by Stuart Evers
‘Mr Coville?’ The man smiled. ‘I saw you on Moody Street. You passed my house. I would have called but I don’t have your telephone number.’
‘We don’t have a phone, Mr Stevens,’ Owen said.
‘No. Of course not. How silly of me. May I come inside? I need to talk to you about a few things.’
‘We were just going to get the little one off to bed, Mr Stevens.’
‘It won’t take a moment,’ he said, getting out of the car and putting on a hat. ‘Won’t take any time at all.’
Stevens was tall, taller with the hat. He picked up an briefcase from the passenger seat. Owen looked down at Dylan and waved Stevens towards the house.
‘That’s a beauty,’ Stevens said pointing at the car on the driveway. ‘French, is it?’
‘Swedish,’ Owen said. ‘A Volvo.’
‘I only buy British myself,’ Stevens said. ‘You always know where you are with a Jaguar.’
Owen nodded and opened the door. Yvette would pretend to be asleep. He wondered how long she would keep up the pretence. Long enough, he hoped, for Stevens to be long gone.
Dylan was born to the sound of fireworks and firecrackers, a few moments after the turn of 1972 – the seven-hundredth anniversary of the town’s charter being granted. There had been complications. A caesarean section required. It would have been a natural birth, home conducted and drug-free. But instead, Owen had stood in a waiting room, drinking coffee, making small talk with a man from the town. It was the man’s fourth and he had not been present at any of the births. He was red-faced and swaying drunk. Without Yvette’s complications, Owen would have been there when Dylan was born, and this man’s daughter would have been the baby on the front page of the local newspaper. The headline: ‘Charter Baby Arrives Right on Time’.
‘I’ve been to India,’ Stevens said. ‘During the war it was. Hot. Damned hot.’
He was standing next to the crammed bookshelves, holding one of the small Vishnus. Most of them had been bought at a head shop in Liverpool.
‘Yvette and I went after university. We stayed on an ashram. It was quite something.’
‘Is that right? There’s an Indian family in town now, you know that? Moved here from Stockport. They’re opening a restaurant, so I hear.’
His accent was neutral; unlike any Owen had heard in the town. He sat down. Stevens’ briefcase was filled with paper, his handwriting all over them.
‘Sorry, Mr Stevens—’
‘Ron, please.’
‘Sorry, Ron, but Yvette is sleeping and I have to get the dinner on . . .’
‘I completely understand. New family, new pressures, what? I just want to run through some things with you.’
He passed over a carbon-copied sheet of paper. Names and dates. Times and schedules.
‘This is of course only a provisional list of engagements, but I think all the major ones are covered. It’s nothing too arduous. Just turn up, pose for a few photographs, then a meet and greet, as I like to call it. Shouldn’t take more than an hour or so.’
Stevens smiled as Owen looked down the list, the ink smudgy and the paper thin. There was at least one event every month, with several clustered around July and August. Owen rolled a cigarette as he read down the list once, then twice. He lit the cigarette and shook his head.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Stevens, this just won’t be possible. We might be able to do some of these, but we have commitments and people to visit. And that’s not even thinking about the strain on Yvette and Dylan.’
Stevens took the spectacles from his nose and wiped them on a spotted handkerchief.
‘I do understand,’ he said. ‘But there isn’t much I can do. I said at the time, believe me I said to the committee when they were programming this, that it was one heck of a schedule. But there wasn’t anything we could do. It is what it is. And I did explain when we gave you your prizes that you’d be expected to join in the festivities.’
‘You didn’t say it would be a year-long commitment, though.’
Stevens hitched up his trousers. ‘The town takes Charter Year very seriously. We’ve been planning this for five years, if you can believe that. It might be difficult to understand for those new to the area, but this is the most important year in the town’s history. The Queen is coming to visit. It’s a Knockout is being filmed here. It’s a chance to really put us on the map.’
The smoke obscured the flash of Owen’s smile. He had met Yvette on an anti-Vietnam rally. They had demonstrated on countless protests, joined underground political parties, smoked opium with poets. They were living in a bungalow, loaning out their baby for Tories to kiss and a monarch to hold.
‘We can’t do it,’ Owen said. ‘I’m sorry.’
Stevens stood and went to the window. He twitched the curtains.
‘It is a nice motor, isn’t it? Must be practical too, what with having a new child as well. I notice you drive it to work too. I see you as you pass of a morning on the way to Bateman’s. Mr Bateman is a good boss, isn’t he? He’s a good friend of mine too, is Ken. A good friend of the town. His family’s been here nine generations, I believe.’
Owen laughed. ‘What are you trying to say, Stevens?’
‘Simply that there are legal considerations – the car was a prize contingent on your being involved in Charter Year. And there are other things to take into account, too. Your standing in the town is very important. Not as important as your livelihood, but still . . .’
Stevens had left the curtains open. The Volvo had mud around the back tyres, but the rest of the bodywork was clean and polished.
‘You can’t take the car.’ It came out so quickly, it surprised even Owen.
Stevens rubbed his hand over his chin.
‘Farmer’s were very kind to donate it as a prize. They want you turning up to all the functions in it. You must understand the predicament?’
Owen put out his cigarette and stood.
‘This is ridiculous. We didn’t even enter the prize! You just turned up with a photographer and that was that.’
‘No one thought for a minute that you wouldn’t be honoured, you see, Mr Coville. Nick Jervis was most disappointed to miss out. And to someone who’s only been here five minutes too! In the circumstances, it really ought to be him to have the benefit of the car. Especially as there was some controversy—’
‘What do you mean, “controversy”? Because Yvette had to have a caesarean? Are you serious?’
‘All I’m saying, Mr Coville, is that there are options. Other people who would be more than willing to take your place. We don’t want to do that, but it is an option. Just work with us, Mr Coville. Please.’
The door to the front room opened. Yvette was dressed in slacks and a blue blouse, her hair short and combed. Mr Stevens half rose from the sofa. Yvette ignored him, bent down to kiss her baby, then kissed Owen. She offered her hand to Mr Stevens, then offered tea. Stevens declined.
‘I couldn’t help but overhear, Mr Stevens. Would you mind if I saw the schedule?’ she said.
Stevens passed it to her. She held it in one hand, the other circled around Owen’s waist.
‘Owen is very protective of me,’ she said. ‘I’ve not been well since the birth. But I’m better now. And this all seems fine to me. I know we’ve not been in town for very long, but we love it here. The people are so friendly. And I promise we’ll do everything we can in this very special year for the town.’
She squeezed Owen just below the ribs. Mr Stevens smiled, exposing his stained teeth and greying tongue.
‘Are you sure, Mrs Coville? I don’t wish to pressure you.’
‘No pressure necessary. It would be an honour. But we do need to get on. I’m sure you understand.’
‘But of course. I’ll leave you to it.’
He stood and peered down into the pram.
‘Beautiful little thing, isn’t he?’
‘We think so,’ Yvette said. ‘I’m sure the town will too.’
Stevens picked up his hat and retrieved his coat. From the car, he waved with gloved hands and sped away.
‘Honey—’
‘Shhh,’ Yvette said. ‘Don’t worry, love. It’s all okay.’
They embraced until Dylan woke. Dylan woke and began to scream. He screamed as Yvette picked him up, screamed as she kissed him, screamed as she tried to calm him down.
She took him into the bedroom, tried to get him to take a breast. He screamed and screamed, then suckled noisily.
‘We’re going to have some fun, you and me,’ she whispered to him, stroking his downy head. ‘It’ll be a year no one forgets.’
Dylan screamed as she put him down. He screamed as she sang him a lullaby. He screamed for a long, long time.
SWARM
He was, without doubt, the most boring person she had ever linked. This she realized the moment she found him. An accident, that. She’d searched for reading, physical and his was the only link available. Usually he wasn’t one for books, but at that moment, at that time – late on a Thursday night after she’d linked a woman who knitted a little too furiously – he was turning the pages of an operating manual. This is how she found him: reading an operating manual for an old coffee machine. Please follow steps one thru five, Deanna linked him read, and prepare to enjoy coffee.
The English was poorly translated, stiff and overly literal. It did not bother him. He was not amused by the manual’s language; he simply read the words and turned the pages. He was standing in the small kitchenette. Orange cupboards, two-ring stove, fridge-freezer. The coffee machine was out of its box, its constituent parts laid out on the counter top. She linked him imagining the coffee machine in its finished state: interlocking pieces of chrome and glass and plastic. It gave him no satisfaction. The absence was seductive. She linked him build the machine, the following of steps one thru five. The pieces took some coaxing, but eventually he won out. It was finished, complete in the way he had imagined it. He did not smile. He did not even puff out his cheeks.
She linked him grinding coffee beans and filling the machine’s reservoir. She anticipated a feeling of accomplishment, a small shiver of interest as the water began to bubble. But she was mistaken. She linked the smell of the coffee. It was heady, but his only reaction was to think of a cafe where he often ate lunch. She linked him watch the carafe fill and then linked him pour the coffee into a small mug. He took a sip. He took one more sip. It was fine. The machine worked. He poured the contents of the carafe and the mug down the sink. He removed the filter paper and emptied the grounds into the bin. He looked at his wristwatch and then at the machine, then again at his wristwatch. He washed out the carafe and set it down on the draining board. He dismantled the coffee machine and put the parts back in the box. He dried the carafe, put it in the box, and turned out the light.
He moved from the kitchen to the living area. The flooring was pale laminate, the walls whitewashed and unadorned. One screen. One window. One sofa. She linked the smell of a house cleaned once a week; once a week and thoroughly. She linked his every thought as he walked through to the small bathroom.
I have enough food for the next two days. I will order more on Saturday. The bins must be taken out tomorrow. My swimming shorts are dry.
He removed his clothes and brushed his teeth. She linked him urinate and wash his hands. He looked at himself in the mirror, but not for long enough to fully appreciate his appearance.
I will swim tomorrow and afterwards eat at the cafe. A man is coming tomorrow for the Dyson. Mr Martins. He will be interested in the Dust Buster too. I will settle for €2,000. No less. I should call Dad. I will call him tomorrow.
He thought the last of this as he got into bed. Cool sheets, clean pillow slips. There was a suggestion of prayer, just the movement of lips, but the words were so quickly skipped that Deanna couldn’t be sure. He was asleep in a matter of minutes. There were no images before sleep; no dreams followed. After an hour of his sleeping, an hour of sullen, absolute still, the link went down.
The uLINK suggested adding credits to access David Collins’ profile, his saved experiences, his recorded memories. Deanna was about to add the credits when she saw the stats. She had linked David Collins for seven hours straight. Even as a teen, she’d never made it past three. She understood what this meant. It could not mean anything else. It meant that she was in love with David Collins.
Deanna’s first link was a girl called Shirelle. All the girls linked Shirelle; she was the hot link that summer. Twenty-two years old, a body lean and poised as a dancer’s, dark hair piled into Mickey Mouse ears, a cigarette blazing. She was a runner in heels, a siren to write a song for. Joy, Rita and Ella had been linking her for months; Deanna a matter of weeks.
‘We’re lucky to have her,’ Rita said. ‘There’s no one quite like Shirelle. There’s never been anyone quite like Shirelle.’
‘Expensive, though,’ Ella said.
‘She’s worth the credit,’ Joy said. ‘So worth it.’
‘There’s no way she can survive, though, is there?’ Deanna said. ‘There’s no way she’s going to get out of this alive, is there?’
They were sitting in the communal gardens under the sun awning. Her three friends looked at Deanna.
‘Of course not,’ Rita said. ‘And it’ll be soon too. You’ve linked her. You know. We’ve just got to hope we’re linked when it happens. It’s like the ultimate trip, apparently. The dying.’
‘Who says?’ Deanna asked.
‘Everyone says,’ Rita said. ‘Absolutely everyone.’
In class, on the way to class, on the shuttle bus from the estate to school and back, the only name she heard was Shirelle’s. The students and teachers discussed her previous night’s exploits – coke and weed, drink and sex, two men taking her at the same time – and whispered their predictions, how long she could hold out. The cost of the credits continued to escalate. Shirelle couldn’t stop. Shirelle couldn’t resist doing what they wanted.
Each time they linked her, they linked her tiredness. They linked her desperation. They linked her miscarrying. They linked her injecting opiates for the pain. They linked her abandoned and wandering the streets, bottle in hand, dressed always in her trademark fake-fur coat. They linked her shout at the moon – ‘Please deliver me, please’ – and then suck off a taxi driver because she’d lost her purse.
One night, unlinked and showering, Deanna was reminded of a parable, though she was unsure when she’d heard it. An avaricious man is granted three wishes and requests three sacks of gold. The sacks appear but the third sack is only half full. Confused, he sets about filling the sack with more gold, but the sack never seems closer to being full. The pursuit of filling the sack consumes the man, and he ends up a beggar, obsessed only with his half-full sack of gold. Deanna saw the man in rags, by the side of a dusty, biblical road, begging for gold. Behind him, Shirelle smoked a cigarette, drank from a bottle of vodka. Deanna wondered whether she’d misremembered the parable, or whether she had invented it.
Over five million linked Shirelle. The cost of credits jumped again. Jumped every day. They linked her, all of them, all five million, and they linked a birdlike heart, the acid reflux, the stumble out from darkness to light. They linked her from bar to pub to club, from scoring to sex, from passing out to dry-mouthed waking. The estates were alive with her. And when it became clear, when the depletion and tiredness was obvious even to Shirelle, people shut down their work for the day and hit the link.
Shirelle was already in the ambulance when Deanna linked her. Sirens and ticks and hums and beeps surrounding her. Declan, her friend with the calming hands and soft Belfast accent, sitting beside her. Deanna linked the first of the missed heartbeats. They all linked the missed heartbeats, they all linked the slow, slow realization of death. They revived her, they lost her, they revived her, they lost her. Then the link went down. The link went down and the music began to play. Something orchestral. Something specifically composed. Something written to
amplify emotion. The credits rolled and Deanna dropped the link. The messages from Joy and Rita and Ella began to flood her timelines.
Deanna woke early with thoughts only of David Collins. She messaged her boss to say she would be unable to work. She changed into her running shorts and T-shirt before realizing her usual routine would expose her. She linked an Ethiopian runner instead, a spindle of a man punishing a dewy track at dawn. She linked his slow-twitch muscles, his thin spikes entering the rubber, the steady heart rate and the rhythmic breath. She lasted twenty minutes. She had a message from her father, concerned for her well-being. He asked if she was all right, he’d heard she was ill. She told him not to worry, that she would be okay after some rest.
Deanna went back to the uLINK, added credits and accessed David Collins’ profile. Usually, she didn’t bother with profiles. There was too much posture in them, too much selling. David Collins had filled out the bare minimum of information. The accompanying video was the standard hour-long interview, but David Collins did not push himself in his answers. He looked disinterestedly into the camera and gave his brief, almost brusque replies.
He was twenty-nine. Unmarried. No lovers. Sex three times in his life, with three separate women. Not much of a drinker. Not a smoker. No drugs of any description. His mother and father were no longer together. David Collins answered the questions in much the same way he’d constructed the coffee maker: effectively and with the minimum energy expended. The interview was designed to provoke emotion and memory, to flesh out a character, to give them motivation, to give them a sense of narrative. But David Collins offered nothing.
‘Why are you here?’ the interviewer asked last of all. Collins paused. He tapped his fingers lightly on the kitchen table in front of him. He took a sip from his small beaker of water.
‘To be certain that I am here,’ David Collins said. He smiled without humour or sadness. ‘Isn’t that why everyone’s here?’
Deanna added further credits and booted up his ‘selected recorded experiences’ – an edited highlights package of what to expect from David Collins. It was the standard three hours, put together from the previous month’s feed. She hit the link and settled down. She linked him walk the same eight flyblown and dusty streets, his pace slow and steady; linked him eat at the same cafe day after day, his over-salted lunches and dinners taken without enjoyment; linked him swim in a municipal swimming pool, his stroke rhythmic and concise; linked him selling faded-plastic heirlooms, his posture poor on a wood and wire chair; linked him heading to his small apartment each evening, his nightly routine of teeth brushing, showering and bed at a sensible hour. She linked him and felt absolutely nothing, not a thing.
