Star Shot (14 page)

Myra pulls a face. Not her, no. There was a woman here, one of the cleaners. I was upset. It must have been her. I must have been asleep.

You were very asleep when I came earlier, he says. But you looked happy enough, for once. Do you think you're getting better?

The question is thrown out unthinkingly, almost off-hand, but as she glances up at him to answer they both realise that the answer matters, and not knowing what to say, she says nothing, just looks at him for a moment, and he at her.

Your mother? she asks, finally.

He can do that one. She's better and she's worse, he says; I knew it would be like this. There was a consultation this morning, that's why I came by quite early, and she's nearly fit enough to go home, as long as there's plenty of supervision – which will be me, mostly – and they reckon the leg is doing fine. She can get around with a frame thing, you know.

I know, says Myra sourly, they tried to give me one. I still managed to fall over.

You and gravity, he says, admiringly. That's a real thing you've got going between you.

Your mother, she says firmly, reaching out for the lemon. He places it gently in her hand, and keeps his hand cupped over hers for a second or two.

My mother. Well, the leg is OK but the head … the mind … is not. The consultation was supposed to begin the process of shifting, I mean transferring, the responsibility from the leg people to the mind people, only inevitably it's not that simple.

I can imagine. But does it mean she's going home?

I think so. Yes. I think so. Quite soon, I think.

Good.

Yes.

This time they avoid looking at each other. Theo holds out his hand again.

I take it you're planning to do more than just scratch and sniff at that poor lemon. Give it here. I'll get them to slice it up for you. Tea? Or in the water jug?

She narrows her eyes, contemplative. Both, she says. Both.

43.

The professor has timed a meeting in London so he can meet her at St Pancras, on her way back from Poland, or Italy, or Romania, from a conference or a performance, he forgets which. Stood against a wall he holds himself back, and watches the people flow past, their travelling faces looking ahead, fixed, absorbed. There are so many of them, all strangers, that the shock of her face feels like something more than just recognition. She spots him heading her way and gives him a brief, strong hug. He takes one of her bags and they find a cafe. It is full of people speaking different languages. They add theirs, silently, to the mix, their quick fingers sometimes tapping their keyboards, sometimes moving in the air. He finds more and more of her phrases coming back to him. He makes a few tentative moves of his own. This is her stubbornly idiosyncratic version of signing; a private language, a family language; the language in which she thinks best.

Their conversation is more subdued; they are both physically very tired. She from travelling, rehearsals and the intensity of the last performance; he from the job and its viciously multiplying demands. He tells her about the Parade, and some of its more peculiar effects – how if you stood in the right place the noise of a school choir, an opera singer, a brass band seemed abruptly swallowed up by the silence, as if they were all stepping into a giant invisible snake. But if you were in there, in with the rest, making a racket, you felt no real difference, you could hear everything; it was a bit chilly, that was all.

And nobody got hurt, he said. Amazing, really. And it kept the media happy, and the university came out of it very well.

But you still have the problem.

We do.

Do you, though, really? Is it getting worse? Or do you think it's found its level, this stuff?

I think it has slowed down a bit. But I'd say on balance it's getting worse. Slowly.

Plan?

No plan.

She shivers, and shrugs, and they look at each other, thinking of the castle.

Been on your shooting weekend yet? she asks.

Not the season, darling. Shoot damn all in May; I had a look. Roebuck and rabbits. It'll be August, I imagine, the glorious twelfth or thereafter, Jesus Christ.

You'll look fantastic in tweeds. Don't fret.

He pulls a face at her.

August is pretty late, she says, ticking off the weeks on her fingers. Another week of May, June, July. If it is getting worse, as you say, you need to try something before then. That is, if you think the silence really is a problem – you all seem to be managing fine at the university, don't you? And I don't see much fuss about it in the media by now, everyone just seems to have got used to it. Who's actually getting hurt?

Homeless people, he says; mad people, the people who sit on benches. No one with any influence. Some small businesses, whose customers have just given up. Wifi and mobile signals not exactly screwed up, but jittery, right across the city. That might stir someone, eventually, but you're right, no one's complaining much now, after the initial flurry. Um, who else. Employees at the museum, depressed. Visitor numbers down – though I imagine they might have done quite well out of the publicity for the Parade. But I think it will get bad again soon; this feel-good thing is probably a bit of a mirage, a blip…

She raises her eyebrows and laughs at him. Now there's a surprise, she says; and you the marketing experts and all.

Don't start, he says. Don't start all that. You have no idea how quaint you sound. You lost that battle years ago. Give up.

There is a small stirring of flame in her eyes, and her hands start to quicken. He grabs one in mid-air and holds it tight. Now he looks straight at her, speaking aloud.

Not now, Meg, he says. And not me. Listen, come on, I'm asking for your help, not another critique of a bloody system you abandoned and I didn't. It is slow, like I said, this stuff, but it is ultimately corrosive, and you've felt for yourself that it's not going to do any of us any good. So tell me,
cariad
: what happens next? What are we going to do?

44.

Rowndarowndarownd, says Teddy.

Mmm, says Dan, reading small ads in a local paper left tactically on a plastic chair. Rowndarownd.

It's drizzling, and the wash has fifteen minutes to go, and it's not worth the hassle, he thinks, going out again and coming back. And besides, he has his eye on the best dryer, full of someone else's clothes but due to stop in twelve minutes. Eleven.

Rowndarownd, Rowndarownd, sings Teddy, crouched in admiration in front of the machine and making circles with his hands.

All day long, says Dan. And most of them yours, he thinks, I hardly have any clothes to my name, and look at you, three bags full. The mothers pass stuff on, he hardly ever has to buy things: the little vests and the all-in-one pyjamas and the smart coats. The fiddly dungarees and the stripy tops. Jumpers with embroidered tractors. He deselects the ones with unsuitable slogans:
Mummy's Little Helper; If You Think I'm Cute You Should See My Dad
. And all the Disney ones, unless they're seriously retro and make him feel nostalgic. And all the sub-military ones, the khaki, helmets, guns. And this morning already, feeling unusually purposeful, he has sorted out all the clothes that are suddenly much too small, and stuffed them into bags with the pile of deselected items, and taken them, balanced dangerously on the hood of the buggy, to a charity shop en route for the launderette. The week's wash is in a rucksack on his back. He feels superbly organised.

Three minutes. It's Saturday, but early, and the launderette is fairly quiet. No one else is staying, they all have shopping to do. Not having money, Dan tries increasingly to avoid shops. But because it is Saturday, he thinks after a while, Luke might not have meetings. He texts him: What are you up to today?

Buying socks.

When?

Now.

Nice. He almost adds, buy some for me, but doesn't trust Luke not to take him seriously and start asking for shoe sizes. Mind you, he badly needs socks.

You?

Launderette near the station. Washing socks.

By night
, he thinks, but doesn't write that either,
all seated on the ground
.

Cool, I'll come by, texts Luke.

Cool, returns Dan, with a grin, and then says it aloud to Teddy: Cool.

Rowndarowndarownd, says Teddy, concentrating hard.

Not any more, says Dan. It's finished.

They have just stuffed all the wet clothes into the top dryer when Luke appears, clutching a small M&S bag and looking pleased to find them.

All done, he says, waving the bag vaguely in the air.

Last of the big spenders, says Dan gravely. And it's not even ten yet.

Have you, ah, had breakfast? asks Luke.

Not as such. Good idea.

Luke treats them to croissants and frothy coffee and warm milk, and tells them the latest university news, though he is tactful enough not to mention his suddenly shining prospects. He is just explaining one of the new schemes for tackling the silence when Dan's phone rings, making them both jump.

It can't be you, says Dan, fumbling in a pocket, so who the hell…

It's Theo, sounding far away and unusually riled.

I need that Californian man, he says, the one with the iPad. Have you got his number? I need to speak to him right now.

Dan passes the phone to Luke.

It's for you, he says.

45.

He crosses the main road, through a channel of silence which cuts out the beeps of the green man at the crossing, and enters the Gorsedd gardens, bright with flower beds. He has about an hour and a half before the meeting with the consultants, and he wants to get a coffee and check something quickly in the herbarium at the museum. He feels in his pocket for the notebook with the rowan leaves pressed neatly inside. He doesn't notice the man until he is almost upon him. The man is holding a paintbrush and standing thoughtfully in front of Myra's bench looking at three large cans of paint. A camera on a tripod is filming him looking thoughtful.

Theo takes in the scene, and stops.

What are you doing? he asks.

The man, who is young and Asian, with spiky blond hair, pale jeans and a black t-shirt, beams at him.

I'm glad you asked me that, he says, glancing at the camera.

Theo waits. The young man continues to stare intensely at his cans of paint.

So? says Theo. What are you doing?

I'm an artist, says the man.

OK.

And I'm Responding to the Interference.

OK. How? You're not using this bench, are you?

The artist looks delighted. I am! he says. I'm going to paint it three different colours. One after the other, not all at once. It's quick-drying paint.

No, says Theo. But the young man is away. I'm going to paint it white first; then red; then grey. Or possibly black; I have another pot over there, look. Do you know why?

No … says Theo, meaning something else entirely. No, you…

Because, says the man happily, white will represent the cold, enigmatic world of the silence. Then red will represent the profound human struggle against it, and then grey, or possibly black, will be the overwhelming sense of despair that it induces … a sort of total alienation. I think, you know, I think probably the grey.