Galloglass

by Scarlett Thomas

  Black button. See above.

  The next image was of the same concentration camps as before, although this time the voiceover explained that the people imprisoned here were every brown-haired man of the right sort of age and background in the world that you’d been able to find. The evil man was definitely one of these people, but you couldn’t be sure which one. Do you kill them all? it asked. There are approximately a million men here, but in killing them you would save millions more.

  One of the participants made a strange noise, and then threw up on the table in front of her. Others made pained noises, or gasped. There were quite a lot of scraping sounds as more people were eliminated. Wolf looked around. Only he and Lucy were left.

  14

  Lexy was relieved when they emerged out in the street near the hospital where Maximilian’s mum worked. Everyone had been quiet for the last few minutes as they followed Festus through the complex passageways, with their candles flickering and making great shadows dance on the walls.

  By the time Lexy got in it was almost six o’clock.

  ‘There she is!’ said Hazel.

  ‘At last,’ said Marcel.

  ‘I told you she’d turn up,’ said JP, wryly. ‘Children always do.’

  Lexy took in the scene before her. Something seemed curiously upside-down about it. Why were her parents both dressed in their best clothes? Marcel was wearing his favourite patchwork waistcoat that Hazel had made for him on their tenth wedding anniversary. And Hazel almost looked normal in a long black dress and mismatched glittery earrings. Meanwhile, JP seemed to be dressed for a comfortable night in. He was wearing grey marl tracksuit bottoms with a sloppy black jumper, and his pompadour, while still upright, was the least extravagant Lexy had ever seen it. Buttons was weaving around Hazel’s and Marcel’s legs in a worried sort of a way.

  Lexy began to get a horrible feeling deep in her stomach.

  ‘Well,’ said Marcel. ‘Shall we?’

  ‘Where are you going?’ said Lexy.

  ‘Have you forgotten the date?’ said Marcel. ‘It’s our anniversary. And for once we can actually go out. JP has very kindly offered to babysit.’

  ‘I’m eleven,’ said Lexy. ‘I don’t need babysitting.’

  ‘Well, we’ll talk about that some other time perhaps,’ said Marcel. ‘But tonight you’re going to be—’

  ‘Maybe the little lady can babysit me?’ said JP, charmingly. ‘If that makes her feel better. No one as mature as Lexy should need supervision, I agree. But I would certainly be very happy if she would consent to keep me company for the evening.’

  ‘Why on earth are you making that face?’ Hazel said to Lexy.

  Lexy had been trying to indicate to her mother that she shouldn’t be left alone here, with this terrible man. But it hadn’t worked.

  ‘Got a headache, little lady?’ said JP. ‘I know just the remedy for that.’ He winked.

  ‘We’re going to be late,’ said Marcel. ‘I’ve left money for a takeaway. And you can get a video as well if you like. I’ve put extra money on the electric. Just don’t forget to rewind the tape afterwards.’

  ‘But that takes extra electricity,’ said Hazel.

  ‘Yes, but we can’t leave it to the next people, or the shop.’

  ‘Everyone else does,’ said Hazel.

  Lexy wasn’t listening properly. For the first time in her life, she felt sick with fear, not just in the sense of being ‘very afraid’, but that she might really, literally, vomit. She wanted to tell her parents not to go, but they looked so happy, and they’d clearly put a lot of effort into getting dressed for the night. She’d ruin it all if she said something. And what could JP really do? He was hardly going to kill her. A few more bruises wouldn’t be so bad, would they? Lexy had plenty of arnica balm after all.

  ‘Please, Dad,’ said Effie again.

  Orwell was sitting in his favourite armchair by the fire, reading Galloglass by the light of a single candle. Effie was almost sure he was doing it to wind her up, and it was working. Nothing normally held his attention for this long.

  ‘Aha!’ he kept saying. And then, mysteriously, ‘Hmmm,’ before scribbling something in one of his yellow notebooks. There were many of these notebooks lying around the house. They were from the stationary cupboard in the Linguistics Faculty office. No one knew where they had originated, but they were faded, slightly water-damaged, and smelled of mould. At some point they had probably been a job lot. Orwell Bookend didn’t usually get beyond the first page of a notebook. But he’d already written three pages in this one.

  ‘Come on,’ said Effie. ‘Please? You’ve been reading it for ages. Let me have a go.’

  ‘Isn’t it your bedtime?’ said Orwell to his daughter.

  ‘Don’t be so mean,’ said Cait. ‘We haven’t even had dinner yet.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Orwell.

  ‘Because you said you’d go out for chips ages ago and you haven’t,’ said Cait.

  ‘Can’t you go?’ said Orwell. ‘I’m reading. This is very gripping.’

  ‘How can a poem be gripping?’ said Effie.

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know,’ said Orwell, narrowing his eyes.

  ‘All right,’ said Cait. ‘But tomorrow I’m going shopping for real food. I’ll take Effie to the Winter Fair Market. We need vitamins, iron, nutrients. It’s a wonder we’re not all dead from scurvy in this house.’

  At least Cait was almost back to her old self. She’d spent quite a few months recently under a strong but subtle enchantment that meant she was obsessed with diets and thin romance novels.

  The enchantment had worked as a strange kind of cycle. The romance novels were attached to fluorescent tubs of diet milkshake powder called Shake Your Stuff. People who read the books got obsessed with wanting to look like the thin young women on the covers, despite the fact that they were always in peril of some sort, being chased around a desk by a man in a suit, or tied up and dangling upside-down off a cliff. The books contained a spell that made people want the milkshake powder, which in turn contained a spell that made people want the books. It had been a hard cycle for Cait to break, but she’d been going to a women’s group at the university that had helped her.

  Soon there was the sound of the front door slamming, and then a blast of cold air that smelled of snow and outside. Ten minutes later Cait came back with three portions of chips, three mushy pea fritters and three giant pickled onions, all wrapped up in paper.

  ‘All they had left,’ explained Cait.

  ‘A feast!’ said Orwell. ‘And a student gave me a box of homemade candied fruits the other day, too. She was thanking me for something – I forget what. We can have them for pudding.’

  ‘Is there enough electric on the meter to have it in front of the telly, do you think?’ said Cait. ‘Candlelight Challenge is on tonight. And then Knitting with Kittens.’

  ‘No,’ said Orwell. ‘We’ll eat at the table like a proper family.’

  Effie and Cait both sighed. This meant that Orwell would insist on having A Conversation.

  ‘So,’ he began, as they started tucking into their alarmingly bright green mushy pea fritters. ‘What do we all think about this galloglass theory then?’

  Effie’s heart jolted a little as it always did now on hearing the word galloglass.

  ‘How are we supposed to know what we think?’ said Cait. ‘You’ve been hogging the book all afternoon. Poor Effie hasn’t had the chance to even look at it.’

  ‘It is oddly absorbing,’ said Orwell. ‘Much more than I thought it would be. I’m going to have developed such a brilliant question to ask on Monday night that when the vice-chancellor hears it she’ll promote me on the spot. You wait and see.’

  ‘Well, I hope it’s not enchanted like those Matchstick Press books,’ said Cait.

  ‘You mean figuratively, of course,’ said Orwell. ‘Books can’t be literally enchanted.’ Orwell usually claimed not to believe in magic. Sometimes, though, usually when he was sad o
r drunk, he admitted that he was actually afraid of it.

  ‘Yes, well,’ said Cait, in her I’m-Not-Going-To-Start-An-Argument voice. ‘You’re not the only one who’s interested in this. There’s been a lot about galloglass theory in the local paper. And the students are planning on boycotting Jupiter Peacock’s lecture.’

  ‘Why?’ said Orwell.

  ‘Er, because he’s horrible?’ said Cait. ‘And the theory is all about how selfishness is good. No one wants to hear that.’

  ‘It’s a lot more complicated than everyone’s making out,’ said Orwell. ‘I’ve been reading Peacock’s introduction to his translation. The students could learn something from it, actually. It’s stirring stuff, all about striking out on your own, having adventures, looking after yourself, and . . .’

  Effie was attempting to cut into her massive pickled onion. It was like trying to operate on an enormous monster’s eyeball. She didn’t know whether to listen to her father and Cait or not. Usually when her father started talking about anything from her world – magic in particular – she just made herself switch off so she didn’t get too cross. But this was sort of interesting. And disturbing. After all, striking out alone was what Effie did. Everything she had heard about galloglasses so far sounded exactly like her. Well, except for the bits about being selfish.

  But, she remembered with a horrible pang, she was selfish, wasn’t she? She’d taken all the things that the shopkeepers had given her in Froghole and hadn’t really ever done anything nice for anybody. Not like Clothilde, who always took the time to be kind and even knitted socks for people. But then Festus had suggested that the world needed galloglasses. What could that mean?

  ‘Surely it’s better to look after other people than look after yourself?’ said Cait.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Orwell. ‘What would have happened if Jesus or the Buddha had stayed at home and just done helpful little things for their parents or their immediate community? They both upset quite a lot of people. They weren’t just nicey-nicey do-gooders.’

  ‘If I remember correctly the Buddha didn’t even know anything about his community until he left his palace and actually looked at real people and real life,’ said Cait.

  Effie remembered learning about the story of the Buddha with Mrs Beathag Hide. It had been a cold and miserable week in November when the heating wasn’t working in the school, and Mrs Beathag Hide had decided to comfort the children with heart-warming stories from the major religions. Unfortunately these had mainly involved child-murder, crucifixion, live sacrifice, people’s heads appearing on platters and descriptions of endless hell.

  The story of the Buddha had at least been better than the others. He’d started off as a pampered young prince called Gautama, whose parents kept him in a beautiful palace where bad things didn’t exist. When Gautama accidentally discovered illness and poverty outside the palace he was so upset he went and sat under a tree for years until he found the solution. Then he became the Buddha and everyone made him into ornaments and incense-holders.

  ‘That’s exactly what I mean!’ said Orwell to Cait. ‘That’s the point! The Buddha had to strike out on his own before he even understood the concept of community. Peacock puts it very well in his book. These individualists – heroes, if you like – have to follow the call to adventure, which means rejecting all the silly small-town values they have been brought up with and leaving the comfort of home. Then eventually they bring back greater wisdom for the community. Wisdom the community wouldn’t have had otherwise.’

  ‘Well, I kind of feel like communities can get all the wisdom they need from the local library and reading groups,’ said Cait, eating a large chip. ‘This hero’s journey stuff is all about men wanting to go around thrusting with their big swords while everyone else gets on with real life.’

  And girls, thought Effie. Girls sometimes have big swords too. But of course she couldn’t say anything.

  ‘Also,’ said Cait, ‘if everyone went off to “find themselves” then there’d be no community left. Just a lot of individuals cluttering up the roads. Like a mass gap year.’

  ‘But how can you help others if you don’t know who they are or what they want? How do you know anything until you know yourself? And you can’t find yourself without leaving home and going on a journey.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Listen to this bit . . .’ Orwell took the book off the table where it had been sitting next to him the whole time, presumably so Effie couldn’t get it. ‘Um . . . Oh yes. And weaklings watched and soon they thought/“This life is better than mine own”/And motivated now they wrought/Their own path out of steel and stone.’

  ‘What does that even mean?’ asked Cait.

  ‘It means that strong people inspire weak people to actually get off their backsides and do something about their situation. What was it that politician supposedly said a hundred years ago? “Get on your bike”?’

  Cait narrowed her eyes. ‘Yes, and then look what happened to the world. The second worst period in recorded history. The return of fascism. The Third World War. The rising of the seas. The mass extinctions. You know full well that the world wouldn’t be such a mess now if it wasn’t for all those selfish people back then. They were saying on the news the other day that there’s a new theory that the worldquake happened because the sum total of data being carried in mobile networks actually exceeded the mass of the sun for the first time. And then: Boom! The poor world couldn’t take it. All those individuals—’

  ‘In one massive global “community”. Still, everyone agrees that since the worldquake global warming has been reversed somehow.’

  It was true. Studies since the worldquake had shown that the world had gone back to the temperature it had been at the beginning of the twentieth century, before anyone had invented nuclear weapons (which had also mysteriously vanished after the worldquake), microwaves or mobile phones.

  ‘But that wasn’t because of an individual,’ said Cait. ‘No one even knows why that happened.’

  ‘Anyway, you’ve got me off track as usual. The point is that selfishness can actually be useful. I’m going to try it. Tomorrow I’m going to act like a totally selfish individual and see what happens. I think we should all have a go. See what we can do for our local community.’

  ‘Right,’ said Cait, with a half-smile.

  ‘Effie?’ said Orwell. ‘You’re even quieter than usual. What do you say to a day of extreme selfishness?’

  ‘I’m not sure we’ll even notice,’ said Cait.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Effie. ‘I give Luna her breakfast every morning, do the washing up, get myself ready for school . . .’

  ‘I actually meant your father,’ said Cait, smiling.

  ‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ said Orwell. ‘Let our heroes’ journeys commence!’

  ‘Good lord,’ said Cait.

  ‘I need some fashion advice,’ said JP to Lexy, when Marcel and Hazel had left. ‘I can’t decide on my lecture outfit. I’ve brought tweeds, robes and an ancient academic gown that may have been nibbled here and there by moths, alas. What do you think?’

  ‘I have to go and do my homework,’ said Lexy, turning towards the stairs.

  ‘Homework? But there’s no school next week, I believe?’

  ‘I have my evening class on Monday.’

  ‘Your evening class.’ JP raised an eyebrow. ‘Didn’t have those in my day. What do you learn?’

  ‘Nothing important,’ said Lexy.

  As they’d been speaking, JP had been moving closer to Lexy, and she’d been moving backwards. She now found herself sort of clinging to the bannisters at the bottom of the stairs while JP loomed over her.

  ‘I think perhaps you learn magic in this class,’ he said.

  ‘Well—’

  ‘You don’t have to hide it from me, you know. I’m magical as well.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Of course, I expect you’re still a Neophyte. I, however, am a Mast
er.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ said Lexy. ‘But I actually need to—’

  Jupiter Peacock now put his arm around Lexy in the way a friend might if they wanted to tell you a secret. But friends didn’t normally squeeze each other quite this hard. As JP began speaking again Lexy could feel his hot breath on her cheek.

  ‘You must know that magical people don’t keep secrets from one another. We epiphanised folk trust one another.’

  ‘I know,’ said Lexy. ‘But I really do have to—’

  ‘Do you want to see some magic now?’ said JP.

  ‘Not really,’ said Lexy, wriggling out from under JP’s oppressive embrace. ‘No offence, but—’

  ‘Your homework, I know.’ JP held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘Well, if you come upstairs and help me choose my outfit, I promise I won’t bother you any more after that.’

  ‘All right,’ said Lexy, sighing. ‘But please can we agree that it will only take five minutes? I really, really need to do some work.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said JP, starting to walk up the stairs. ‘Although I thought you’d be more fun to babysit than this. I’d imagined we might try on some outfits, then maybe bake some brownies, do a bit of magic, watch an unsuitable film, toast marshmallows . . . Anyway, we’ll start with the outfits and then maybe you’ll loosen up a bit and join in with some other fun activities. Perhaps I’ll show you some magic anyway. Magic that involves the sacrifice of a small kitten perhaps? Haha! Only joking.’

  Lexy followed JP up the stairs. Why was she doing what he was telling her? Because he had promised to leave her alone after this. But did she believe him? Not really. Why was she just so weak all the time? OK, he’d given her no actual choice, but even so.

  Lexy felt sick inside. This kind of thing surely wouldn’t happen to her friends. Effie would pull a sword on anyone who tried to make her do something she didn’t want to do. Raven would say something kind but firm and then get on her broomstick and fly away. But Lexy was different. Why? What was so feeble and different about her that meant JP had chosen her to torment? Lexy wondered if she would ever like herself again. How could she stop this? Maybe if she gave JP what he wanted eventually he’d get bored and focus on something else. But that was so wet and weak.