This is Shyness (8 page)

‘Uh, do you want to hear some of the crackpot theories?'

‘What theories?'

‘You know, theories for the Darkness. Everyone's got one.'

Wildgirl turns to me and manages a weak smile. I won't ask.

‘Sure.'

‘Here goes. Armageddon has already happened—even though no one remembers it happening—and we're living in hell. Of all the locations on earth that God could have chosen for hell, he chose Shyness.'

Everyone in Shyness knows these theories. We all get the leaflets. We all hear the godbods' megaphones blaring as they drive around in their salvation van. Wildgirl looks interested so I continue. ‘The Darkness is punishment for our sins. Why it's only Shyness getting punished no one can say. I guess you have to believe that people living in Shyness are bigger sinners than everyone else.'

‘Well, I don't believe in sin or hell so neither of those works for me.'

Wildgirl is so damn sure about everything—that's another thing I like about her. There are a lot of grey areas in my life. I can't say for sure that the sun didn't fall because of something I did wrong.

‘The government is trying to find a solution for global warming and they chose Shyness as the testing ground. They think if they can keep the earth in total darkness for a few years then it will cool down enough to reset the climate.'

‘I like that one,' Wildgirl says. ‘Anything involving government conspiracies and I'm into it.'

I've exhausted my theories. Paul's got a complicated one involving bio-responsive shields and aliens, but to be honest I barely understand it. But I've managed to drag Wildgirl back from where she was. I can tell she's actually seeing what's around her now: the streetlights and the abandoned buildings, and me.

‘What do you want to do now?'

‘I don't know. What do you want to do?'

Maybe we should do something quiet for a while. Something safe. We could listen to music at my house. Would it sound sleazy if I suggested going to my house?

‘You know what I want to do? I want to go somewhere really full-on, with loud music and lots of people, and I want to dance.' Wildgirl's face turns disco-ball bright. Talk about quick recoveries.

It wasn't what I was expecting but if that's what she wants then I know where to go. If Thom and Paul didn't show up at the Diabetic after we left, then they'll almost definitely be at Little Death instead. We need to cut back through Shyness, towards O'Neira Street. I text Thom, asking him where they are now and to get our names on the door at Little Death. Wildgirl thinks I'm a minor Shyness rock star and I'd hate to disappoint her. The downside of all this is that I'll have to introduce her to Thom and Paul. I'm not sure I want her to meet my friends.

We pass Quarrel's Alibi Agency and then I take us down the next street on the right. As we turn in to the darker side street, Wildgirl walks closer to me again. I reach down and take her hand, hoping my palms don't suddenly turn sweaty. Miraculously, she laces her fingers through mine, rather than shaking me off. I know she grabbed my hand earlier, but that was when she was scared. This wasn't as difficult as I thought it would be.

‘Do you think they're still there?'

‘Who?'

‘The little tarsy things.'

‘Maybe.'

Definitely. There's a dark speck on a nearby lamppost, and a bobbing movement or two on a rooftop across the street. I doubt Wildgirl can see them though.

No one knows how the tarsier got to Shyness. There aren't many other places in the world you'll find them. They appeared around the time the Kidds got organised, and they've been here ever since. Everyone thinks they're dependent on the Kidds, but I'm not so sure. Tarsier are small and fast, and they see better than anyone or anything else in the dark. There are times when tarsier have jumped people and there hasn't been a Kidd in sight.

‘So, who is Doctor Gregory anyway?' Wildgirl stops in front of a row of smashed-up vending machines. Cigarettes, water, night-vision goggles. None of them work anymore except for
Doctor Gregory's Solution
, which is lit up and intact.
Doctor Gregory's Solution
is similar in design to an old-style photo booth with a short curtain over the doorway. A large photo of the ubiquitous doctor decorates the outside. Four dollars for five minutes.

‘The billboard guy again. Who is he?'

‘He's a dickhead, that's what he is.'

‘What sort? There are many different varieties.'

She's right. Doctor Gregory is a very specific sort of dickhead. He's built an empire on anxiety. He pretends he cares but really he wants things in Shyness to stay the same so he can keep making money.

‘Doctor Gregory thinks that all kids have a problem and bills himself as the man to fix them. For a price, of course.'

‘Well to be honest, the Kidds I've met so far have been kind of fucked up.'

‘Not all kids are like that. Doctor Gregory convinces parents that their children need to go on expensive sugar-replacement medications. Babies and toddlers and older kids who haven't joined the gangs—kids who don't really have a problem. They get as hooked on Doctor Gregory's medication as they would get on sugar. And that's not where it stops. He wants to medicate
everyone
in Shyness, adults included. For depression, light deprivation, having a bad hair day, anything. If he had his way we'd all be popping pills.'

I once received a letter from Doctor Gregory offering to cure me of my ‘psychosomatic hypertrichosis'. I ripped it up and threw it in the bin. A week later this guy in a shirt and tie shows up on my doorstep, clipboard in hand, claiming to be doing market research for the local council. I sent him on his way. Now, I just keep putting the letters in the bin without reading them.

Wildgirl leans closer to read the small writing on the side of the booth. A manifesto-teaser. You have to pay for the full version: book, e-book, podcast or DVD, take your pick. ‘So, Doctor Gregory is a mushroom then?'

‘He's more like a toadstool.'

‘I wanna go inside.'

I exhale loudly. It figures.

‘Look, this might be old news to you, but this is
fascinating
to me.'

I have zero interest in stepping into Doctor Gregory's booth. Wildgirl sticks her head through the curtain. Her hand tugs on mine.

‘He brainwashes people—'

Wildgirl hauls me into the booth before I can say more. She pushes me onto the swivel stool inside, and sits on my lap, leaning forward to put coins in the slot. The booth isn't designed for two people. Doctor Gregory suddenly becomes far more interesting.

‘Are we concerned parents or disturbed yoof?' Wildgirl asks. I can't really speak with her squirming like this, let alone make any rational decisions. I lean back before I embarrass myself.

‘Okay, we're disturbed yoof,' she decides without me, and pushes another button. In front of us are two speakers, a screen, a microphone and a chute. There's no point trying to keep my distance, because Wildgirl slumps into me as the screen flickers in front of us. All that's missing is the popcorn.

Doctor Gregory sits on a park bench in front of a cardboard set that's supposed to resemble a playground. His jeans are so high-waisted they're grazing his nipples.

Hello! Thanks for dropping in. I'm Doctor Gregory. Please touch the screen to take a diagnostic test.

‘What do you want?' Wildgirl reads out the animated bubbles floating around the doctor. ‘Bad Thoughts, Bad Deeds or Bad News?'

‘Bad Thoughts.' Wildgirl is soft and hot and heavy against me.

The lights dim slightly and a single spotlight highlights Doctor Gregory's spray-tanned face.

Please answer the following questions honestly, stating your answers in a clear voice.

Do you often feel angry and out of control?

‘Yes!' Wildgirl bounces up and down. ‘Both. At the same time.'

Do you ever think that you are alone in the world and that nobody cares about you?

‘Oh yeah, constantly,' I chime in, getting into the spirit of things. It's not that hard to do. Wildgirl's enthusiasm is infectious.

Do you ever steal things without knowing why?

Wildgirl flings her arms out, nearly hitting me in the face. ‘Only hearts, baby!'

I can't argue with her on that one. Doctor Gregory leans forward, a penetrating expression on his orange face. He's really getting off on this.

Do you often have strange thoughts that disturb you?

‘Yeah,' I say, ‘I have unnatural feelings towards goats.' Wildgirl titters.

I do not understand this answer. Please state your answer again in a clear voice.

‘Yes, doctor,' Wildgirl says. ‘GOAT LOVE.'

Doctor Gregory doesn't even blink. I guess bestiality is nothing in his line of business.

Do you have a big fear of the future?

This is too easy.

‘I have a big fear of your jeans,' I manage to spit out. Wildgirl laughs so hard she nearly falls on the floor. Her laugh is more of a snort, and it's the hottest sound I've ever heard.

Thank you for completing the test. Please collect your diagnosis.

A slip of paper slides down the chute.

You have a borderline personality disorder. You must visit the Doctor Gregory Wellness Clinic for immediate treatment. You do not need parental permission to attend the clinic. Take the first step in your new life!

There's a piano-tinkle and then a woman warbles
Doctor Gregory Caaaaarreees!

‘Wow,' I say. ‘We're really fucked up, aren't we?'

I'm thinking up a billion ways to stall Wildgirl so that we can stay in the too-small booth. She twists around to face me.

‘I went to see a shrink for a while,' she says, in the same way someone might say ‘How 'bout that moon today?' ‘Mum made me.'

I notice for the first time that she's wearing this amazing necklace made of white feathers strung together. This means I'm looking down when I should be looking up. I look up.

‘Why?'

‘Oh, something about me having no friends.'

‘What was it like?'

I love it that Wildgirl tells me that kind of stuff, straight up, like it's no big deal. Mum and Dad tried to make me see someone after Gram died but I refused. Lupe was right around the corner when I was having a bad day.

‘It was all right.' She chews on her bottom lip. ‘But it didn't work, because things are worse than ever.'

I can see every detail of her face. She's got a stray eyelash balancing on one cheek, but if I brush it off it will look like the worst sort of cliché. I think that there's more she wants to say but I could have it wrong. Maybe it's my turn to say something.

‘Do you mean at school?' I ask eventually. ‘Things are worse than ever at school? Or home?'

Wildgirl doesn't seem to hear me.

‘Your teeth,' she says, with a funny little smile, ‘are as big as tombstones.' She says it in such a way I know she doesn't mean it as a bad thing. She says it as if to say: that's all I'm telling you for now.

There's a pause so yawning I can't help but think about what it would be like to lean in and kiss her, but if I'm getting the signals wrong then I'm about to destroy the best run we've had all evening. It's been at least ten minutes since I've said or done anything stupid. The decision is taken out of my hands when my phone beeps loudly. Wild-girl laughs. I pull my phone out of my shirt pocket and it's Thom. He's sorted it out. They're at Little Death. We're in.

12

I'm the picture of nonchalance. I use this look a lot: when I'm handing in forged permission slips at school, when I come home three hours late, when I'm fooling around on the internet at work instead of calling clients, and when I'm pretending to be older than I really am. I had this same mask on at school today, pretending that I didn't care, while the whole time I felt as if my insides had been vacuumed out.

I lean on the counter, a big mistake because the beer mats in this club are so sodden you could grow grass on them. The counter is a long concrete slab, raised so the barman towers over me. ‘I'll have a vodka raspberry and a pot, please.' I rustle in my wallet.

Of course I know exactly how I'm going to pay— with the card that's in my pocket—so there's no need to rummage in my wallet, but it's best to keep busy when you don't know if you're going to get served or not.

The barman sighs and places both hands on the bar. His spiky black hair wouldn't look out of place on a cockatiel.

‘No raspberry. I can give you straight vodka, or vodka soda. What beer do you want?'

The way the barman talks you'd think he'd been serving drinks for hundreds of years instead of just a few hours. As if I know what beer Wolfboy wants. Or what beer they even serve in Shyness.

‘You don't have tonic? Or orange juice?'

‘We're strictly no-crose around here, babe.'

I don't like his smug face. No-crose? Whatever. I don't need another drink anyway. The whole night will be a waste if I wake up tomorrow and can't remember a thing. And if we come across any more Kidds I want to be alert, not drunk.

‘Just a plain soda then,
honey.
' I hate being called ‘babe'. I fish in my pocket for the card. ‘Any beer, I don't care.'

The barman strops off and I lean against the bar, flipping the card over in my hands. The club is an impressive underground cavern with stone walls and a concrete floor polished smooth by thousands of feet. The main room has a stage and a dancefloor and the bar, but there are doorways and passages leading off everywhere. The far side of the main room is separated from pitch-black emptiness by a wire fence. Metal struts loaded with lights span the ceiling. The air throbs with distorted noise. It's hard to tell what's a shadow and what's a real, living, breathing person. A tall girl with whiter-than-white hair brushes past me. She's wearing a pair of black stockings as a top, crisscrossing the stretchy material over her shoulders and chest and tying the ends around her waist. I'll have to remember the trick; it looks awesome.