo in here!

Look, I don’t know, Oblivion says. I don’t like people all that much either. But you’re an interesting case, Fogg. I don’t know if I like you, but you seem all right. Keep yourself to yourself. Half these clowns, they’ll be out in less than a week. And let me tell you, I don’t know where unsuccessful candidates go, and I don’t want to know. So this is just a word of advice. That Old Man, he didn’t bring us here for fun and games. He’s got a use for us. And he can keep us safe. From the others. Do you understand?

The others, Fogg thinks. The cigarette makes him cough again and he drops it. It falls on the grass and lies there. He crushes it with his foot.

35.
KINGSTON UPON THAMES
1932

The others surround Henry. Caught up with him during the break. Five of them, two older boys and three from his class, their uniforms are dark and their faces are flushed with the excitement of the hunt. You, Fogg, the oldest boy, Roberts, says. Did I say you could run away?

Leave me alone! Henry says. The others laugh. Weird one, aren’t you? Roberts says. He’s the leader. That word.
Weird
. Already it has a new connotation. One Henry doesn’t want to be applied to him. Just leave me alone, he says, I didn’t do anything.

I didn’t do anything, I didn’t do anything. Roberts imitates him like an echo. The others laugh, their voices cruel. Shrill, they surround him. He feels the fog wanting to emerge, it is hiding in the roots of the trees, it is sending grey-white fingers out, questing. Henry says, Stay back. Doesn’t know if it’s the other boys or himself that he talks to.

– Give us your money, Roberts says. We know you have some.

– That’s right! Thornton says. Roberts’ second-in-command. Face twisted in excitement. That’s right!

They come closer, pressing in on him. Fogg says, My father will beat you up.

– Your father’s a drunk.

Haze rises. Fog clouds his mind. Small fists, landing on Roberts’ face, his stomach, Thornton and the others trying to pull him away, drop him on the ground, a kick in his ribs sends sudden pain flaming across his body, the fog rises, it comes from everywhere at once, it reaches grasping fingers, the boys – What is
that
!

Land another kick, Henry closes himself into a ball, hands covering his head, but he can feel the fog, all around, it twists around the boys, someone cries, someone says, quietly, Please, please, no.

The boys run away. Their feet make little sound in the fog. Somebody cries, I can’t see! But their voices lose their shrillness, become soft whispers, disappear in the fog that rises, covering the trees, the ground, blocking the sun, blocking escape. Henry lies there, hands covering his head. Scared of moving.

Waiting for the others to come back.

36.
THE FARM
1936

– Do you understand, Oblivion says, again. And Fogg says: Yes.

Oblivion seems embarrassed at his earlier outburst. Fogg gets the sense, looking at him, of an intensely private world locked up inside him. Of a self-contained universe, letting very little in or out. Why do they call you Oblivion, he says.