Singularity

by Charlotte Grimshaw

  Her face was flushed, she was grinning. ‘I’ve even made you a salad,’ she said, sticking a piece of basil leaf on top of each plate. She angled the tray across his legs and sat down, wriggling in next to him.

  ‘How lovely,’ Ford said.

  He picked up his fork, moved closer to her. ‘When are you interviewing Reid?’ he asked.

  ‘Tomorrow evening.’

  The dark outside, the two of them in the yellow electric light. Rain drumming on the iron roof. He felt like a terrible old man, full of terrible secrets, telling a bedtime story while the throb of some other, hidden life beat an urgent drum in his head. The rape gene … He didn’t know whether Reid was innocent or not. But he wanted, he willed it to be so. She turned happy eyes on him. But they’re not innocent eyes after all, he thought. Brief wretchedness. The desolate feeling threatened his self-control. He steadied himself. Slowly, ‘thoughtfully’ (I’ll tell you a little tale my dear, let me think, oh yes) he began to talk about his half brother. Everything he knew and had recently discovered about Reid. Reid’s life of service. His courage and loyalty. The fundamental goodness of Reid.

  Ford kept his answering machine on. When he heard Reid’s voice he picked up the phone.

  ‘We’ve done the interview,’ Reid said.

  ‘How did it go?’

  ‘She was fine. Angela liked her. I was careful. It can’t do me any harm. She seemed well-disposed.’

  ‘You can’t tell with journalists.’

  ‘I know, but I was careful. I stated my case, that was all. She met the kids. Patted the dog. Said nice things about the house, how Angela’s done it up so tasteful. Angela got in everything she wanted to say. It was pretty friendly. She asked a bit about you. I said you and I got on well. That we were pleased we’d met.’

  Ford leaned down absently to stroke Ticket, who was circling around his legs.

  Reid said, ‘They won’t run it if I end up in jail. They’ll write a different sort of piece.’

  ‘No doubt,’ Ford said grimly.

  ‘Will you be there tomorrow?’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ Ford said.

  Early morning. Another easterly storm battering the city, purple sheet lightning flashing over the buildings. The air was full of whirling rain. Ford rode the bus into town, looking out at the sodden city, people wrestling with tattered umbrellas, leaning, coats plastered to legs, into the sudden blasts of wind. The air was warm and so full of moisture that it seemed to toss and swirl before his eyes. Walking up through the park he heard the trees roaring overhead and felt as though he were walking on the bottom of a lake; above him the agitated air slopped and broke, heaving with currents.

  He met Angela and Reid in the spot they’d agreed on. Angela smelled of smoke and peppermints. There were dark loops under her eyes. Reid was silent, grim-faced, fidgeting with his tie, breaking off his sentences to stare somewhere above their heads, as if some unspeakably horrible vision floated there. They waited, drinking coffee and not saying much.

  In the courtroom Emily waved, threaded her way over and whispered hotly in his ear, ‘Where’ve you been? I rang you. I’ve interviewed Reid.’

  ‘How did it go?’

  ‘It was good. Look at all these people. I’d better grab my seat.’

  The court was packed. They all stood. The judge came mincing in, angled himself into his seat and straightened up with a peppy little bounce. Ford sat through the summing up, unable to focus. Angela ate peppermints, plunging her hand vengefully into the crackling packet. He could hear her steady crunching. The summing up went on for a long time, until finally the judge gave a little sigh of satisfaction, picked up his papers, shuffled them into order, smiled sweetly at the jury and nodded to the registrar. They filed out, and the waiting began.

  Ford looked out a window and watched a seagull riding the wild air, making little twitches of adjustment as it kept itself aloft. He drank four coffees in a sitting. When he couldn’t stand being indoors any longer he walked around the perimeter of the courthouse, down the sheltered side and then out into the wind as he crossed east, the trees roaring above him, the air getting under his umbrella and tipping it away. The harbour was grey, full of chop. The parked cars were strewn with piles of twigs and leaves.

  The hours dragged by. Looking down from the mezzanine floor he saw Emily standing with a group of journalists, nodding and listening and at the same time moving her thumb rapidly as she sent a text. A trapped feeling came over him; he felt bound and gagged; he yearned for some kind of violent blow, to deliver it or to receive it. He thought of the emails on Emily’s computer. He thought of May and was disturbed to find he couldn’t picture her face; he couldn’t bear to think that she was fading from his mind. In a bad moment he yearned for her, his eyes burning. He rang Simon and was told he was in theatre. Once, emerging from the toilets, he heard Emily’s voice; as he opened the door a crack she passed, laughing, with one of those skinny, coiffed boy journalists from TV. He stayed out of sight.

  He was coming in from a circuit around the court when he saw people at the café tables all rise at once, grab their belongings and head in a rush to the court. He joined the crowd hurrying up the stairs. People called up and down the stairwell. Yes, it was certain, the jury was coming back in. There was a crush around the doors as the crowd squeezed in; all the seats were full and people were still threading in, standing in the aisles, even sitting on the carpet in front of the press seats. The registrar, in a state of suppressed excitement, strode about the room, her robe flapping, delivering rebukes and directions. He saw a woman laugh and put a hand over her mouth; it was the heightened atmosphere of a school hall before the appearance of the magician. Even the journalists were fighting down excited expressions, sitting two to a seat.

  Reid had an odd, unfocused look in his eyes; he stood still amid the agitation, as if separated by an invisible wall. In the harsh neon light Angela’s face was strained and haggard. She sat next to Ford with her head held high, pressing her arms against her chest, her feet crossed neatly under her seat.

  The judge bounced in, sighed, took off his glasses and polished them. With apologetic smiles, with excessive delicacy, as if it were unseemly to sully the exquisite tension of the moment, he replaced his glasses, turned and asked the jury whether they had reached a verdict. The foreman replied that they had.

  The registrar rose and read out each charge, and as the replies came back the crowd reacted with moans, gasps, harsh exclamations. Then they were all on their feet; it was chaos in the small room, Reid was standing, he turned, pushed back his chair and met Ford and Angela as they came forward. Ford felt it in his heart, in his soul, wherever it was that deep emotions rested, that Reid put his arms around Ford as well as Angela. ‘Thank Christ,’ Reid was saying. ‘Thank Christ thank Christ.’

  In the blur that followed, the pushing, shoving, shouted questions, the surge out of the court, down the stairs and out into the rain, Ford kept his hand clamped on Reid’s arm. He saw Emily, intent, looking for him, bobbing around the shoulders in front of her. She fought her way to him. Reid had turned away and was speaking. She said something Ford couldn’t hear. But she was shouldered away and Reid pulled Ford forward; he saw her again behind him, trying to catch up, and as they got in the car hers was one of the faces in the crowd that surged after them, falling away raggedly as they bumped off the curb and sped out into the traffic, Reid urging the driver, ‘Go, go,’ and sitting back and turning to Ford with an expression of triumph and relief, the first time ever that Ford had seen him smile.

  Ford sat out on the deck and read Emily’s article. A prism of sunlight danced in Ticket’s water bowl. A seagull had landed on the rail of the deck and was shifting along it on its red feet, eyeing him. He laid the article aside, then took it up again, trying to see it as others would. Spread across an entire page, it was a generous portrait of Reid Aaron Harris, fallen from grace, freshly acquitted but future career uncertain. There was Reid at home in the suburbs, surroun
ded by his loyal family. His good-looking children, his attractive wife. His hobbies, his homely pursuits. The dog he loves, the garden he tends. The big colour photo was flattering. As public relations, as damage control, it was perfect. You couldn’t say that Emily hadn’t been useful.

  Ford thought of her bedroom. Rain drumming on the roof, yellow light, the view of the wild sky over the city.

  The phone rang. He picked it up. Emily said eagerly, ‘Ford?’

  ‘Yes.’ He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose.

  ‘Have you read it? What do you think?’

  ‘It’s good.’

  ‘Will you come and see me? Will you ring me? I’ve been ringing but you’re never home.’

  ‘I’ve been spending time with Reid.’

  ‘Well. He probably won’t get his job back.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘We do appreciate your considerateness,’ Ford said.

  ‘What?’ He heard her grappling with the receiver. ‘What do you mean by that?’ Her voice rose. ‘That phrase. What does it mean?’

  He didn’t say anything.

  ‘Does it mean you don’t …?’ She stopped.

  Ford screwed his eyes shut. He put his hand to his forehead.

  She said, ‘You don’t care about me.’

  There was another long silence.

  ‘I care about my brother,’ Ford said.

  Emily driving. Light rain made blurred loops around the streetlights. She was supposed to be driving home, but at the last minute she had turned and gone a different way. It was Friday night. Caro was staying with Beth and Per. Emily had been out to a film with Jack James from work; afterwards he had charmingly worked on her, trying to persuade her to go for a drink. She’d refused. She was avoiding going home to the empty house.

  She drove up Queen Street, onto Karangahape Road. Past the Owl Bar. Onto Ponsonby Road, towards Grey Lynn. The empty streets were washed with rain. She passed Ford’s road, stopped and did a U-turn. She parked and got out, walking beside sodden hedges, wet lawns, wooden fences. A dog threw itself against a fence with an explosion of barks; in her fright she lurched sideways, turning her ankle. She kicked the fence angrily and the dog stuck its snout under, hysterically yapping, the mutt.

  The gate was open at Ford’s. She hesitated only a moment before walking quickly down the side of the house. There was a thick clump of bushes against the window. Gingerly she angled herself in among the wet branches and looked through the screen of leaves.

  The kitchen was unlit. Beyond its space of intervening darkness Ford, Reid and Angela were grouped at the wooden dining table. A hanging light cast a soft, cone-shaped glow. Angela was wearing a loose shirt and a string of beads across her delicate throat. Her face, framed by curtains of blonde hair was sharp and foreign; she had a look of sideways laughter, grace, quickness. She was leaning on Reid’s shoulder, her elbows on the table. Reid’s elbows were also on the table, his hands joined at the knuckles of his clenched fists. He was resting his chin on his fists and smiling.

  Ford, in jeans and a faded sweatshirt, had risen from his seat and was leaning across, putting a plate in front of Reid. He had shielded his hand from the hot plate with a tea towel. He screwed the cloth into a ball and tossed it away into the shadows behind them. The way he threw the cloth, the little comical flourish — how happy he seemed. He sat down and passed a bowl to Angela. The three of them sat talking, intent, close, in the circle of light.

  Emily turned away. A branch bent back, released itself and scratched her face. She stumbled and her foot struck the tin side of a meter box. It reverberated with a hollow bang.

  She hurried back along the path, embarrassment flaring in every nerve. It was not possible they hadn’t heard the sound. Sure enough, as she reached the gate the front door began to open, and as she sped away up the road she heard Ford’s voice, ‘The cat? I don’t think so.’

  She drove. If only she could drive away from herself, leave this body behind. Nothing was enough; there was only wanting, yearning and never getting. Life would not be shaped or controlled; it ran on its own cruel lines.

  At one-thirty, out on the Southern motorway near Otara, the orange light began blinking on the petrol gauge. A rare, thick fog lay over the southern suburbs. The roofs and treetops rose from the seething ropes of cloud and the streetlights flared, garish and strange, above the empty highway. A dark figure crossed the motorway bridge followed by a loping dog. There was a smell of burning in the air. Emily turned the car towards home.

  The fog had come up the street from the sea; now the city had disappeared, and the only trace of the skyline was a dirty brownish orange glow. She entered her walled garden, walked past the blurred shapes of the iron garden furniture. Sounds were muted in the damp air; the roar of the port had softened to a low hum. Nothing was stirring. The streetlight shone into the garden, making radiant, billowing shapes in the fog.

  Emily saw something in the corner of her eye: a dark shadow rearranging itself, passing the white chairs under the tree. Away from the tree, with the glow from the streetlight behind it, the figure expanded, grew tall, many-armed. Light rippled across it; it was made of rings and shadows of itself. It came towards her, a black figure in the sloping mist.

  She ran back to the street, scrabbling for her phone.

  ‘It’s me,’ Ford said behind her. ‘Emily. It’s me.’

  ‘Ford.’ She leaned against the wall.

  ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’

  ‘You were just this black shape. The shape of a man, but huge.’ She tried to explain the magnifying effect of the fog.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ he said.

  He leaned against the wall beside her, running his hand nervously through his hair. He turned and faced her. ‘Can I come in?’

  She squeezed her hands together, feeling her heart pulsing, the blood racing under her skin. It took all her effort to maintain her self-control.

  She gazed off for a moment, as if taking time to consider.

  ‘Yes, sure,’ she said.

  May used to tell Ford about her patients at the public hospital. The injured and sick, women in labour, children. The intellectually handicapped who needed their teeth fixed or growths removed — these people sometimes had to be held down. They didn’t understand what was happening to them. Some were large and strong and had to be chased around the room. Her colleagues called this part of their job ‘sporting anaesthetics’. May had partaken of the black humour of her profession; she had the thick skin doctors needed in order not to be shocked or repelled, to act with compassion.

  She told Ford about people with autism and Asperger’s syndrome. These patients were born without the ability to understand social interactions. If they were intelligent enough they could learn to get on in the world, to behave like people.

  The memory of this came back to Ford.

  Ford and Emily went to a café for breakfast. Emily told him about

  herself, her life, her daughter. He thought about the Asperger’s

  people who didn’t understand or feel emotion. They had to learn

  intellectually what other people know by instinct. They learned to

  ape human behaviour.

  All the months he had spent without May, missing her and learning to live without her, had armed him to do what he was doing. It armed him against the possibility, which seemed unlikely to him now, that Emily wasn’t sincere. He felt he was the outline of a man. Inside him was the black shape, the absence of May. But he didn’t want to live alone. He wanted to live, not die. It was easy to make Emily believe that he cared about her. He felt her affection for him. He sensed it was real. He was comforted by it, he drew strength from it. It was enough.

  He would find his way back to feeling. He would be pierced by jealousy, passion, fear of losing her. This would not happen for a long time. In the meantime he made a new life. He lived well. He wanted to behave as a decent human being would.

  He tri
ed, and mostly succeeded, in this.

  DRAGONFLY

  They sat in the departure lounge, Larry drinking coffee, Leanne blandly flicking through a magazine, and the two teenagers whispering to each other, fidgeting, getting up to cruise in a predatory way around the shops, legging it back and sprawling in their seats. The boys were both seventeen. Lynx was Maori, with silver studs running up his ears, dyed hair cut short at the back and long on the top, and a thin, wiry body. He couldn’t keep still. Slade was also Maori, although paler than Lynx and much bulkier, his face sprinkled with brown freckles, his eyes hazel and slightly misaligned. He had a line of shiny black fuzz on his upper lip, and an air of sly intelligence.

  Lynx pushed his heels against the floor, levered himself up the seat until he was almost sitting on the back of it, and fell down with a thud.

  The boys were cousins. They came from Otara, and had won a film competition that the company had run for high-school kids, finally announcing last month that Lynx Jones and Slade Rupapera were the winners of the grand prize, a package of video equipment for their school and a chaperoned trip to Los Angeles, where they would visit a film studio.

  They had made their winning film during English classes, using equipment provided by the school. When he’d first met them, Larry had assumed that Slade was the creative genius and that jittery little Lynx was just the sidekick, along for the ride. But Lynx, it turned out, had come up with the idea for the film and had written the screenplay. Among the hundreds of entries the film stood out for the intensity of its tone. It was simple — they were only kids — but they had achieved an atmosphere of dreamy ambiguity, half-menace, half-nostalgia, that suggested real talent. The film was called The Clothesline Man. In it, a man, played with brilliant restraint by Slade, came to put up a clothesline in a woman’s back garden. The woman was a solo mother living in a state house, and was played by one of their classmates, a Tongan girl. The clothesline was the classic New Zealand rotary model with a pole and rotating spokes, the kind that everyone remembers occupying a central place in the backyard, the sheets snapping in the wind, the kids climbing up and swinging round on the spokes. In the film the clothesline man does his work and goes away, but rings the woman with extra instructions about its use. There is a pin she can use to tighten the cords, and so on. He notes that she doesn’t have a man in the house to do this for her. She is charming at first, but starts to rebel and mock when he rings her again.