Singularity

by Charlotte Grimshaw

  It was the hottest time of the day. All was still. Down the side of the building a tap was dripping; water plinking onto cool stone, in the trench of shade. The sky had a sheen over it, a mesh of light. Insects zoomed and hovered over the bright flowers. In his mind Per sought out cool places, the ivy-covered wall by the pedestrian tunnel, the path up to the graveyard, smell of waxy flowers, cold concrete, the path between the cypresses; the long grass at the top of the olive grove where the road ran under high banks, through striped, tawny light.

  Beth came out and stood beside him.

  ‘Are you going to show her your little fictory?’

  ‘I don’t think she can walk,’ he whispered. He moved close to her. He could feel her laughing.

  Emily and Larry sat on a wall watching for cars. Larry took notes. When a Ferrari or a Maserati throbbed past he recorded the make and model and the number of exhaust pipes. The record for exhaust pipes was six: three on each side.

  Emily stared up at the grey mountains. The sky above them was intensely dark blue. She wanted to go to the beach. She liked climbing on the breakwater, looking down into the deep water. There was a whole landscape down there in the green swirl — mountains and valleys in rippling strands of light, schools of tiny fish flying through them, their silver sides flickering as they turned and turned.

  Larry saw a sports car pulling in to the kerb along the road. A handsome couple got out and walked away.

  It was a Lamborghini Mura. A beautiful specimen. Larry lingered over its shining flanks. It was green — no blue — a bright iridescent blue, the colour of a scarab’s wing. He sketched it, showing Emily, pointing out the dashboard, the chrome racing steering wheel, the plush interior.

  But soon the handsome man returned and shooed them away, and stood polishing a speck on the door with his sleeve as his companion swayed along the pavement on her heels. They got in and sped off in a series of jerking, throaty blasts.

  ‘They’re the Rich,’ Larry said solemnly, and Emily saw the Rich careering through a red landscape in mad, bright cars with fantastic shapes, a crowd waving tiny flags.

  ‘Watch out,’ Larry shouted, too late. She had ploughed into a stack of dog shit. They wandered along to the marina, Emily scraping her sandal along the pavement.

  She pointed into the water, ‘Look a that.’

  Swimming just below the surface was a strange, tubular creature with a red head and white frills undulating out of its body.

  ‘What is it?’

  He didn’t know. They crouched down. She said, ‘It looks like those things you play that game with. Babmington.’

  It did look just like a shuttlecock. But it was alive, the white frills pulsating in little feathery bursts as it propelled itself along. They couldn’t catch it or poke it with a stick; the boardwalk was too high above the water. Larry fetched some small chips of stone from the beach. He dropped one down, right on top of the creature. There was a rapid swirl and the feathers of the shuttlecock splayed out and then closed, drawing the stone inside.

  ‘It’s sucked it in,’ Emily shouted. ‘Look, the stone’s inside it.’ The creature was see-through. They could see the dark shape inside the body.

  ‘Let me do one.’ Emily dropped another stone, but missed. Larry let fall a twig and again the creature swirled its tentacles and drew the stick inside itself, and they could see the shape inside the body, next to the stone. Emily tried again. With a little twist and flurry the creature absorbed her stone. It slowed, the dark shapes jumbled inside it. The little feathery quills flickered. They dropped a few more pebbles. The creature began to sink, the quills trailing after the body as it drifted down. Larry thought of a drowned swimmer, arms and hair waving in the swirl as the bubbles rose …

  ‘We sunk it,’ Emily breathed. She looked at Larry.

  The creature was a white blur under the water. Then it was gone.

  ‘It’s hiding.’ Troubled, Larry took off his glasses. The world jumped nearer, and the distance was a silvery blur, like water.

  ‘Do you think it’s dead?’ Emily persisted.

  ‘No, it’ll spit the stuff out.’

  ‘We’ve killed it.’

  ‘No. It probably eats stones all the time.’

  ‘Eats stones all the time!’

  They crossed the burning road. The light struck off the cars. Below the road, beyond the marina, the beaches were dotted with hundreds of brightly coloured umbrellas. There were boats far out at sea, little black dots on the quivering horizon. A grey heat haze lay over the mountains and the houses on the hillside were bright blobs of colour. In the gardens the flowers hung on juicy creepers and the cactus plants curved their cruel spears against the stonework, shadows like scimitars. Grey lizards, little dragons, lay motionless in the sun, scurrying into cracks as they passed. A woman scolded a cat and put it outside her door, and the cat leapt on to a wall and eyed them. Emily reached up and stroked its hot back and it rolled over and flexed its claws and looked at her upside down with one evil green eye. Orange and lemon trees in the gardens, a line of tablecloths drying on a line. Scent of dust and cypress and dog shit. Leaning against a wall, out of sight of the sun, a thin woman rifling in her bag, track marks on her arms, glanced at them, gave a blank shrug and shambled on. They climbed the steps, studying the cracks in the walls. Once, on this path, they had seen a pink and red snake, curling away through the stones.

  It was a hot night. They sat at a table in the square. The cafés were full of people eating the evening meal, children and passersby milling around the tree in the centre where a singer was performing. The singer had a nervous tic and a high, pure voice. The waitresses pouted and rolled their eyes and scurried around the tables. From her glassed-in niche in the wall above them the Virgin Mary coldly surveyed the scene.

  ‘I’m absolutely full, and drunk as a skunk,’ Beth said.

  ‘She doesn’t approve,’ Per said, pointing to the Virgin.

  And the Holy Mother gazed back, small and chilly behind her glass. No, not at all, she confirmed, in a tiny voice of steel. Emily looked up at the little statue, stiff in her rigid blue robes. There was a wire connecting her light to the wall. The light flickered, neon white. The Virgin had no face, only a rosy pink blob of painted plaster. The rest was worn away.

  The children had ice cream. Marie banged her spoon on the table and a creamy splash shot across the surface. Javine rested her bandaged foot on a chair. She smoked cigarettes and drank a thimble of green liquid, like poison. She rubbed her damaged foot.

  ‘I hope you’ll be all right to walk back?’ Beth asked warmly.

  ‘One must walk. One must exercise,’ Javine said. ‘As the Zen master says, one must roam around and drop down ’ole.’

  ‘Drop down a hole?’ Beth concentrating, polite.

  Emily saw that flash of laughter across Per’s face, so quick it was like a bird passing the window, a streak of movement then gone, the pane open and blank again.

  ‘Whole. You must “Roam around, and at the end of the day drop down, whole.” It is Zen,’ Javine explained.

  The Virgin Mary’s neon tube gave a little pulse of light. It buzzed. A moth landed flapping on the glass, showing Her its furry underskirts. The singer under the tree struck a last, high note, so sweet that the crowd burst out clapping.

  Per paid the bill and they made their way through the crowds. Lights were strung between the buildings. Emily and Larry dawdled, gazing at the sugary bright sweets laid out in wooden barrels. But Emily was watching for her enemy.

  He was a street performer who painted his whole body in glittering gold paint. Every evening, as soon as it was dark, Golden Guy appeared in the street and struck a pose, as rigid as a statue. He would only move when a tourist gave him a coin. His antics made the crowd laugh, but Emily knew there was something menacing, a kernel of anger, hidden in every move he made. Emily never laughed at his performance, she only watched, waiting for the dark note.

  There he was, a small crowd around him. A t
ourist tossed a coin. Golden Guy broke into a wild jig. The crowd laughed and clapped. And when the tourist turned away, laughing, Golden Guy made his fingers into a pistol and shot the man in the back of the head.

  Emily went close. Golden Guy turned his head a fraction and looked at her. His eyes cold in the glittering face. The eyes moved, watching her. He knew her. She was the one who stared and never laughed.

  She felt that he was very dangerous. She lingered on this thought: you would not know him without his paint. He could be anyone. She might pass him every day in the street and not know.

  This was secret knowledge. It was the kind of thing she kept from Larry: The more often Golden Guy saw her watching — the more often their eyes met and something — her knowledge — passed between them, the greater the danger that he would seek her out. He would be disguised as an ordinary man. She would not know him until he came close, and she recognised his eyes. And she couldn’t explain it, but she had to stand at the front of the crowd every time, had to wait until she was absolutely sure he had seen her.

  But they were calling, ‘Milly, Milly.’

  They crossed through the deserted market, leaving the crowds behind. The moon had risen and there was a glittering trail of light across the water. In the dark near a wall a light flared and a group of faces crowded round. Teenage voices, laughter. Girls and boys kissed cheeks and rode off on noisy bikes. Above them the flats were lighted islands of lamp shades and striped sofas and fringed drapes. The salty scent of the sea, the rustle of the wind in the palms. Javine smoked as she limped, moving her wrist in languid swirls.

  Round the corner, by the tunnel, the streetlight made a long oval of light. Two police cars were parked up on the pavement, and four policemen had a teenager against the wall.

  The boy was tall and thin, his face angular and dark. What everyone called a Nord-Afrique. His jacket was short in the arms and his wrists were curled against his stomach. He wore cheap cotton trousers with holes in the knees. They were kicking him. He pulled his knee up and curved his hands over his face, trying to protect himself. His movements were gentle, almost tentative.

  One policeman wedged his forearm under the boy’s chin, holding his head up. Another punched the boy in the face. He punched again and turned. Emily stood still. It was her friend from the olive grove. She had shown him the lizard. He shook his fingers. Was that blood on them?

  Beth clutched Per’s arm, ‘They can’t do that. They’re hitting him. Stop them, it’s terrible.’

  And Per, starting forward, ‘Oh no.’

  But Javine was hobbling towards them. She lurched, limped, launched herself furiously at the four policemen. They paused, uncertain, holding the boy.

  She let them have it: Unspeakable … Monstrous … Close friend of the Mayor … Beating up a child … Official complaint …

  Slow and sullen, they loosened their grip. The boy sank down. He flattened himself against the wall and then, delicately, like a cat, extracted himself, edged along the pavement and fled into the darkness.

  The policemen faced Javine. For one uncertain moment they were poised, like animals. She drew herself up and glared. Per and Beth hurried up beside her, dragging the children by the hands.

  Emily’s friend came sauntering, prowling, towards them.

  She knew him so well. She had thought about him very oft en. There was his smooth face, his freckled nose, his one chipped tooth. But strange, how strange — the eyes were not his. He looked directly at her. He did not see her. He looked longest at Per, turned and said something to the other men. They came nearer. They were going to do something to Per.

  But a noise — the crackle of the car radio — broke the moment. The men relaxed, shrugged and slouched back to their cars. They revved their engines and talked into their radios. Emily looked through the window as they drove away. One elbow crooked, his chin tilted, he was adjusting the rear view mirror, smoothing his shining hair.

  Beth and Per surged around Javine. ‘Phew. You were great. I thought they were going to kill us.’ Per lit her a cigarette, Beth kissed her on both cheeks. Even little Marie clapped and laughed.

  Suavely, Javine took Emily and Larry by the hands. Her fuming cigarette poked out the corner of her red mouth. ‘’Obble on,’ she said.

  The adults talked. ‘Those monsters,’ said Javine. ‘Fucking pigs.’

  ‘Cochons,’ Emily piped up, and the adults laughed. She giggled. But something happened. A different self in her got up and stood apart and knew a secret: that the policeman, too, had a different self. And if everyone had different selves, how could she know which was real?

  Beyond the breakwater someone was swimming in the dark. The moonlight caught the shining drops as they flew off the surface. The sea surged, hissing, on the stones. They walked through the courtyard, their footsteps crunching the gravel. The cactus plants made fantastic, contorted shapes against the sky, and the moon touched the tops of the olive trees with a silvery glow.

  From her lair in the basement Madame Olivier silenced her dogs with chocolate and watched them pass by.

  Dark night. Moonlight through the curtains. When Emily closed her eyes her head whirled. When she opened them she saw marbles running slowly from one side of the ceiling to the other, as if the flat was a ship tossing on a rough sea.

  ‘You’ve got a temperature, Milly.’ Beth’s hand on Emily’s forehead felt like ice.

  Emily shivered and shivered and couldn’t get warm.

  ‘Another one down,’ Beth sighed, and went to get a cool flannel. She sponged Emily’s head and tucked her in. She sat on the bed until Emily had gone to sleep, then she went out onto the terrace. Per and Javine were smoking. The sky was full of stars. Per handed Beth a glass. They sat together, talking, watching the clouds draping soft black shapes across the moon.

  Emily woke and looked about her. The adults had gone to bed. All was silent. The chair was a black tombstone, hung with coiled snakes. The curtains moved in the breeze and shadows shift ed on the walls. Standing in the wardrobe was a witch.

  Emily froze. Terror stopped her breath. She blinked hard. The witch was looking straight at her, moving — just minutely. She was smiling. There was something so insinuating, so evil, so confident in the smile that Emily screamed.

  Beth burst in. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’ Her voice was frightened.

  Emily sat up, clutching at her mother. ‘There. In the cupboard. There.’

  Beth looked all around the room. Then, relieved, ‘There’s nothing. You gave me a fright.’

  Behind Beth the witch moved, smiled. She was round and solid, her body was heavy.

  ‘There, in the cupboard,’ Emily cried. ‘A witch.’

  Beth crossed the room. ‘There’s nothing in the cupboard.’ She put her hand into the dark space and waved it.

  But the witch smiled, delighted at the joke. ‘She can’t see me,’ the witch said to Emily. ‘She doesn’t know I’m here. But I am. And there’s nothing she can do about it.’

  ‘I’ll tuck you in,’ Beth said. ‘It’s only a dream.’

  ‘No no,’ Emily shouted. ‘Don’t leave me with her.’

  ‘Look, I’ll turn on the light.’

  But the light only made the witch laugh, and then she showed her teeth. They were jagged spikes. And the smile, so sly and intimate, said, ‘How funny. They can’t help you. Only we know I’m here. You and I are all alone.’

  Emily threw back the bedclothes and ran out of the room. Beth went after her. Lights came on. There were muffled voices, Larry said sleepily, ‘What’s going on?’ From the spare room Javine called, ‘Tiens. Who is screaming?’

  Beth turned off the lights and tucked Emily into the big bed next to Per. She got in beside her. The child was hot and feverish. She lay on her back staring at the ceiling, her eyes moving as though she was following something up there.

  ‘The ceiling is full of marbles,’ Emily said faintly.

  ‘But no witches,’ whispered Beth.

&nb
sp; They lay awake. Outside, the night was alive. A cat jumped up onto the balcony and walked neatly along the rail. He stopped to wash his paw in the moonlight. Something rustled through the long grass in the olive grove — the cat’s ear revolved to catch the sound. Footsteps sounded on the road, and from the mountains came a faint pulse of light and a fainter answering boom.

  On the ceiling the marbles rolled in streams, and turned into cold glass eyes. The Holy Mother flew past the window, laughing in a voice like birds. Over a red plain, past flag-waving crowds, Golden Guy sped in a glittering car. Where had he gone? Without gold he was nothing but eyes. What colour was he really? But she would know him when he came. She would know his eyes. Wouldn’t she?

  The cat touched the surface of the bird bath with his paw. He shook the water off and strolled across the moonlit terrace. But Agnes, the old sausage dog, dreamed she was chasing a rabbit. From the basement came a long, low growl. The cat stiffened. His feet splayed out and his tail stood out like a brush. He ran over the rail, lurched sideways, landed in the grass and lay still. Then he got up and sauntered away, as though nothing had happened.

  OPPORTUNITY

  When Reid Harris was working undercover for the police he had no steady relationships. He slept around.

  A case took him first to Whangarei, then further up the country. He moved from place to place. At one stage he was living alone in a little house in the Far North. His undercover name was Brad Richards. There was a girl called Charlene Heka who lived across the paddock, and she used to come over and have a drink with Reid on Friday afternoons. These afternoons were strange; he was always waiting. He used to go into town late on Friday night and deal drugs with the crew he was in with, and from about four in the afternoon he would be waiting for a call. He never knew when it was going to come. He had an old deckchair set up outside, in a spot sheltered from the wind. You could see the sea, the misty islands and the currents spreading over the water, and the only sound was the wind in the grass and the popping sound of a ball cock in a water trough over the fence. Reid sat out there in the stillness and he could feel the energy mounting in him, knowing that Friday was the big night. The tension ran up and down his arms like little rivers of poison. The door would bang across the paddock — Charlene never closed doors, only slammed them — and there she’d be, in her mint-green T-shirt and shorts, wobbling her way over the uneven ground.