by Alex Miles
All throughout the walk I had been looking for imperfections in reality, trying to spot an oversight. Where could I get the information that I could trust? I remembered Juste’s deadly solipsism displayed to me when I started this project: “I know nothing of the real world; my whole experience is in a few cubic centimetres.” Now I needed to be sure my few centimetres were pure.
I made yet more tea and I sat down in a vegetative trance for an unknown time, before the noise of a four-storey train roused me. I needed some physical clues, something empirical. Although that too would become a memory, it satisfied the now. I dug through my archived paperwork till I found the application form from Juste, ten years ago.
He had come to me, a young man of extreme talents and extreme failings. I was in the research stages of my project, paying for it as a regular counsellor. He took little interest in the patients, although he was popular with the young. He had an excellent knowledge of anatomy, insects and organs, making him almost indispensable in designing the surveyors and the builders. This meant I could not get rid of him, even with his unashamed indolence, dishonesty and absenteeism.
As mentioned, I am the founder of the technology. It is true, Juste did help me, but his assertion that I owed half of everything to him was ridiculous. I should never have trained him as my protégé – he never saw himself that way.
I framed the application and put it on my wall, between the other warnings. They were the broadsheet articles of the public relations disasters that hung over our profession. They were stories of patients who had complications from the surgery. There was no suggestion of intentional harm, such as in Juste’s case – the implication was that of incompetence. Some cases were subtle and some extreme.
One article talked of a woman who fell into catatonia after surgery. Another young girl was locked in repetitive conversations with people who no longer existed. There was a case of a man who developed a love of extreme masochism, until, in an attempt to dig out his own eye, he killed himself. Other patients have had spasms of odd symptoms before returning to “normal”.
It was difficult to tell what genuine human irregularity was in this. The broadsheets sympathised with the idea that we did not know what we were doing. They placed responsibility at the feet of the industry, rather than the individual. None of these cases were from my surgery.
Tired of such worries I poured yet more tea and sat at my home laboratory. I examined the surveyors and protein string from the young man. But I soon grew tired and daydreamed again.
I noticed the front door bell swing feebly a few times before it began to ring. Its pattern was irregular and impatient. I had no desire to see anyone, so I left it. It continued over the course of a few minutes so that I wondered if a protester had spotted me.
As it persisted, varying in volume and speed, I realised it was Juste’s patient, who had found my house from the cafe. I wondered what Juste had asked them to do. I considered telegramming the prefects, but the usual problem remained: the patients were carefully programmed so no crime was committed until Juste had designed it. The bell got louder and more erratic in its rings, but I let it ring its mad course. It fell silent only after an hour. The fourteen are only harmful if Juste wished it and this perhaps was one last argument on Juste’s part.
I took a sip of my tea. Perhaps I was presumptuous in thinking it was one of them. It could well be a protester.
I thought more about Juste's offer, but still not in terms that made sense. I worried about correcting him, because then I had breached another professional code, that of doctor and patient. If nothing else, why correct a soul so soon to be eradicated. I came to the conclusion I would give him what he wanted, because the dull ache of being me was suitable for him. Dr Juste Elm deserved this, if for no other reason than that he was now my patient and wanted it. I decided I would do a good job for Juste.
I telegrammed the prison that I would visit within a few days, stating what preparations were needed. I arrived at the prison a few hours ago ready to perform the surveying.
As I sat at the cell desk, I went over these considerations. Regret was building up, for failing to get the most out of this opportunity.
Why had the obvious path delayed in revealing itself: the surgery was mine to do with as I wanted. I could paint his outsides tranquil yet inside he would burn with the all silent combinations of agonies. I would take away even the thought that death could save him.
Once this surveying was done I would have plenty of time to reprogram Juste’s malicious builder.
My plans made, I was frustrated by the wastage of time in this cell. I believed Mr Botts was coming with the needed tools within a few minutes, but it is typical of the system that they make you wait so long. I cannot even capitalise on this time by looking over some medical files, because that idiot Botts has them. Nor can I even guess how long I have been here.
I walked over to the door of the cell. I tried the handle, but they must have locked me in for my own safety. I opened the eye slit in the door and shouted into the deserted hall.
“I have other appointments, you know? When am I to see Dr Elm?”
HITTING TARGETS
The tiny, radio alarm clock smashed the five hour sleep and Harvey was plunged into a chaos of obnoxious, nagging DJ chatter. The room filled with the cheery young voice, blithering on about the latest internet fad, but all it indicated for Harvey was continuous orders to get up.
The panicky realisation that the radio noise would soon reach his wife, in the next room, hastened him over to the desk to thump the clock blindly until it ceased. A sharp ringing silence was still in his ears as he stood stunned and shell-shocked by the horror and surprise that morning had come. In his head he did all the familiar time calculations of ways he could earn his way back to bed. All of them added up unfavourably.
As he stepped through the bedroom door, he almost tripped over the washing basket that his wife had left meaningfully on the floor for him. The note in it read “REMEMBER”, with the mandatory smiley face after it. He did another calculation, unsure if he had time to collect and hide the stewed washing from the machine. Then he did a game-theory calculation of the penalties of not doing so. The two calculations contradicted one another.
In the kitchen, half-washed dishes waited patiently by the side of the sink. Paint pots and unfinished canvases lay scattered randomly across the floor. Harvey took the clothes out of the machine while noticing another post-it on the fridge: a shopping list and another horror-inducing smiley face. He shoved the shopping list into his back pocket, after which he took the washing out and quickly hid it in the corner of his bedroom.
On his drive to work Harvey tried to make the most realistic calculation of when he could retire. Then he made the most pessimistic calculation; then the most optimistic. He drove into the car park of “Firm Foundations”.
He was twenty minutes early and everyone else was already there. He quietly slunk towards his desk but John Johnson skilfully blocked the path. Harvey managed to put on his big, fake smile just in time. “Listen Harvey, old chap, have you managed to get that list of addresses for me?”
“Sorry … Umm … no. But this morning, maybe … Yes, it will be with you this morning. Did you—?”
“Good show, my man. Bosh that over to me, will you? Oh, and old Crustsnout was looking for you half an hour ago. You might want to look out for that chap. If you see him, point him my way. The old sort gave me some of his forms filled with old-school, city, mumboo buffoo. They seem to think clever words give clever sentences. Gosh, it’s another world.”
“Yes, yes, another world. Did you manage to get …?”
“The weekend doesn’t half go snap, doesn’t it? On second thoughts, maybe it’s better I send him an email. Better be getting on. See you in a tick, champ.”
“Yes, Sorry … Thank you. See you later.”
It wasn’t until ten that he had to meet the first client. Unfortunately, that meant he had time to check his emails, an
d that meant using the spiteful computing device. He turned it on by pushing the well-labelled computer turn-on button; bashing it because it refused to work. Then he turned the monitor on. He followed the helpful notes the IT man had left for him and successfully opened his emails. Mostly they contained impossible things he did not know how to execute. They were full of spam from IT, news that the carpet was to be shampooed and endless things he had been copied on. He put the helpful, little red flag next to all emails he found impossible; future-Harvey could deal with those.
He was horrified to see the number of flags left by his immoral former self on Friday. He saw chains of emails with more and more people being copied, the wording unmistakably showing primeval frustration hidden behind blasé, professional politeness. Then the panic hit about the oldest red flag: the MPR report he had to do for Crustsnout, which was weeks overdue. Harvey was not even sure what “MPR” stood for. But even now Harvey smiled. To not like your job was a thought crime: it was like a terrible deity that would send you to hell for not being thankful for the lesser hell it had put you in.
He heard the familiar shoes and felt the familiar sixth-sense fear of Mr Crustsnout coming up behind him. He hoped those cursed, fashionable, efficient shoes would walk past. They stopped.
“Good morning, Harvo.”
“Good morning, sir.”
“How are you feeling today?”
“Not so well today, sir.”
“How was your weekend?”
“It was quiet.”
“Listen, would you come over to touch base with me in the glass office?”
“Sorry … Yes, of course.”
Whenever you were bored at work you could always be sure that peering toward the glass office would reward you with some silent drama unfolding. On entering the office, Crustsnout fell into the larger of the chairs and pointed with a metallic clipboard, at the seat Harvey was to take.
“Now this is not a formal meeting, but it’s been coming for some time. It’s just to follow up on your PIP objectives that you and I put together. A Performance-Improvement-Plan requires us to get together like this from time to time. I just came here to have a little talk with you about how we are getting along. Nothing serious, just a talk. Just a talk, you know. This isn’t serious.”
Harvey’s heart sank. Crustsnout’s stance, suit and hair made sure you knew he was more successful than you, except in the inferior fields of happiness or goodness. Everything about him was expensive: his bespoke suit, his shave, his nose job. He was always cheerful and you voluntarily had to be cheerful back. “How do you think it is going?”
“Better … but still room for improvement,” said Harvey, placing his words most realistically, while keeping as much positive energy in them, in order to gain the maximum amount of survivability.
“Yah, I agree there has been much improvement. But I guess the question is whether we have improved fast enough. You had trouble with your Weekly-Performance-Report, so we worked around it. We took away your WPR duties so you could focus on the MPR. But, it’s a bit weird; I don’t seem to have received it yet. However, it’s due, so it must be lost in my inbox somewhere. Let us see, a month ago, out of our “foundation scale grade” you got a three out of ten. Considering your performance on this month’s MPR, where would you place your score now?”
Harvey knew the PIP required him to get a four. “Four,” he said miserably.
“Hmm … so let’s look here.” He took out the clipboard and threw it on the table, like a card player revealing his winning hand, “You would say you are ‘performing average and occasionally above average’. Would you say you agree with that? Is that what you see?" The Firm Foundations’ curve grading system demands everyone to run above average.
“Sorry … No.”
“Well, I would put you at two point five. A good two point five.”
“I see … Thank you.”
“I would love to give you two point five, but they demand integers at the top. They are crazy like that. So I have to make it a two. Now, do you remember, I think we agreed a little while ago we had to reach four to meet the requirements of your PIP?”
“Yes.” He had a horrible vision of what he would have to tell Livia that evening.
“But, you know, Mr Ridgitso really wants this to work for you. It is really good how these big people are really looking out for you. So we have a fantastic opportunity for you to get involved.” Harvey withered a little inside, as the thought of a “fantastic opportunity” reared its head. “… but it’s on the condition that everything is met within a month. It’s a fantastic house to sell. It’s the Druitt House. It’s a big job. Usually we give opportunities like this to someone with more experience, but this is just a demonstration of how committed this organisation is to making this work for you.”
Crustsnout smiled at his own generosity. Druitt House, Harvey well knew, had been on the books for ages. Management were getting increasingly frustrated at such a costly piece gaining dust on the shelf.
“Thank you, sir. I’m really grateful for the chance you have given me on this job … Sorry for everything, but thank you …” said Harvey with a big, miserable smile.
How was he going to sell that house? The occupant refused to negotiate on price, had decorated the place in a childish way and insisted on staying at the property’s viewings, despite having the social skills of a whoopee cushion. People who viewed it were so disgusted they often did not even come back to the agency.
“So you’re amped about the job? Happy?”
“Oh yes, sir. I won’t let you down … Thank you.”
“You can really add value by selling this house.”
“I will, sir … Thank you.”
“Good man. Now are there any issues you wanted to talk to me about?”
“Oh no, sir!” said Harvey with absolutely no intention of raising any of the many issues that troubled him.
“So, we are in agreeance. Well, if you sell that house, we can touch base in a couple of months to review everything. If it isn’t sold by that delivery option, we will just have to wonder if this is the right fit for you and maybe help you find something that’s better suited. Mr Ridgitso himself is personally interested in selling this house. You can finally prove to the hard-hitters how much value-added you being here is.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Harvey reached his house door exhausted from carrying shopping bags. He stood breathing for a little while, wanting to prolong the bliss of silence. He was like a damned soul enjoying the fall from some higher circle of hell to the deeper circle. He opened the door to the sound of Livia’s voice.
“Sweetheart, did you manage to get the shopping?”
“Yes.”
“Did you do the washing?”
“Sorry … I will in a sec.”
“So ‘no’ then, Darling?”
“Sorry … No.”
“So, did you not get my note asking you to do the washing?”
He stepped over the endless art and boxes of paper cuttings and looked up gloomily at the homemade, post-ironic paintings on the wall. Livia said they all “produced emotions”. He made his way to the fridge, putting the kettle on as he passed it.
“Do you want a cup of tea?” said Livia, hearing the kettle.
Knowing this was a trap he dodged skilfully. “No, but I’ll make you one.”
“Oh, that’s okay, sweetheart,” she said, appearing in the doorway. She was a little woman of past-beauty. Today she had her best gardening make-up on. She wore respectability as a costume and constantly sighed at the heaviness of her burden, that is, Harvey.
Harvey felt a punch in his leg that hit dead on a previous bruise. He looked down and recognised the cause as Bratnumbertwo. He had long ago given up trying to be a good stepdad; the three children and he had decided the fairy-tale role of “evil stepfather” suited him better.
“He wants to know when dinner is,” Livia translated. “Oh now, I suppose, isn’t it dear?”
“Yes … yes … I'll cook it now.”
“Did you have a good day at work?”
“Not really.”
“So you didn’t get my note about the washing?”
“I didn’t have time … sorry.”
“Darling, I thought you had time yesterday?”
“Sorry, I didn’t see it then.”
“It's just that they won’t have clothes for school. You know it’s very difficult for me to get everything together in the morning. Oh well, don’t worry about it. I always find a way around it somehow, don’t I?”
“I'll do it now … is that okay?”
“Thanks again. I’ve been trying to tidy all day and I’ve got a lot done, but there is so much of it, you know.”
Livia was constantly “tidying” and getting “a lot done”. It was her “contribution” to the house. She seemed to believe that in the future she would make a fortune by selling her art; however, this could only happen once she achieved the pinnacle of intellectuality. This, in turn, was to be achieved by cutting up papers and magazines.
While dinner was cooking, the children kept squabbling in the next room.
“Oh those children have given me such a headache … Can’t you try to get home a little earlier?”
“I had to do the shopping.”
“How long does that take?”
“An hour … I think.”
“Hmm, does it really take that long?”
Harvey apologised and went upstairs. Having dodged the downstairs distractions he sat down in his little room and opened the paper. There was so little time. What was in the news today? Adverts. He saw a picture of two impossibly young couples, in bathing costumes, giving each other piggybacks and inviting you to come to the same holiday spot. It left Harvey cold, longing for those memories never had. Where were his piggybacks?
He had never been young. He had never been in love. He had always been working. What had happened between twenty-two and now? A bunch of emails, hair in the sink and supermarket trips was what had happened in two decades. Harvey was middle-aged before he was born. He could have sworn something important should have happened to him. Was he not special?
