Benedict’s never thought about evil before, or mutancy. Good and bad, yes, right and wrong… We’ve all heard about evil for the sake of evil, but – Well, it’s always seemed like a sort of cliché. It’s so… Biblical.
– Libertycare’s analysis, says Pike, is that what begins at grassroots must be attacked at grassroots.
Benedict stares at the map of the fried egg. There’s St Placid, ringed three times in red. Home to a million people. Including him.
It seems to throb.
THE CUSTOMER IS NOT ALWAYS RIGHT
It was like a small medium-priced hotel-room, where they’d put me, except I was locked in. A bathroom with the usual accoutrements, wafer-thin square soaps and fluffy white towels. A main room with a double bed and a pale-green quilt. Little rectangular packets of tea and instant coffee, to make you feel at home, if that was the kind of home you had.
I lay on my bed and uncrumpled the brochure from my pocket and tried not to think about Hannah Park and the way she kept scrambling my feelings. I wondered what kind of life she must have had, and what she thought about, and whether she was lonely, and what it would be like to have her lie next to me while I stroked her hair and kissed her face. I’d probably have to take her glasses off.
Stupid. She’d never be interested in a bloke like me.
Our cherished tradition of dedication to our customers… global recognition as a centre of excellence… we promise all our customers that we will ensure your security, peace of mind and happiness during your stay with us… enshrined in our charter and honoured by our customer-care manifesto… Created on the highest principles of consumer rights…
There were headings dotted about – familiar brochure slogans; I remembered them from the early days of Libertycare, and from the Festival of Choice. YOUR CHOICE, OUR COMMITMENT. THE FREEDOM’S YOURS. Words like provide and pledge. But nothing hung together. The words butterflied before my eyes. There was probably meaning in there somewhere, but just looking at it made me feel knackered and dumb.
Ever since I left the Junior Welcome Centre at seventeen, I’d felt in charge of things. All my adult life I’d found my own way, run my own little world – and the family’s too. An island on an island, we’d been. Not any more.
The best thing, I’ve found, when you’re shit-scared, is to stick your head in the sand. To lull yourself into a sense of security. Doesn’t matter if it’s false. Sleep was what I needed. Engulfment.
It came, but not in the way I’d hoped.
I thought I was awake when I saw him. Wide awake. It was my brother Cameron, and his knitting-pattern face was all purled with fury.
– You fucking bastard! His voice was a grown man’s, angry and husky as though he’d swallowed gravel. But the rest of him was stuck in teenagerhood. – I’m going to kill you!
– But I haven’t done anything! I said. It came out as a horrible whine that grated on my ears. High-pitched and childish. – They stole you! I insisted. I couldn’t stop them! It wasn’t my fault! Tiffany did it! Blame her!
Then Lola joined Cameron, putting her arm around his shoulders. Her beautiful face was mottled with anger. For the first time in my life, I was scared of them.
– 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.