The Uninvited (22 page)

I leave him with the DVD blaring at the volume he likes it and enter what used to be my workroom. I know exactly what’s in the boxes. Books, a set of shaving things, three pairs of shoes, some casual clothes. Origami supplies. All useful. I sit there for a while, just rocking, then make five
ozuru
in my head. I hesitate, then slowly create a lotus flower for Kaitlin. She always liked those.

Then I get to work.

I arrange my thoughts best when I can physically touch and shape each idea, and endow it with tangible dimensions. My whiteboard and my paper supplies, including the large sheets of coloured tracing paper I intend to use, are still in what used to be my cupboard. Though easier to set up and faster to manipulate, computer models offer none of the sensual gratification that paper does. Within minutes I have made decisions about the basic set categories, and picked a colour system that will not jar on me. Soon enough, new connections will reveal themselves, and I will move on to combine the templates. I feel calm yet energetic. My best state of mind. I have a project. I’ve brought the radio with me: I keep it on as I work. Every five minutes I stop and call Battersea – I need to talk to Professor Whybray – but the line’s still busy. I want to know if the kids there have mentioned blindness, or having ‘different’ blood, or expressed a fear of poisoning. Whether their physical examinations show anything unusual. Do they mention the Old World?

At 11.18 I call Annika Svensson. I am in luck: she answers her phone after eighteen rings, breathless.

‘How are you, Hesketh? Is it as bad there as it is here?’

‘Numerically speaking, it will be worse here because we have a much bigger population.’

‘I was just with my neighbour. She’s been going crazy. Her son attacked his sports teacher last night. With an ice shovel.’

Briefly, I fill her in on what happened with Farooq and de Vries in Dubai, and what Freddy did to his mother last night. She shows her shock and horror in a typically Scandinavian way, by expressing denial: ‘No!’

‘The kids who attacked have salt cravings like Jonas. Can you tell me exactly what else he kept in the garden shed? You mentioned seaweed and jars and sacks of grain and Coca-Cola.’

‘Yes,’ she says, still breathless. ‘Which he never even liked. And these big lumps of seaweed. God knows what he wanted that for. It’s not all properly dried out, and it’s full of things that crawl around.’

‘What else?’

‘There was chocolate. And sacks of nuts. I don’t know where he got hold of them. And lots of seed packets.’

‘What kind?’

‘Vegetables. All vegetables, different kinds. Which is strange because he was much more into flowers. Hollyhocks and lupins and sunflowers. He liked the tall ones.’

‘You mentioned grain before. Do you know what kind?’

‘It says on the sacks. They’re imported from India. Ara-something.’

‘Amaranth.’

‘That’s it. Does it mean anything to you?’ she asks.

‘It’s high in protein. Also in lysine, which you don’t get in most cereals. It’s a relative of pigweed. Its leaves can be eaten. It’s not suitable for making raised breads, but you can make a flatbread. Was he into survivalism?’

No, she insists. He wasn’t.

After we say goodbye I picture her in her Bamboo-green jacket, with her wrinkled face and her teenage son Erik, and her going-crazy neighbour and her dead husband Jonas whose penis I saw resting on his thigh, and whose death I witnessed, who found beauty in tall things. Back in the living-room, Freddy is curled up on the sofa, asleep, with his bottom in the air. The glass of milk is untouched.

I spread my circles on the floor and begin experimenting with sets. After a few moments, tenuous connections begin to manifest.

At 12.41 my phone rings.

‘Hesketh.’ That reedy, throaty voice.

‘Professor Whybray.’ I could show him these Venns and he would grasp them immediately. We played chess together. Battled with crossword clues. He liked to talk. He especially enjoyed running the theories of his rivals past me, to test my reaction. But he never minded silence.

‘You still won’t call me Victor?’

‘No.’

He laughs. ‘Good.’

‘Why?’

‘It means you haven’t changed. Which is excellent. Because I require you to be exactly the same Hesketh you were before. Phipps & Wexman are officially on board. You can start in Battersea tomorrow. I don’t just want you on the team. I actively need you. And if you have any clones out there, I need them too.’ He pauses. ‘Remember those times you were good enough to come to the hospital with me, when Helena was dying?’

‘Of course.’ There was a lot of waiting. We’d sit on the plastic benches and he’d make dark jokes about botched surgery and hospital superbugs. When he went in to see Helena or her consultant I bought us food and drinks from vending machines. ‘You know why I never broke down?’

‘Because British men of your generation and stature are traditionally proud and don’t show their feelings in public.’

‘That’s true. But mostly because you stuck to the facts and never sugar-coated anything. That’s what this task requires now. Someone independent who won’t be swayed by the culture.’

‘You once said I probably wasn’t cut out for fieldwork.’

‘Did I? Well. I was no doubt right. But this isn’t fieldwork. See the Care Unit as a lab. And until you come in, treat Freddy’s environment the same way. So. How’s the boy doing?’

He’s still curled up in his pyjamas like a tiny hibernating animal. I reach for the TV blanket and arrange it over him. He doesn’t look like a child who tried to kill his mother. He doesn’t look like a boy who would discuss murder with his friends.

‘His behaviour’s been atypical,’ I say, moving into the hallway out of earshot. ‘There was a short period when he seemed to realise what he’d done. And there was some distinct spatial confusion, just after he attacked her. Since then, he’s been nonchalant. But his thinking’s disjointed. He doesn’t remember he did it.’

‘That’s the classic pattern.’ He sighs and pauses. ‘There’s been terrible . . .
barbarity
in response to this. Almost a counter-epidemic triggered by panic. And spread by social networking of course. All that’s exploded as you can imagine. It’s similar to what we saw in some of the cross-species disease scares. Most parents are desperate for their kids to snap out of it and go back to normal. But so far we haven’t seen a single case of that. Word’s spreading that there’s no cure. Even though there might well be, if we can just find it.’

‘Secondary hysteria?’ Is that what he meant by ‘the culture’? It’s good to be speaking to the professor again. To resume the old, effective patterns of communication.

‘Exactly. The police are reporting they’ve come across parents driving their children out to the motorway or into the countryside and just . . . dumping them. There are already too many cases to prosecute. If we were equipped to have all the kids in Care Units full-time that wouldn’t be happening. But most of them have to go home at night, if they live anywhere near. A lot of families can’t cope with that. Especially if there are siblings.’ He sighs. ‘Anyway, talk me through the overlaps.’ Quickly, I run through Sunny Chen’s suicide drawings and the new permutations of the Venns.

‘Blood. Violence. Eyes. Salt. Some of the elements seem almost Biblical,’ he says.

‘Which begs the question: if it’s a shared narrative, are they collectively re-enacting an old myth, or creating a new one?’

‘Go on.’

‘Well I’m wondering. The phenomenon strikes me as going far beyond the physical. There’s a collective subconscious at work here, and it has some kind of ideology or metaphysics that we need to identify. But the anarchist theory doesn’t convince me. And it isn’t terrorism as we know it. Even though I predict it won’t be long before that word’s used.’

‘Well the human extinction lobby’s having a field day, of course. Better Without Us is rejoicing. Any more predictions?’ he asks.

I have already flow-charted it. I am sure he has too.

‘There will be many more cases of sabotage than have been reported. If they continue, energy and communications systems will fail. And there’ll be food shortages. Whatever disaster provisions are in place will themselves be at risk of random sabotage, so I see no grounds for whatever optimism the government may express. Regarding the children, the alien-possession theory will have started at grassroots level some time ago, after the first few attacks.’ As I speak, I roll up my sleeve and inspect the flesh on my bicep. The tiny finger-marks are still there. ‘The idea will first be reported in the news as an unfortunate and misguided rumour. But repetition, especially if it comes from someone in the public eye – most likely a so-called celebrity – will normalise and ratify it.’

‘Go on.’

‘In either case, you can be quite sure it’s already in the public domain on some level. Superstition evolves with the times. So we’ll hear more about figures from folklore. But my hunch is that among younger generations, aliens will come to dominate. They’re more current. Have any of the children died yet?’

‘Not in this country. But two in America. They’re being autopsied now.’

I tell him about Svensson’s anatomical anomalies. ‘Any eye infections among the kids?’

‘No, but as you’ve seen from their attachment to sunglasses, they seem to feel their eyes are vulnerable. But pursue this. Stephanie’s out of the picture for now, I gather.’

‘Yes. She and Kaitlin—’

‘Don’t worry. I know the, er, context. No need to discuss.’

Later, Stephanie calls to say she might be staying at the hospital again, but she might come home. She’s not sure yet. There is no change in Kaitlin’s condition. ‘They want to take her home as soon as she’s stabilised. So I’m talking to the medics as much as I can, finding out what to expect. Getting skilled up.’ Her voice sounds very strained. I wonder if she is telling me the facts as they actually are, or as she would prefer them to be. There is often a discrepancy. ‘I’ve agreed to help run a group here in the hospital for bereaved families. Crisis counselling. I’ve just held my first session.’ She pauses. ‘It was very difficult for me professionally. In normal circumstances, I’d be considered compromised.’ She halts again and I hear her take a breath. ‘I’m struggling, Hesketh. You should know that. After what Freddy did to her, whatever his reasons, or whatever his illness, I’m never going to be unbiased. I can’t see him the way I did.’

After she hangs up, I sit and think about this.

I used to imagine Kaitlin vanishing from the face of the earth, and me and Freddy living in the cottage on the island. We would build and fly kites: proper ones that were not lopsided. Or boats, to float in rock pools on the beach. I’d teach him about birds and we’d get a chart to identify edible and non-edible fungi. We’d cook. He could go to the local school. If I had to travel on business for Phipps & Wexman, I could take him with me.

This scenario used to comfort me.

So why, when I conjure it now, do I get a lurch of vertigo?

Back in the living-room, Freddy has woken and is watching the DVD. I pause it – he doesn’t object – and I slide Sunny Chen’s suicide drawings on to the coffee table in front of him without comment. Then I press record on my little machine and wait.

His eyes quickly scan the page, left to right, top to bottom, and then back the other way, tracking the circle of the necklace, the ‘all-seeing’ eye and the neat little hand-print in the bottom right corner.

I say, ‘Who drew this?’

‘One of us.’

Freddy puts his own hand over the print. It’s a perfect fit.

‘Who’s
us
?’

He shrugs. ‘Us is us.’

‘Children?’ He nods.

‘And what about this shape here?’ I pull the necklace out of my jacket pocket and put it on the table next to the drawing. ‘You made this for Stephanie. From papier mâché. It’s just the same, see?’

‘It’s bones.’

‘What do you mean, bones?’

I recognise the shudder that runs through his body because I’ve seen it before. It denotes a mental switch. ‘Why are we talking about bones? You’re being a weirdo, Hesketh.’

‘But Freddy K, you just said—’

He slams the crayon down. ‘Why are you asking me all this blibber-blobber? All this
lap-sap
? What’s the matter with you?’

Blibber-blobber is a Freddy-word.
Lap-sap
is not. Jonas Svensson used it. He called me a ‘fucking grown-up’ and ‘fucking
lap-sap
.’ This can’t be a coincidence.

‘Freddy K, Freddy K, Freddy K. Because I want to know the answers.’ I don’t care how angry he gets. I need to get him out of this.

‘Well I like it better when you just shut up and don’t say anything, freakman!’ He tips out all the pencils and they roll across the table.

‘So the other kids. Where are they now?’

‘How should I know?’ Is he angry because he can’t remember, or because he’s confused? Or both? ‘They’re everywhere!’

I’d like to switch him off and then switch him back on again, forcing a basic reconfigurement. He’s still Freddy, but he’s not functioning normally.