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gathering and found a corner in the living room where no- one knew who she was. Hugo found himself choosing the little road again, despite the lack of traffic on the A381 this time. Perhaps it was a gut instinct. Yet there she was, walking alone, schoolbag over her shoulder, dark glasses contrasting with her hair. She stood by to let him pass, and they waved at each other with familiarity. He should at least have given her a lift. He could say, “I know you shouldn’t get in cars with strange men, but I’ll give you a lift if you want one.” Then she’d hesitate, decide to trust him. He looked smart, well-groomed, part of the establishment, and had a decent car. He would take her to her house, or farm, wherever she lived, and as they parted amicably he could give her his card so her parents could check out who he was, even phone him, make sure he was an okay guy in case of future meetings. Or he would tell her to write his number plate down and give them that, so everyone would know there was nothing funny going on. He would joke as she walked up the driveway to her house, “And remember, don’t get in cars with strange men!” and they would both laugh. Blonde hair in the sunlight, pale cream skin and a shining smile. Even words that once were simple, had other connotations: ‘Fun’ now had a sexual innuendo; surely a word other than ‘gay’ could have been seconded; and ‘love of children’ now had only dark connotations, the most heinous assault imaginable. Or was the new syntax merely a reflection of long-buried truths? He felt a lack, a yearning 43

for past sensibility, a restraint of sorts, a freedom to simply have a cup of tea with a friend, enjoy the quiet things in life. He didn’t have a friend. Perhaps he’d follow the route tomorrow. His arrival at home was accompanied with the usual trepidation, reinforced by the sight of abandoned cars scattered on the lane’s verges apocalyptically. This time, being more forewarned than usual, he was surprised to discover that Cassie had actually kept his parking space clear, an unusual consideration. The show continued as, carrying a glass of Pimm’s, she marched across the lawn, a vision on this late spring day, a smile on her red lips, the breeze gently tugging her forelocks. She gave him the glass and a kiss on the cheek. Those in the vicinity, unsure whether he was a hugger or shaker, opted for affable nods of the head as Cassie announced his arrival. He placed his drink on the trestle-table, passed wearily through the throng and the front door clogged with shoes and boots, glaringly aware of his sartorial disparity as he kicked off his Clarks, and went upstairs to leave his briefcase in the office. Rock music groaned with heavy beats from Andie’s room, its lachrymose notes feeble against the 1960s soundtrack filling the house from the more expensive speakers in the dining room. He went to his bedroom, took his tie off and changed his shirt to a light green polo. Donna, from her vantage point in the corner opposite the sitting room door, saw him come down the stairs, disappear for a while, probably to the bathroom, then re- emerge by Cassie outside, picking up his glass, and listening 44

politely to others. Senses roiling, she watched through the dusty window, aware of the sullen daughter upstairs, the pervading menace in the house. How could she have missed it? The cause was not just the daughter nor was she merely the symptom. Another party, another bad joke: Which came first, the chicken or the egg? The rooster, of course. Things were never that simple. Once again the joke was on her. She sat in the corner, trapped by the onslaught, all psychedelic throttles blazing, she the hapless target. Three Victorian gentlemen stood at the other end of the room laughing idly at each other’s witty observations. On the couch next to her two ladies fluffed up by whale-bone and brocaded satin were discussing their broadband providers. Opposite and looking on at them were two well-dressed men now united in their love and, unknowing what dangers their new relationship entailed, waving cambric handkerchiefs nervously as they talked. Themes often harmonised this way collectively when there was something crucial to impart. Donna got up slowly as if drunk and uncertain, peeked into the dining room to confirm and yes, a group of Irish peasants were huddled in one corner, eyeing suspiciously the English politicians gathered around the table, top-hats placed on the surface, as they discussed the next stage required for a transition town. If Donna focused on the present day, which she could by half-closing her eyes, normalcy would reassert itself, but as soon as she relaxed the general theme would return for the duration. Something had to be done. 45

There were more people outside. She departed from the coolth of the house. As expected, the effect was only mitigated by those who had not shared in the Western nineteenth century experience, and were twenty-first century apparitions fading in the sunlight. She paused only to consider the African slave who had found sanctuary in the Bahamas, and was now chatting merrily to his hoop-skirted friends, about the new café they were establishing together in Totnes. Gathering herself, she went straight up to Hugo and Cassie, looking well-to-do in a straw boater and crinoline respectively. Their faces were recognisable as, in Donna’s experience, the various lives – tentative identities each one of them, including the present – were enfolded within each other, to emerge individually only on occasion. “Can I speak to you both?” she asked earnestly. The urgency imparted was enough for Cassie to relinquish protest and leave her fellow conversationalists, all intangible to Donna, Hugo following curiously. Donna was still unsure. There was no way of knowing how they would react. Connections with any momentous historical past often led to an addiction to drama, and a histrionic present. “Do you know what I do for a living?” she asked finally, once they found a quiet niche to the shaded north- east of the building, where the orange gas cylinders stood. She didn’t wait for an answer but directed her speech to the subdued Hugo rather than his apparently resentful wife. “I do past life readings. What very few people know, and I am 46

saying this sub rosa, is that on occasion I also see the life in question. This happens randomly and I have no idea why, only that I have to act on the information.” “And you saw something about us?” Cassie asked, curious despite herself. “Not you,” said Donna, ignoring her billowing dress and the smell of pipe tobacco emanating from Hugo, “your daughter…” “Andie.” “And to tell the truth, I didn’t see it so much as hear a name.” “You heard a name,” Cassie said, scepticism returning with a vengeance. “Yes.” “What was the name?” Hugo asked. Cassie glanced at her husband, the interest in his voice alerting her. He never became involved in anything remotely unusual. “Lizzie Borden.” At their blank looks, she continued, “I don’t know much about her other than she supposedly killed her parents with an axe in nineteenth century America.” Their looks of astonishment hardly bothered her as she noted with relief that their clothing was reverting to that of the twenty-first century. “Are you saying our daughter is a murdereress?!” Cassie’s indignation had returned along with her floral outfit. 47

“I’m just saying what I know. My job is simply to report, then leave the client with some advice when appropriate…” “We’re not your client, and we certainly don’t want your advice, and if you say any of this slanderous nonsense to anyone, we will sue you.” “You’re not my client,” Donna agreed, “but confidentiality remains entirely in place. I’m finished here.” There was a moment’s hesitation before walking away, as she considered that on occasion a disease was less terrifying than the doctor, then she dismissed easily any self-blame. These people were like an icy breeze on an idyllic summer’s day. She hoped she would never have to deal with them again. She knew too well how we tell ourselves stories in order to feel better, justifications for our soul. The couple also emerged blinking in the stronger light, watching her go in search of her ride. The CD in the dining room had ended and all that could be heard above the chatter was a lugubrious tune from Andie’s room above the kitchen. Cassie spoke evenly and firmly. “If you pursue anything along these lines,” she chastised him, aware of his interest in the other woman, “I’ll kill you. Do you hear me? You are not to do any research or investigating. I know how much you like that. It’s sick and perverted. That woman is sick. I don’t know how people can listen to her.” Donna found her friend Alicia at the back chatting to the smokers, and persuaded her it was time to leave. “You’ve got one of your migraines again, haven’t you,” Alicia said on the driveway as she fumbled in her 48

handbag for her keys. She felt Donna’s urgency and wouldn’t even take the time to say goodbye to anyone. “Yes, I have.” “A bad one?” “One of the worst. It’s building.” “We’ll get you home fast,” she said, juggling the keys in her hand, and squinting at her friend under her short black fringe. “Anyone from the Han dynasty?” “Not that I could see.” “No wonder I couldn’t relax. What’s wrong?” Donna was looking up at the house, wishing she had her sunglasses. ‘Sunshine of Your Love’ was blasting out across the lawn. “Do you like them?” “Who?” “Cassie and Hugo.” “Mmm. Let’s say, I don’t really buy it.” “‘Buy it’?” “Buy them. Yet the funny thing is, you know how people have ethical, ecological washing-up liquid, then you look under the sink and it’s an arsenal of chemicals and poisons? Well, I did look under their sink, and it’s the real deal – all natural products. Even the shampoos and soaps in the bathroom. How many parents can get their teenagers to behave like that? Or even their partner?” Alicia tugged gently at her friend’s sleeve, perturbed at the inertia. “Come on. Let’s get you back to Rick.” “You know the line from ‘Julius Caesar’: ‘The evil men do lives after them, the good is oft interrèd…’?” 49

“ ‘…with their bones.’ Yeah yeah. Don’t remind me.” Alicia had hated school. “I never got it. Surely the evil is forgotten, and the positive things remain? Or so I thought. Now for the first time that makes sense. I understand it now.” “Good for you. Come on.” Alicia’s Clio was half-way down the lane. She pulled out, managed a complicated turn in a gateway only to meet another car coming up. It was a sage-green Saab 96, driven by a young woman with shoulder-length black hair, a soft oval face and a stud in her wide nose, which was like a perfectly-formed triangle with round, sensual corners. She appeared to have converted the car into a mobile greenhouse, with succulent foliage poking out of the half-open windows, even on the passenger side. The customary dance in order to pass each other ensued, along with the waves and good cheer necessary to get by in the south west narrow lanes of England. “She looked nice,” commented Alicia chirpily as they turned onto the main road. “I wonder where she got her good carma from.” “Don’t ask me,” groaned Donna, smiling, holding her head. “I just work here.” They’d driven a bit further when Alicia allowed herself to infer fully from Donna’s mood. “You think something bad is going to happen there, don’t you?” “Everything has already happened,” said Donna almost inaudibly then, louder, just as enigmatically, “The past is a jealous teacher.” 50

Hugo saw the opportunity to extricate himself when Cassie homed in on René, the new arrival, the new ally. Apparently he was going to live in his van at the back, in exchange for some gardening. Hugo wasn’t sure what he felt about it. True, she hadn’t discussed the idea with him, but then they hadn’t managed to keep the grounds in order either. Perhaps it would work out. So, René would use the bathroom, and washing machine occasionally. That was hardly a problem. Hugo sat on a granite boulder half-buried at the east corner of their land, nursing his barely-touched Pimm’s, looking down at the barbed-wire fence and then at the main road humming erratically below. His thoughts were also random as he looked to the north, where he had first seen the girl in the light rain. Cassie and René sat on two lawn chairs, clutching their glasses of cloudy apple juice. She was imparting advice about relationships for some reason. “You’re a young man and you need to look around you, experiment, that’s the only way you can find out who you are. Hugo and I were both nearly thirty when we met, and we were ready by then. But be careful, don’t be silly. Even if you’re only in a casual relationship, make sure it’s with a respectable girl. Then later with whomsoever you settle down, and you’re ready to have children…” His attention often wandered, and he was hardly listening to her, her voice bleeding into the background with the calls of birds, distant murmur of traffic, people’s chatter and the vibrant chords of ‘Badge’. He was focused more on 51

the sight of two squirrels copulating frenziedly in the branches of the sycamore at the south corner, between the garden and the lane. The leaves were shaking crazily. Neither of them were aware of the young woman with a nose-stud passing by, carrying a jade plant. Nor was she aware of them. She went in the front door, saw a few people she knew, sold the plant within minutes, told others she had several more in her car and would they like to meet her there in ten minutes in order to make their selection. She also handed out a few cards. When she returned outside, her attentive brown eyes adjusting to the light, Hugo was on his way for a refill. He stopped half-way across the lawn. They looked at each other. She was slightly taller than him in green army trousers held up by brown braces over a red flannel shirt that was torn in a couple of places. He didn’t recognise her, as if peering through smoke, through the bottom of a beer glass, at someone he dimly knew. She looked very Totnesian in his view, thus safely dismissing any recognition as being of a type rather than an individual. She smiled as he went nervously past her. “It’s so nice to have this chat,” Cassie said, patting René on the knee. He smiled and stood up, prepared to leave, when he saw the woman approach. He perceived her as being of the same age group as himself, yet older. Everyone seemed older than him in some way or other. “Are you Cassie?” the girl asked, walking right up. “Yes, I am.” 52

“My name is Julia. Everyone calls me Jules.” They shook hands. “I’m signing up for two pints.” René, forgotten, walked away. “Wonderful! How did you hear about it, can I ask?” “I think…Alicia forwarded me the email. Then I saw your notice at Riverford.” She flopped into the vacated chair. “I’m glad you came, Jules.” “So am I! I hope you don’t mind, I’ve already sold a jade plant to one of your guests. She actually had asked me to bring it. Now a few more people got interested and are about to buy some from my car, where I’ve stashed a few. I don’t wish to steal your thunder…” “No, that’s absolutely fine! So you sell jade plants for a living?” “Among numerous other things.” “Why them in particular?” “You don’t know?” the younger woman laughed looking up from her semi-reclining position. “People call them ‘money plants’. They’re supposed to encourage wealth. Maybe because the leaves are round, like coins. I don’t know. I just think they’re beautiful, and I’m really good at growing them. They seem to flourish in my house.” “Oh. Do you have any extra?” “Sure. Come on. I said I’d meet people down at my car.” “René might be interested. I wonder where he’s gone.” 53

Jules managed to get rid of all her plants in the cheerful semi-spontaneous sale at her car, then returned at the back of the jade-carrying procession to the house, offerings for the lares and penates. Prepared to relax and enjoy herself now that business was taken care of, she found herself stopping before reaching the front door. The tide of people came and went around her. The young man who had been talking with Cassie is now at the far end of the lawn alone, holding his glass uncomfortably as if he doesn’t know what to do with it, with himself. His innate nervousness translates into an odd glancing around seemingly at random. He is separate from the crowd, his clothes rougher, more like hers really. She notices his glancing to be not entirely random. There is a direction favoured by lingering upon it a bit longer. His feet are locked to the ground; his spirit elsewhere, further up the hill, at the McCoys’. She knows them, having had dealings with them in the recent past. So, apparently, had he. She smiles knowingly. There is no doubt where his fixation lies. It was always easy to tell if a bloke were in love with Marina, only one question needing answering – had he met her? Nothing will change, nothing can be done. She shrugs and goes indoors. The cyborg was vicious and unbelievably powerful. It also had the ability to change shape that was bewildering to Xela. He had never met, nor fought, anything like it. The monster looked humanoid in all its manifestations. Only the shifting of its body, like a constant tectonic change, indicated 54

it was anything but. They battled on this artificial platform left by a long-forgotten, ancient civilisation in the outer reaches of the galaxy, Xela exhausted but never giving up even when slammed to the surface by a rain of brutal blows. Finally, a perfectly aimed shot at the monster’s neck, nearly severing its erratic head, followed by a thrust from his sword-arm right to the creature’s quantum heart, and it was over. The cyborg collapsed in a fury of sparks, deceased. Xela’s suit was working overtime in keeping up with repairs, sealing in his profuse bleeding, but he had won. He will save the universe and nobody will ever know. “Alex?” Hugo poked his head in. “What are you doing, Alex?” “I’m…I’m doing art.” Alex looked up, vaguely guilty, from his desk. “Good. Um, can I see?” Reluctantly, Alex handed the sketch book over. Hugo took it and sat on the bed to study it. There was silence awhile before he asked, “What is it?” “It’s from a story,” Alex said. “The hero is battling a shapeshifting cyborg. I don’t know why yet, I haven’t worked that out.” “And this is for class?” “Yes,” Alex lied. Hugo looked dubiously at the drawing. The work was skilful, even he could see that, but that wasn’t the point. “I would have thought they’d get you to draw sunflowers, or learn to draw like the famous artists.” “We do that kind of thing too.” 55

“Well… You do remember that little talk we had.” “Yes, Dad.” “We meant what we said: you are not to buy comics. We’re fine with you doing what you have to do to get the grades, but that’s not good enough for the long run. We don’t want you rotting your brain with juvenile material.” “Okay.” “Don’t you have other homework, like maths?” “Yes.” “Well, I’d get on with it if I were you. When we come to choose your GCSEs, Art won’t be of any use.” He stood up, dropped the sketch book on the bed, and ruffled Alex’s hair before leaving. “Don’t let those grey cells go to waste.” Alex’s sigh was too deep for someone his age. He was always, always, fighting the loneliest war on the edge of the galaxy. Hugo made his way through the thinning groups of people in the kitchen and dining room. That the event was drawing to a close was further evidenced by the music having ceased. Andie’s star was rising as night approached, and Gloria could be heard from her room. He was always afraid when approaching her door, yet would go ahead anyway and knock, telling himself each and every time he shouldn’t be. There was the customary grunt and he entered. She was on her bed, back against the wall, computer embracing her groin with its subtle field. She gave him a glance, while the greater part of her froze. “The party’s coming to an end, Andie. We’ll tidy up downstairs then have supper.” 56

She remained mute, eyes fixed on the screen. He wanted to berate her, which she was expecting. Instead he himself remained quiet, considering her. Could it be true? Of all the far-fetched ideas to intrude upon his home, why had this one struck a chord? She was irritated by his lingering presence, and having to make the effort to look at him again. “What?” “Just admiring my daughter.” “Perv,” she said as he closed the door and pretended not to hear. After the meal, and after suffering Cassie’s giddiness in the wake of her success, and her father’s silence and weird glances, she said she had homework to do and retired to her room to watch ‘True Blood’ for three hours. She couldn’t talk to her friends because they were all watching ‘Game of Thrones’, which she considered a soap opera with dragons, but tolerated others’ obsessions, as a firm and benign queen would permit whimsy in her subjects. Late in the night after her parents had retired, she put in ear-phones to listen to Gloria till drifting asleep, her copy of ‘Beautiful Darkness’ drifting from her fingers to the floor. She woke a bit later, the music having stopped. In the distance she could hear a motorbike rev up, accelerate, and increase in volume as it roared past the house down to the main road, its sound eventually disappearing with the rider to somewhere, anywhere. Anywhere that was better than here. 57

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Chapter 3 The Mutual Affinities of Organic Beings The sea offered freedom but what it really did was ensnare, enshroud, so you couldn’t move. It trapped you. Once you had three hundred and sixty degrees to move, now you had a hundred and eighty, no matter the few brave souls who would defy this sanction, and move out upon perilous waves. So many, so many claimed by unknown depths; the rest merely lucky survivors returning to constraints with sighs of relief, the boundary a tomb, shells of the once-living destined limestone. On their first date, mutually suggested, effortlessly, they walked the sands at Bigbury. He had picked her up at her deceased mother’s house in Newton Abbot, all charm and smart casual. She was excited at the unfolding of so many possibilities, as was he, reading much in her sensuous curves, loose black wavy hair and pale delicately freckled features as she stole shy glances at him in the car. He had never been certain about any woman before, his few flirtations and gropings driven more by what he’d heard and read: if you’re normal, if you’re a man, this is what you do. With Cassandra Maybrick it was different. They had simply started talking when sitting at adjacent tables in a café at the town centre one Saturday morning, and everything had 59

flowed. They both liked the sea, who didn’t, she had no car, he did, and the rest was predictable. The tide was low, and they walked to the island and had lunch at the pub overlooking the waves. “We are very different,” Hugo said, and they both laughed for the differences were insignificant. No matter she was tempted by the alternative life, her ambition to move to Totnes if only she could afford the house prices; or at least for one that was a good size and with a garden. However, she could never compete with the Londoners buying their second and third homes; not even with the aid of her share of her alcoholic mother’s inheritance and that of a doting grandfather, her father long since out of the picture. No matter Hugo simply wanted to work hard for a quiet life. Their differences were enrichening to the other. They both wanted children, or at least a child, so they had that in common. What else was the human race for, other than to grow? They would make a great team. They headed back to the mainland before the sun set and the tide returned. They lingered, ambling between the sea’s edge and the cliffs. He responded to her sensuousness, easily slipping his arm around her waist, feeling her warm flesh beneath the floral dress and jeans jacket. She reciprocated, kindly. They continued in silence until a particularly loud cry from a gull made them glance seaward. “‘I have heard the mermaids singing each to each’,” he ejaculated softly, quoting one of the lines he had been forced to remember for an exam. 60

He knew poetry. She smiled. ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock’ was one of her favourites. Before long she would discover that he also liked classical music – only a few pieces, but the same popular ones as she – and could even cook a bit, his signature tone being turmeric, bringing a subtle earthy bass note to every sauce. He had learned that trick from his only previous, short-lived girlfriend. They returned to the car before it got too chilly and, as they drove inland, listened to a compilation CD he had specially prepared. ‘One’ became their song, and love the temple indeed. As he walked her to her door, there was a mild tension. All he wanted was to take her knickers off and make love to her passionately. It was only the first date. She had her keys in her hand. “Goodnight,” he said. “I’d invite you in, but…” “It’s fine. I’ll call you.” “Do.” They kissed, holding back tongues, exploring each other’s lips, hers thin and malleable, his large and encompassing, breath warm in the early evening air, emanating from deep within the furnace of their bodies that their hands gently touched through thin cotton, beneath their jackets. He held his hips back, attempting to hide the erection raging against his trousers. The definitive thud of her door closing, then the hollow clunk of his car door. He drove back to Exeter, knowing not to break etiquette and call so soon though every 61

part of him wanted to. He had to masturbate three times before finally managing to sleep. He was working the next day. He wouldn’t tell anyone about Cassie till the engagement, due to the limitation of male support (“Have you fucked her yet?”); and he couldn’t handle it, the harsh spotlight. This was just them, him and her, their story. “I don’t want a chance to explore my cosmic nascency, I want a girlfriend, I want to have fun,” were René’s thoughts after a particularly gruelling prolixity from Cassie. She had been trying to arrange a meeting with one of her friends for him, saying it would be good for his growth even if he didn’t fancy her much, that everyone needed someone. “You really must learn to listen to advice. You’ve been having trouble with your knees, which means you must learn to be more humble.” And he had been wondering what her husband had ever seen in her. Older people’s relationships were always a bit mysterious, the daily minutiae of desires forever thwarted by the one major, earlier one, competing to survive in cold ashes. The garden looked much better. In just over a month he had worked hard. He had even done some PR for his business by walking for a day and pushing his homemade card through people’s doors. It was unusual for him to do any active promotion, it never having been successful in the past. A sense of something imminent forced him this time, that he would need to go before long, discover new pastures. Maplecroft made him uneasy, he had no idea why. They even gave him dinner now and again, which the mother made a great show of. At the McCoys’, any gifts he made, 62

such as a bar of chocolate, or cleaning the bathroom, went unnoticed entirely in the maelstrom of their lives; here, he couldn’t do or give anything without Cassie taking it as a reflection of her own inadequacy, and masking that sentiment through criticism. The father was polite and distant, clearly uninterested in anything outside his world, which excluded gardening, even his garden. The children seemed of a similar bent, especially the boy. Goodness knew where his world lay. The girl only came alive when she spoke of dead things, like the maggot-ridden jackdaw he found at the back of the shed, or her phone or computer. Despite his youth, she surmised he was of an older generation who didn’t appreciate such things. He didn’t even talk about the McCoys. Nonetheless, that her life was elsewhere, with other people, he could appreciate; not realising it was with pretty much the same people; for his world too remained up the hill locked in a time-frame that never altered. The mother was also only interested in herself as much as she pretended otherwise. Thus he found himself seeking further shores by going on a clumsy walkabout. He commenced at Gail Raymond’s door. The one time he had met her, he had felt vaguely unsettled, again without knowing why, not recognising a small spark and salacious smile in an old woman. He had glimpsed her many times since in her long colourful skirts collecting specimens in the surrounding fields. The letterbox in the shiny door – once you lifted the lid – was veiled by thick black hairs. There was a thin slip of white paper hanging down, obviously meant to be read. He had to toy with it to release it, the hairs 63

stroking his fingers. He peered closely at the tiny handwriting which simply stated to leave parcels in the shed if no-one was at home. He left the delicate paper to dangle, pushing his card past it through the door, quite forcefully as the hairs were wiry and strong. As he withdrew, they caressed him, followed by the metal lid light on his fingers, finishing with a distinctive clang. His networking begun, he progressed up the road, walking resolutely past the McCoys with nary a glance. Summer was nearing and the day a fitting harbinger with freshness in the hedgerows and a warmth from the visible sun behind the cold breeze. He may not have granted any visible acknowledgement to Marina, but for the most of his clockwise tour around the local hamlets and villages, the shadow of their last meeting followed. It was everywhere. “I…I love you.” She with her wide eyes and open face, was well aware of the immensity of courage it took for him to speak. She was also astounded. All men loved her. None of them had been so bold as to actually voice it. There was something different about this one. She looked at him in a new way. They were the same age. She did really like him. A terror rose in her heart. She floundered. Everything could come crashing down if she said the wrong thing. “I…I’m with Ed now,” she said after fifteen seconds’ eternity. “I know.” 64

The succinosis of words and of time, they were trapped in amber. He had to get out, fight the impurity of inclusion. It was the day of Cassie’s party. No matter how many doors he pushed his card through, no matter how many miles he circumambulated, the extremely brief conversation with Marina lay at the focus, transcendent of time and distance. So close to the shame of his failure, the terminal confrontation with Cassie may have seemed predictable. Only a disinterested observer would claim the two unrelated. “Why can’t you stay here?” Cassie demanded, her hands in pink Marigold gloves dripping with soapy water. “It’s…difficult,” he said from the doorway to the rear entrance hall. “In what way?” she insisted, unmoving. “I…” He had to say something and he could only ever state his truth. “I don’t like the energy here.” “What do you mean by that?” she snapped. When he had no answer, standing there like an awkward child in his welly boots, she added, “Just go. Go!” Once again under a cloud of undefined opprobrium, he left a home built on questionable ground; a man in love, on the run. Any remorse that could possibly be felt by Cassie or Marina would be mitigated by the knowledge that this was René’s default setting: ‘blood ties’, ‘family first’, ‘thicker than water’, fragments of a foreign language. The adopted child of two loving, very quiet church-goers in Hampshire, his quest for where he belonged outside of that home led him to places where other drifters would meet. It was inevitable 65

therefore that at this point in his tour he would head to Totnes rather than just its environs. Cassie finished the dishes at the same moment the sound of René’s engine and departure reached her ears. The whole world was aligned against her. This was her life. Nothing to look forward to other than the return of a weak- willed husband, a vicious daughter and what was once her golden boy, now remote and with thoughts she couldn’t comprehend. As she was loading the washing machine, she heard the Waitrose van arrive. What was she thinking. All along she had had that to look forward to as well. She had ordered extra crisps and cookies as a treat for everyone, which actually did give her a good feeling. It was only a hundred yards’ walk to his home from the bus stop. It always felt like the longest distance in his life. Today he was alone, Andie obviously opting for a later bus, as late as she dared against the restrictions from her home. Once she had her phone taken from her for a week for arriving after dinner, the phone in question having been conveniently out of juice that evening. “No, it isn’t!” their father had proclaimed, after grabbing it out of her bag and switching it on, Andie at a loss to explain. She was never a very good liar. Even now, Alex having got off the bus alone, she was with him. Sometimes she would stride ahead fiercely, snarling at him to stay back, to brave the road’s harsh acclivity by himself. Other times she would yell at him, ordering him to march ahead. The times they walked closely together, always in silence, were the most uncomfortable. 66

She was always with him, and they were always ascending the hostile incline together. He didn’t know why she didn’t like him. He was always nice to her. There was a dull tacit alliance against the madness of their parents, but that was it. He had seen her kissing someone at school. She had also kissed him when tipsy one Christmas, holding his head so he couldn’t escape, then laughing uproariously afterward. She had a cold then. His granny and aunties were worse, giant carnivorous insects that stooped down and devoured him with mucous. Then there was the dentist and her assistant, smiling suspiciously in their white uniforms, clattering their steel instruments together. “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” they would say before sticking a drill in his mouth. His mother was mother of all these conspiracies to kill him. He was envious of those his own gender who remained in blissful ignorance of their terror of women. He had no such luxury of oblivion, knowing too well just how angry they were. They just weren’t clean. They kept sharing food from their plates and licking jam spoons before replacing them in the jar. Mum had kissed him on the mouth after coming home from hospital once, and everyone told him that’s where diseases proliferated. Thank goodness the kissing was usually limited to Christmas and his birthday. He wished his mum would forget his birthday sometimes. The ritual of cake, kisses, everyone being nice to him for one day, and presents he didn’t actually desire, had become an unbearable torment. Nobody ever asked him what he wanted. Instead they were always telling him. He was going to get a phone when he was fourteen, like his sister. He 67

wasn’t sure he even wanted that despite the cool games it would have. Deceit the only resource available when surrounded by the great and powerful, today he had actually got what he wanted by defying orders. They weren’t to know. He walked the eternal hundred yards up the hill, a secret treasure hidden amongst the school books in his satchel. Aside from Art, he was generally unappreciated at school, where they – like everyone – remained dull to the glaring light of his astuteness. Even now as he traversed the last few steps to his house, his vocabulary more extensive than generally credited, he was considering how families were like serial killers, both stuck in destructive cycles, till intercepted. He would never be able to articulate this, the one thing he had learnt from school and home being that he was always wrong, in the wrong or doing something wrong. Physical joys, such as he had had when younger, were now associated with the sergeant majors of the world; he no longer played Indians and Cowboys, and that football could be fun was a truly alien concept to him. That he should exercise more, and cultivate a more positive attitude, become a better person, succeeded in putting him off other people’s advice even further. His art teacher, despite her support, had gleaned something amiss as Alex’s work spiralled out of control, to somewhere dangerous, somewhere without love. Then she would shrug to herself, putting it down to the zeitgeist; it was what children were these days, what they were exposed to through the continual assault of media. There was only so much she could do by way of mitigation; 68

and, besides, it was far more to be desired than his sister’s lifeless, unimaginative joining of the dots. “Where’s Andie?” demanded Cassie as he walked into the kitchen after dumping his bag in his room. “She wasn’t on the bus,” he commented drily, heading straight to the snacks tin. “I know I know I know,” sang Cassie as she leapt on him and pulled his cheeks in what she considered a playful manner, and which he found extremely disconcerting. He could smell sweet sherry on her breath. “She rang to say three of her friends want to hang with her in her room to do some homework. Isn’t that cool?” Andie rarely brought friends home. It had been a while since Hugo had seen the girl. Or had it? He wasn’t sure how the various temporal fragments fitted together in his nondescript life recently, nor how often he had taken the detour. He wasn’t sure he wanted to see her, yet there she was. He slowed the car, winding his window down. “I know you shouldn’t get in cars with strange men, but I’ll give you a lift if you want one.” She hesitates, then decides to trust him, assenting with that Aphrodite smile, though Hugo wouldn’t understand the reference. “Ta,” she said as she got in and fastened the safety- belt. “I’ve seen you before, ain’t I?” “I use this road sometimes. I live at Maplecroft on Oldridge Lane. Do you know it?” “Maybe,” she squinted her freckled face, thinking. “It’s the house down from Gail Raymond’s 69

cottage.” “The witch!” “Is that what they call her?” He couldn’t think of a more inappropriate, and inaccurate, term to call her. She was apparently a respected scientist. “Round ‘ere they do. So you’re near the McCoys.” “They live above us. Hey.” He tried not looking at her bare thighs pressed against the plexi-leather seat. “You really shouldn’t get in cars with strange men.” “Oh you’re not that strange.” A sideways look, smiling. “Where do you live?” “Winward Farm top of the hill.” “You don’t walk this every day I hope.” “Nah. My mum usually picks me up. Iss all right. I like it. You get to see things.” “Like what?” he asked, too aware of her breasts pushing out against her blouse. “I’ll show you,” she said coyly. “ ‘Ere, pull off down this track.” He followed her indication. The sign said Yarnford Farm, but she immediately gestured to another track. “Down there. This is the old road.” As they went under trees, she leaned forward to put her sunglasses in the bag down by her feet, her hair bright in the shade. They came to a stop by the dappled stream. “It’s very secluded here.” “They had to move the road away ‘cos the ford kept getting flooded. You can see kingfishers.” It’s so easy. She touches your hand amicably, a mistaken signal, a drastic error. You can’t hold back any longer, it’s your chance to be a man. You release your seat- belt and lunge. “What are you doing?!” Pulling away, she knocks her head on the door. “Look, I’m sorry!” 70

A hand reaching out to pacify her. The screaming becomes shrill, the seat-belt a restraint in a metal cage. “Stop! Please!” The car doors are locked in panic. There’s blood in her hair. So easy to keep her quiet forever, in a deep silence that has no beginning and no end. Meanwhile Andie will arrive with her posse of three mascara-laden girls, all attempting to be as sullen as her, grimly convinced that a loveliness of ladybirds could become a plague. “Mary’s dad is picking them up,” she will inform Cassie immediately, “so they don’t want any of your poxy toxins for dinner. We’re all eating late tonight.” “That’s all right, dear. Would your friends like any snacks?” “I’ll get them. Where’s Dad?” Andie will ask as she ransacks a cupboard. “He called to say he’ll be a bit late.” “Well, fuck him and the horse he rides in on.” “Andie…!” Impressed, the girls are laughing, and her daughter leading them out of the kitchen, biscuit and crisp packets piled high under her chin. “Bring my bag, Sarita.” “Thank you very much, Mrs Munby,” the last girl says with a melodic sincerity. Dinner is soon ready, Alex the only true participant. Cassie’s sister’s thin, cruel shadow was perpetually cast over her, mocking her flesh. She was often hungry and not daring 71

to eat. The random enforced diet did as little for her as past attempts at jogging around the countryside. She never got far and never even tried anymore. Self-hatred coiled around her heart, rising only to spit at interlopers who unwittingly transgressed the invisible, formidable barriers, fire in her eyes. She stood by the sink, phone idle in her hand, watching the silently-eating Alex with a sort of theatrical fondness. Laughter from the room above kept intruding. “I wonder how much work they’re actually doing,” she commented, to which there was no reply. Alex was to have been the saviour, the child she truly wanted, and she had managed to bond with him until he detached himself. Even Cassie was capable of such musings on the mystery of birth, stark facts that could potentially force her to wonder why anyone ever bothered. Morning sickness was misnamed because it could strike at any time; and the possessive regarding children erroneous, because they could not be your children at any time and, indeed, perhaps never were. She would never take her musings so far. What she had never confided to anyone, was her compelling desire to give Andie away at birth. There was no-one ever to talk to about such a thing. Resigned to her daughter through fear of censure, she had allayed the task ahead by convincing herself there would one day be dresses and fairy-tale castles; whereas it was endless dishes, dirty laundry in every nook and cranny, tantrums and tyrannies. Now with the subtle asperity of government, she had her bête noire confined to four walls and a screen or two, everyone 72

where they should be, monitored and checked, the maternal panopticon an astounding success. She speed-dials and puts the phone to her ear. “Lucy? Yes, it’s me… He’s not here yet but I just spoke to him. He’ll be on time… I’ll be ready. Ahh I hear him now… See you in a minute.” He arrives, gaunt, expressionless behind his glasses, to find his wife adjusting an earring, his son eating a strawberry dessert yoghurt. “Lucy will pick me up in a minute. Dinner’s on the Aga. Andie and her friends are upstairs.” “Did they eat?” “They didn’t want to. One of the dads is picking them up at nine. I’ll be back by twelve. Don’t wait up.” This was almost a joke. “What group is this again?” “My women’s group.” “That used to be on Tuesday.” “This is a new one. Don’t you listen to anything?” Fear went through his bones. What was shared with his wife was shared with the world, or at least the female part of it. He remembered now. She had found the previous group too lacklustre. This one sounded a tad militant. The thought of all those women, most of whom he had never met, deciding his fate, terrified him. The ones before were bad enough. They would comment on male physiognomy as if butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths, yet any man who made the slightest comment on a woman in such a manner was ripe for censure. 73

He didn’t tell jokes anymore. Ralph in the office, with his gleaming wit, had a good one: Q: Why do women take so long to orgasm? A: Who cares? Everyone had laughed, including the women. Yet when Hugo had repeated it to a similar crowd, he had been reprimanded severely by the women, the men looking away, embarrassed for him. Maybe he didn’t have Ralph’s charm. He remained stuck in the kitchen entrance, his wife going on about the quality of the vegetables from Waitrose, whilst adjusting her earrings again. They were eye-shaped aquamarine, marquise-cut in gold filigree, left to her by her grandmother; and she was justly proud of them, even daring to wear them when meeting new groups of people. “We dress up,” Lucy had told her, “as if going on a date, though we’re certainly not.” “As the man, you should do something, take a stand,” Cassie said about the vegetables. He wasn’t really listening, of course, having taken it as standard for a long time that he couldn’t walk around a room without bumping into one of her principles. Funny how his mother became obsessive in her middle-age about food being vegetarian, scrutinising labels to ensure that it really was. Now it had to be organic and ethical, whatever that meant. He had few opinions about such things himself, in their stead contrary moral views whirling like a cyclone, leaving a devastated nihilistic wasteland. “Can I go to my room now?” Alex asked, pushing his yoghurt pot aside. 74

“Yes, darling, go to your room.” Hugo could have been surprised at her tone if he weren’t so numb, accepting that she had an agenda and he simply had to fit in, whatever it was. “You can clean up,” Cassie said. “I’ve spent the day cleaning. Why are you standing like an idiot there? You look weird. I need to get past.” The headlights of Lucy’s car had hit the front of the building, throwing distorted shadows around the room. He was left eating alone in the seat Alex had vacated, the sounds of teenage girls’ laughter weighing down on his head and his blank expressionless face. He ate like an automaton, unconscious of the slow constant pace of the fork going back and forth to his mouth. Apart from the table, the kitchen really was clean apart from the washing-up which lay piled as a perpetual reminder of his guilt over the broken dishwasher. He felt very uncomfortable, as always after one of her blitzes; conducted with such rage and resentment, he privately called it dirty cleaning, every surface accusing him glaringly; associated with angry cooking, here where exotic spices lined the shelves above the Aga – lime leaves, all spice, lemongrass, star anise, dill seed, fenugreek and black mustard seed; nothing as basic as mixed herbs, and certainly no turmeric. Afraid to put anything out of place, it was a perpetual return to growing up with his mother, a never- ending loop. He should have dated more before settling down, discovered what else was out there, but then he was never a charmer like Ralph. 75

The girls in a flurry of activity exited Andie’s room and descended. He knew what to expect. He would check just to retain a sense of normalcy at all costs, that he was the good and reliable father. When Andie did have friends over, the living room was occasionally desirable for the comfortable chairs and live TV, which their broadband was often too slow to accommodate. He went through the dining room. The door was half-open. He did a cursory knock and glanced in, forcing a smile. It wasn’t what he expected: the friends gathered, gormless, still-eyed, staring at the screen with nothing in their minds but babies and houses. This was different. “We needed the floor space,” Andie said to him, looking up, in an effort to control what he said. They were working on a collage of some sort on black card, surrounded by cut-up newspapers and magazines. The five girls, all kneeling on the floor, viewed him as one, their maquillage eerily similar, with heavy eye-liner and pallid faces. It was as if they all wanted to look like his daughter, to repel him and anyone else not in their frame of mind. He had seen the blonde one before with friends in town, yelling random abuse in town at the air, at passers-by. Now she appeared tame. “I’ll leave you then.” “Good.” René had tried the Almond Thief now for the second time. An acclaimed bakery located illogically at Dartington industrial estate, he had heard that it was run by a group of marine biologists who wanted to do something different. He felt he could do with people like that in his life. The last time 76

he had found himself nineteen pence short of what was needed for a basic coffee; now it was closed, their hours rather peculiar. He sat in his van in the parking lot, wondering where to go next, what he could do, now that his one attempt to nourish himself this grim day had failed. He didn’t know anyone in the town, the McCoys’ connections being more in the other direction, and his role at the Munbys being clearly defined. He wasn’t sure this was a place for him. At twenty- three he was observant enough to know that bigotry existed in Bohemia, as much as compassionate wisdom could be found in conservatives. Any attraction to a place would be beyond the obvious. Thus, a travellers’ community was as unlikely to be favourable as a suburban lifestyle. He didn’t know what was in the depths, where to cast anchor. He should call his parents, let them know he’d moved on again, but they only really needed an address for his birthday and that was a few weeks away. Besides, he didn’t have an address, nor work, his attempt at publicity the day of his circular walk risible. This last thought inciting him, he got out of the van and wandered to the busy main road. There were newbuilds tainting the landscape on the hill above, like the cancerous growths infecting numerous areas around any town, progressions defying any true sense. He went down the hill, past the garage to the post office under a sky restless with sunshine and cloud. He checked the notices to see if anyone was in need of a gardener, then put one of his cards up. About to buy food, he was momentarily distracted by the 77

lurid headlines of the newspapers on display. He paid little attention to the world, and such intrusions always disturbed him, these foot-soldiers of moral rectitude, driven by the two-faced god of licentiousness and prudery. He felt he wanted more wholesome food yet nonetheless managed to haphazardly choose some supplies and return to his van. He then set off for the sea. He had sufficient money and fuel for a few days, maybe even two weeks, and while he should be searching for work and a place to park he was badly in need of fresh air and space. Besides, where else could he, a piece of flotsam, end up. He left his phone on the passenger seat, in case a client called, or in case Marina came to her senses. As he found his way through Totnes and up the hill towards a temporary, distant respite, ‘Blue Bayou’ was playing on the radio. He had never heard the song before, and its yearning struck a chord he preferred not to hear. He pushed in a CD and continued with the more comfortable sounds of trip hop. His melancholy thus translated for the time being, his silent phone and noisy thoughts evocative of Marina, the throbbing of the engine transferred to his loins, resulting in an unwilled erection. Travelling on buses caused the same problem. He had more than once had to miss a stop because of his condition. His mother was one of the nice Christians, his father more along for the ride. They hadn’t imposed beliefs on him, not even insisting on his going to church once he clearly voiced disinterest. Values instilled themselves nonetheless, one of the consequences being not having sex, stopping 78

masturbating, and having a near-perpetual boner. Even in the last weeks he had met pretty, unattached girls, and his instincts responded, often unbeknownst to him. Marina was his true love and he should ignore all others, for they were superficial, illusory. He didn’t make it to the sea. Keeping to the back roads in order to avoid the police – his MOT being overdue – he found a discreet forestry entrance, was tired, and thought it looked like a good spot. He could probably stay a night before being moved on. He switched off the engine and sat musing to the accompaniment of Massive Attack’s ‘Better Things’, then switched the music off as well. He wondered what to do now his blood had calmed down, as the clouds grew heavy over the tops of the Norwegian spruces and the soughing wind gathered force. He was alone in a nation of gloom, his situation hopeless. Suicide often came up as the viable option, only the thought of what it would do to his parents staying his hand, at least ostensibly. His thirst for life and the mysteries it held was far stronger in him than he was aware, any obligation and gratitude to his upbringing being mere gateposts at the start of his journey. He fell asleep in his rocking van, waking once from a dream that a famous peacock with no name was sitting in the swaying trees above, to tell him that a simple woodsman had died in the next village. This made him tremendously sad as he succumbed to sleep again, wrapped in mourning, that the woodsman was him. In the morning it was cold. He tried not moving for a while. The wind had mostly died, all else silent. There was 79

little reason in the world for him to get up; yet there was no comfort in his bed either. Only the need to urinate compelled him outside. Standing under a tree, he saw upwards that the morning sky was clearing, with hints of blue behind the grey. He would go on to the beach, the only hope to keep moving, forever adrift, so much unknown and lost. He cleaned himself up a bit using shampoo, which he used for everything, being out of soap, laundry detergent and washing-up liquid. Jules had coffee with her friends in Totnes at the top of the High Street, bought some vegetables then went to a tiny wholefood shop at The Plains. As she entered, the bell above the door announcing her arrival, there was a conversation going on at the till. The girl she knew by sight, a Rossetti damsel with a white face and blonde cascading hair. The customer was the guy she had seen at the milk party. He looked like he hadn’t changed clothes since. The soft brown hair and beard on his youthful face were well- kempt, his clothes another matter. If he wanted to get anywhere with this particular princess, he’d need to clean himself up a bit. The good news was that Marina hadn’t completely spoiled him. Jules filled her basket, then approached the counter. The girl, who had entertained the young man to this point, had fallen quiet, aware that she had a job to do. He was expounding his theory that there was a conventional- unconventional rhythm in families, that the offspring of many of the alternatives in the area would likely become bankers or traders. The conversation was irrelevant, but 80

Jules decided to join in anyway, partly to speed up payment. “My mum is a hippy, so I guess that makes me the straight in the family!” The interruption was done kindly, and she smiled as she placed her basket on the counter, but René was put out, the spell broken. “I’ll…I’ll see you,” he flustered, waving at the silent beauty before exiting without a purchase, the bell providing a full stop at the end of his sentence. Jules and the girl smiled at each other, understanding. She emerged from the shop carrying a canvas bag of goods in each hand, to witness René standing under a leafy London plane by the Italian café, examining the money in his hand forlornly. He really did look like a waif. “I’ll buy you a coffee,” she said, going up to him in a foreshadowing move that surprised her later when she thought about it. He looked at her, baffled under the motley light playing through the leaves of the tree. “I…I saw you at Maplecroft, but…” He tapped the side of his nose. “I had a nose-stud. Press-on. I forgot it this morning.” To his inquiring look – he really had no reliable filter for his thoughts – she smiled. “Part of my cunning disguise.” He was even more baffled. Her mauve peasant’s smock over a pair of old blue jeans, a flat woollen rainbow- coloured hat on her rich dark hair, didn’t seem much of a disguise for anything. She radiated sensuality and presence. 81

“Bag the table over there,” she nodded, “and look after my shopping while I get the drinks. What would you like? Oh and perhaps we should know each other’s names.” He waited, wondering about this turn of events, watching the colourful gatherings of people at the other white tables. It was a pleasant atmosphere. He’d been at The Plains before, always briefly, always conscious of his separation. Even the homeless street people had those who recognised and engaged with them. He had remained an outsider. At least he had one potential friend now. Jules returned with two lattes and a ciabatta sandwich that she pushed in front of him. “You look like you need feeding.” “I…wow…thank you.” “No problem. You’re something of a wanderer, I guess. The Jack Kerouac thing.” “I always thought Dickensian,” he said with a smile. She laughed as he started eating. “Your family?” she asked. “I’m adopted. They live in Hampshire.” “Oh. Wow. I see what you mean,” she said, her eyes wide with compassion as she wiped hot milk from her lips. “How…do you know anything about your biological parents?” She wanted to let him eat but was too curious and forthright to hold back. “No. I don’t feel like finding out yet either…” She seemed to exert a compulsion on him, that he needed to talk and he did so, eyes downcast. “It feels like there’s always 82

something important missing. When I garden that feeling goes away, I feel cared for, by doing the caring.” “How did you end up here then?” He brightened, somewhat forcibly, looking her directly in the eye. “I…live in my van. I really wanted some halva which I didn’t find at Dartington post office yesterday, and I was at Blackpool Sands this morning, so I came back to get some.” She had meant a more general query, but his response elicited a different tack. “You should have gone to the garage in Dartington. They’re the ones with the good stuff, strangely. Why were you at the beach?” He shrugged, swallowing a bite of mozzarella and tomato dripping in olive oil. “I left Maplecroft. Didn’t know where to go.” “And you ended up here as a piece of jetsam.” He paused in his eating to view her properly. Her nose fascinated him for a start. It was perfectly symmetrical, a pyramid basically, with soft rounded corners, one leading up to her fine dark brows. Fortunately, as he took in her wide brown eyes with their unusual flecks of mauve and gold, thick sensuous lips on a bed of dappled white marble cheeks, that unadorned sumptuous nose, his demeanour of startled rabbit masked his inquiry effectively. Otherwise she would have drawn all barriers up. Unbeknownst to her, the squashed-down hat, the shapeless smock, her brief sudden scowls and downward glances, did little to disguise her nature to him; as it oscillated between that of a mature, 83

driven woman and a young girl fascinated by all that life and the world might yet have to offer. The woman now came to the fore as she sensed an inquiry pending; and knew never to allow ease to lure her down a path of hope, only to be betrayed by men’s true nature. Appearances are always deceptive, was her creed. Knowing too well that great sex could mask a flaccid relationship, for instance – and never having known the reverse – she had her own melancholy with which to contend. “Do you… Are you from around here?” She smiled at the innocuousness. “My mum left my dad in Bristol when I was twelve to move to Dorset.” “I’m sorry.” “Don’t be. It was amicable. He came down every Christmas, even went out drinking with her various boyfriends. We’re a happy family, even if not a normal happy family. Are your parents nice?” “Very. I don’t know if I’d describe them as happy. They’re a bit straight-laced.” “Like everyone here.” At his customary startled look, sandwich mid-way to his mouth, she explained: “The tendency to spiritualise or sexualise everything gets on my tits. It’s like everyone’s using last year’s calendar. They talk pagan, Buddhist, whathaveyou, but the programming is deep. It’s not easy to break free. Even brattish, hedonistic cheerfulness is a noise to cover the religious dogma beneath. The courage of protesters in the sixties now manifests in stodgy cafes where grannies go to eat. Just think, for all the 84

‘alternativeness’, how normal everyone is. They’re mostly in marriages, partnerships, or yearning to be, even if it is same-sex sometimes. And they keep on having babies, the one thing the planet does not need more of right now. I would be more convinced there is something alternative going on if there were a few trios. One man, two women. Or vice versa. Coupledom can’t be right for everyone.” Seeing she had him on the run as he started eating more quickly, she was determined to enjoy the hunt, to show him how playful it was even when caught. “I think everyone would be able to chill more if they just accepted every relationship is sexual. From there, you can draw the boundaries.” “‘Every’?” he managed to get out. “Yeah,” she shrugged. “I mean, come on, you’re a man. You’d shag a tree if that were all that was available. I’m not undervaluing sex but if you really treat it with respect, you’ll realise it’s a desire for change, for transformation. That’s why your relationship with someone can change forever once you sleep with them.” “I feel like I’m on a TV show or something.” “Not one of those panel shows, I hope, all those smarty-pants jerking each other off. And hey, it could be worse. We could be in one of the fundamentalist or communist armpits of the world.” “You’re…very forthright.” “A good friend will tell you if your breath stinks.” “So will an enemy.” 85

“Ha. You got me.” But now she knew she had the upper hand, she shifted tone and subject. “Where are you going from here?” “I have no idea.” “Well, René, we may be able to help each other out.” Her car – that she called Green Tara – was in the garage, she explained. She lived towards Torbay on a farm, and was going to take a taxi; but he could take her, and in return she would persuade the farmer to let him stay in a field. “He’ll say yes. I’ve been a good tenant, and he’s allowed friends to park all summer in the past. You’ll be able to work out your next move from there.” There was no hesitation on René’s part. Whatever this was, it was obviously the next step. “I’ve parked at Morrisons,” he said. “I have to buy something there to redeem my ticket. Then we can go.” “Cool. Very cool.” The journey was easy, the day calm and relaxed, stretched out, yawning deliciously before a new adventure. He actually felt happy, and didn’t know when he last felt so. She was intrigued by his music taste, so different from her own. They talked about films that neither of them had seen. They weren’t cinema people. “I don’t particularly want to watch a bunch of people fighting each other in their underwear,” was her observation. “I think superhero stories are like fairy tales,” he agreed, “where nothing really changes. They always go back to fighting in the end. Someone once said to me that Americans only have two stories.” 86

“I thought only one.” He paused, reflecting. “Actually, you’re right.” By the time they reached the farm, they had moved back onto the subject of their parents, discussing the cracks. “If I could say something to my dad, maybe I will, it’s that ‘You are a man, you are a father, that is all that is needed. There is nothing to prove.’” He took in her thoughts silently as they bumped along the little track. It was curious that he wasn’t getting aroused, the conditions were all there – the engine, the up-down motion, the pretty girl. She looked across at him and smiled. “You are not to go down that road, I told you!” Cassie yelled at Hugo in the kitchen. “It’s reinforcing negativity. What with girls going missing in the area, cyber bullying, and the world the way it is, she has enough to be concerned about.” “Andie already is negative,” he said quietly. There was little danger of the girls overhearing above, their music was so loud, but he wasn’t going to take chances. Cassie, following his upward glance, lowered her voice. The girls meeting was now a bi-weekly event, not always about homework, she surmised. Why they preferred to come all the way out there simply because Andie was banned from staying late in town, was another mystery she didn’t need solving. She was just happy that her daughter had friends. “She’s a teenager,” she opined, evoking fragments of her own early years. 87

“I heard that girl at your party say very good things about Big Donna.” “What girl?” “She had black hair, a stud in her nose…” “That girl? I’ve heard things about her.” “What things?” He was sure he had seen her somewhere previously. “It doesn’t matter. The point is, if you focus in any way on this past life nonsense, I will have you in court. I’m sure it will be considered psychological abuse. And don’t think you can search online. I’ll know.” She wasn’t joking. She had even known when he’d erased his browsing history. He had no idea how she’d done that and had to confess eventually that yes, he did have a thing for Nicole Kidman. He’d slept on the couch for a week. (“Don’t worry, children, your dad’s simply been snoring a lot recently,” to Alex’s acceptance and Andie’s cynicism.) Between conditions here and the rigid control online that his company enforced, he had no digital freedom whatsoever. His wife and the office had already accomplished what governments desired worldwide. “This subject is closed, okay.” The way she glared at him, it clearly wasn’t a question. “Now…about the house…” He sighed and sat down. It was going to be a long evening. The dual-ownership of the house concerned her. She had paid for most of it, and felt it should be hers in its entirety. That, so the argument went, would simplify the 88

inheritance. In the name of simplification, everything was about to get incredibly complicated. Alex was only vaguely aware of the argument. He was far enough away to discount most of the family upheavals. It was understood he could read as late as he wanted, so even bathroom visitors, seeing the light under his door, wouldn’t disturb him. His buddy at the school, a fellow aficionado of graphic literature, had got hold of some American comics from Oxfam, and passed them on to him. It was somewhat redemptive, that even in the brutal ethos of education, kindness could be distinguished. The other boy didn’t particularly like these comics, the art was strange and the stories complicated, but Alex loved them. He had carried three in his satchel independently, pressed between text books each time. It was a delicious secret. He read the latest avidly. On the bus he wouldn’t dare take it out, for fear of drawing attention to himself, of his sister seeing. This was the first time. The main character was a female ninja, not unusual in itself, but he had never seen one like this. She was ruthless and brave, yet capable of great delicacy and guile. Her powerful gleaming thighs and bare arms in combat were one thing; her low-cut black dress, those knife-like heels on the polished floor that reflected her long legs to infinity, another. He kept returning to the panel where, disguised as a waitress, she stooped low over her target’s table, plump breasts eager to spill out with a glimpse of purple nipples. 89

The explosion was unexpected. He had been hard before, on occasion, but this was sustained, resulting in a sticky mess. He hadn’t even had to touch himself. The bliss ran through all his veins, an entirely new feeling. He lay still awhile, the comic cast onto the floor with the others. So this is what sex was like. After a few minutes, he decided he should clean up. The duvet was stained. If he wiped it with a tissue, that should be okay. He cleaned himself up as well. Finally, he took the comics, and put them inside the science quiz game box beneath the board. Even Mum wouldn’t look there. He felt happy when he put the light out, a new part of his life beginning, so private, so delectable. Hugo retreated to the office to research property law. He put on headphones to nullify the goth metal from next door. He didn’t really know what to do, and clicked on random pages, reading nothing, listening to Dusty Springfield. The texts before him kept saying one thing despite their content, that his son and daughter would always be his son and daughter, there would be no escape ever; only from the marriage-bed, not from parenthood. Indeed, he could see Alex being dependent on hand-outs for the rest of his life. The sight of headlights out front alerted him to the girls’ lift arriving. He wasn’t aware so much time had passed. Cassie, with her bottle of sherry in the dining room, wouldn’t have noticed. He took off the headphones, to be astonished by the silence next door. 90

He had entered the room earlier, at Cassie’s insistence, to see if they needed something, another fool’s errand about which he had no choice. The girls had been discussing music to the accompaniment of Gloria again. “I tried that poxy group you mentioned,” Andie said with a smile to Mary sitting next to her. They were both on her bed, backs against the wall, books on their laps. “The Damned,” said the other uncertainly, wondering what the verdict was. “I know what you mean, but…they suck. They sucketh. They’re like a bunch of grampas. You know they were punks.” “Yeah but they changed.” “Into smelly old grampa costumes. I’m all for retro, but their videos are a joke.” Andie yearned for style, when clothes were a dramatic statement of elegance and power. This required a pristine quality not evident in the music media of the past. Mary couldn’t argue, mostly because she agreed. She had just wished to contribute something of her own to the group. She remained silent. “It’s cool,” Andie assured her, tapping her French book with a biro. “We should all keep looking for others.” She looked for consensus over to the two girls leaning against her dresser. “There’s Epica…” said Rebecca, glancing uncertainly at Sarita next to her. “I still like The Awakening,” declared Sarita. 91

“Well they’re both better than Arch Enemy. I mean, what’s wrong with those guys’ throats? It sounds like they’re barfing the whole time.” “‘Yin and yang’ my dad said, when I was playing ‘Vigilante’. He said Annalisa was the yin of ‘softness and yielding’, and the guys were the power and muscle of yang.” “Your dad sounds a lot smarter than mine. But you can’t beat Annalisa.” “I thought you were getting into Lacuna Coil,” ventured Rebecca. “Cristina is very cool, but…” “‘You can’t beat Annalisa!’” chorused the other three, bursting into laughter. “I mean, come on! Can you believe how cute she is in ‘Scurra Scurra’? I felt so sorry for her.” “And cool!” exclaimed Mary. “She was still cool.” “Yes, she was.” The girls were all nodding in assent as the knock on the door came, and Andie’s father peered in. “Tell mum we’re fine and don’t need anything,” preempted Andie, and he closed the door without a sound, unnerved once again by the girls’ make-up. It was as if they were turning into the same person, with kohl mascara, long straight hair and bold-coloured lipstick. The latter’s variations of hue made as little difference as did the blonde hair of the girl Mary. There could be no danger of inappropriate feelings with this lot, they scared him too much; which was the only consolation as he approached the door for the second time 92