Being

by Kevin Brooks

  ‘Gracias,’ Eddi said, handing him some euros.

  He took the money and drove off, and Eddi started leading me down a narrow cobbled lane. There were white terraced houses on one side of the lane and a brick-walled orchard on the other. The houses were old and higgledy-piggledy. Wooden shutters on the windows, flowers and vines tumbling from balconies.

  ‘What do you think?’ Eddi asked me. ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘it’s really nice.’

  She took a key out of her pocket and stopped outside one of the houses. ‘Here we are,’ she said, unlocking the door. ‘I’m on the top floor.’

  We went inside. The hallway was cool and scented with flowers. There were pictures on the wall, religious ornaments, porcelain statues lined up on a shelf. At the foot of the stairs, a tinny little motorbike was propped up against the wall. As Eddi closed the front door, an old woman appeared at the end of the hallway. She was dressed all in black and she had a large white dog at her side.

  ‘Hola, Maria,’ she called out to Eddi. ‘¿Como está usted?’

  Eddi smiled and waved at her. ‘Bien, gracias, Señora Garcia. ¿Y usted?’

  The old woman smiled and shrugged.

  Eddi looked at her dog. ‘Hola, Chico.’

  The dog barked once.

  Eddi touched my arm and looked at the woman again. ‘Este es mi amigo, John Martin,’ she told her.

  The woman nodded at me.

  I smiled.

  The woman said to Eddi, ‘¿Cuanto tiempo se queda aquí?’

  Eddi shrugged her shoulders. ‘No sé…’

  The old woman stood there nodding for a few moments, then she smiled again, mumbled something to her dog, and they both shuffled off to wherever they’d come from.

  ‘That’s Lola Garcia,’ Eddi explained as we went up the stairs. ‘She lives here with her daughter and son-in-law and their three kids. They’re all right. They keep themselves to themselves.’

  ‘Did she call you Maria?

  ‘Yeah, that’s who I am when I’m here – Maria Lombard.’ She looked at me. ‘I told Lola your name was John Martin.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she shrugged, opening the door to her flat. ‘Just habit, I suppose. Why tell the truth when it’s safer to lie?’

  ‘So I’m John Martin?’

  ‘Sorry – it was the first name that came into my head.’ She grinned at me. ‘You can call yourself Johnny if you want.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  The flat was about the same size as the one in Finsbury Park. It had the same number of rooms too – a large front room, a kitchen, two bedrooms, a bathroom – but that was as far as the similarities went. This flat wasn’t darkened with heavy black curtains, or crowded with computers and TV screens, it was light and spacious, and somehow it felt more natural. It had stone-tiled floors, whitewashed walls, a large wooden fan on the ceiling. There was a high window at the far end of the front room, and through the window I could see the ocean glimmering brightly in the distance.

  Eddi switched on the fan and opened the window. The fan whirred slowly, purring gently in the afternoon silence, and I could feel the cool breeze on my skin. I looked at Eddi. She was standing at the window, staring out to sea, lost in thought. I went over and stood beside her.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I said.

  ‘Yeah… just a bit tired, that’s all.’

  ‘It’s been a long couple of days.’

  She nodded. ‘There’s still a lot to do.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose…’

  She carried on staring into the distance for a while, then she stretched her neck, rubbed her eyes and turned to look at me. ‘We can do this, Robert. We can find out what’s been happening to you. We have to. I mean, we can’t just run away from it all, can we?’

  ‘No,’ I agreed.

  ‘It’s too big to run away from. These people, Ryan and the rest of them, whoever they are, they’re not going to give up. Wherever we go, they’ll find us in the end. The only choice we have is to find out who they are, and what they’ve done, and what they want –’

  ‘And then what?’ I said.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘When we’ve found out all this stuff, what are we actually going to do with it?’

  She stared at me. ‘I don’t know yet…’

  I shook my head, realizing the truth of it: there was nothing we could do. Whatever we found out, whether it was Eddi’s truth or mine, I could never be normal again. I could never be Robert Smith. I could never be anything except what I was. And what kind of future was that?

  Eddi put her hand on my shoulder. ‘Look, Robert,’ she said, ‘all we can do is take things one step at a time. We’re safe here for the moment. We can take it easy for a while, get some rest. We can get on with things without having to look over our shoulders all the time. So we might as well enjoy it while it lasts. And, in the meantime, I’ll start looking into things. I haven’t got as much access to information here as I had in London, but I’ve got a laptop and an untraceable Internet connection, and I know a few tricks… I should be able to find out something. But there’s no point wondering what we’re going to do with it until we know what it is. So let’s just wait until then – OK?’ She gave my shoulder a squeeze. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll think of something. Trust me.’

  I smiled at her. ‘I thought you said we couldn’t trust each other?’

  ‘I was lying.’

  We didn’t do much for the rest of the day. Eddi showed me around the flat, letting me know where everything was – food, towels, sheets, toothbrushes, all that kind of stuff. She gave me keys to the flat and the front door. She showed me how the shower worked, and the TV, and the fan, and she told me not to bother looking for a phone, because there wasn’t one.

  ‘Do your mobiles work here?’ I asked.

  She shook her head. ‘We’re not going to use any phones here. It’s too much of a risk. We don’t use mobiles, we don’t use payphones… we don’t call anyone - OK? We just keep quiet and sit tight.’

  I nodded.

  She looked at me for a moment, making sure that I was taking her seriously, then she led me into the smaller of the two bedrooms and started showing me where I could put my stuff.

  ‘There isn’t much room, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘I haven’t really got round to sorting it all out yet. I was going to get some more furniture and make it into a proper little guest room, you know… but then I realized there wasn’t much point because I wasn’t going to have any guests.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I told her, looking around the room. There was a single bed, a wardrobe, a wicker chair by the window. Bare floorboards. A cooling silence. I could hear the sound of little kids playing in the street outside, and from somewhere in the distance, the carefree strumming of a guitar. They were good sounds. Safe sounds. ‘It’s fine,’ I told Eddi again. ‘Really… it’s great.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yeah, absolutely.’

  We smiled at each other for a moment, neither of us sure what else to say, then Eddi nodded at me and said, ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it, then. I’m going to take a shower and get unpacked. I’ll see you later, OK?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks.’

  She looked at me for another second or two, then turned round and left.

  Later on, Eddi took me for a stroll around the village. It didn’t take long, as there wasn’t much to stroll around – just a main street, called San Miguel, a few little side streets and a churchyard square at the end of the village.

  ‘It used to be a fishing village,’ Eddi told me, ‘but I don’t think there’s many fishermen left any more. Most of the villagers either work in Nerja or they hire themselves out as labourers with the companies that renovate old farmhouses in the mountains for holiday villas.’

  ‘It’s not a tourist place, then?’

  ‘Not really… you get a few day-trippers from Nerja sometimes, and there’s a big festival here in summer that
brings in the crowds, but it’s pretty quiet most of the time. That’s why I like it.’

  We went into a little shop and bought some provisions – bread, ham, cheese, cigarettes, water, wine – then we wandered back through the village, just ambling slowly in the afternoon sun, and returned to the flat.

  It was strange, the two of us being together… doing normal things together – walking, talking, passing the time. I just wasn’t used to it, I suppose. I wasn’t used to being with someone else. Not in this way anyway. I’d kind of got used to being with Bridget and Pete, but that was different. Being with them had been simple. They were my foster parents and that’s all there was to it. No questions, no doubts, no uncertain feelings. But this – me and Eddi… well, I still didn’t know what it was all about. Why were we together? Why was she with me? Why did I feel comfortable with her when there was nothing to feel comfortable about?

  Lies.

  Awkwardness.

  Deception.

  It was strange.

  But somehow it didn’t feel wrong.

  After we’d eaten, Eddi opened the wine and poured herself a large glass. She asked me if I wanted to join her, but I told her I was too tired.

  ‘Are you sure?’ she said. ‘It’ll help you to sleep.’

  ‘I don’t think I need any help, thanks.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  She spent the rest of the night drinking wine and smoking cigarettes and tapping away at her laptop, while I just sat there watching satellite TV. I wasn’t really watching it, I was just staring at the pictures on the screen. Trying not to think about anything. Trying not to wonder…

  A few hours later, Eddi came over and sat down beside me. She’d got through at least two bottles by now, maybe more, and it showed. Her eyes were glazed, her body was swaying, her breath was smoky and sweet.

  ‘I’m going to bed now,’ she said, trying to focus her eyes. ‘I need some sleep.’

  ‘OK,’ I told her.

  ‘If you want anything…’ she started to say, then she paused, closing her eyes and rolling her head. ‘God,’ she muttered, ‘I’ve had it. I think I’d better go.’

  She tried to stand up, pushing herself up from the settee, but almost immediately she sat back down again and slumped against me. As her head rolled sleepily on to my shoulder and I felt the touch of her breath on my neck, I forced myself to get to my feet and help her up from the settee.

  ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled as I guided her across to her bedroom. ‘I didn’t mean… I wasn’t… I’m sorry…’

  ‘Here we are,’ I said, opening her bedroom door. ‘Are you going to be all right now?’

  She let go of me and stood swaying in the doorway. ‘Yeah…’ she said, smiling crookedly. ‘Yeah, I’m all right, thanks…’

  ‘No trouble.’

  ‘I’m going to sleep.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  She looked into my eyes, blinked a couple of times, then stepped up and kissed me on the mouth. It wasn’t a long kiss, but it was more than just a goodnight peck, and it felt so indescribably good… like I was burning, melting, floating, falling… like nothing else could ever feel this good. And if she hadn’t stopped when she did, if she hadn’t touched her hand to my face, looked me in the eye and gently stepped away…

  I don’t know what would have happened.

  But she did stop.

  ‘Goodnight, Robert,’ she said.

  I couldn’t speak. I just nodded.

  She smiled again, not quite so crookedly, then went inside and closed the bedroom door.

  The air was warm and heavy in my room and my breath felt like lead in my lungs. The stillness was suffocating. I went over and opened the window, and then I just stood there for a while – breathing in the cool mountain breeze, listening to the night, gazing out at the endless black sheen of the sea. Lights were flickering somewhere in the distance and I wondered what they could be. Fishing boats? Fireflies? Travellers in the dark?

  The words of a song came softly into my head.

  Then the traveller in the dark

  Thanks you for your tiny spark;

  He could not see which way to go,

  If you did not twinkle so.

  Twinkle, twinkle, little star,

  How I wonder what you are.

  I took off my shirt, sat down in the wicker chair and waited.

  Some time later, when all I could hear was the muffled sound of Eddi’s drunken snoring, I took the endoscopy video out of my rucksack, padded quietly out of the bedroom and went into the front room. I waited a moment, listening hard, then – satisfied that Eddi was still fast asleep – I put the video into the VCR, sat down on the settee and picked up the remote.

  Twinkle, twinkle, little star…

  I had to see what was inside me again. I didn’t want to see it, but I had to make sure it really was there, that I hadn’t imagined it. I knew I hadn’t. I was sure I hadn’t imagined it… but that kiss, the way it’d made me feel… I hadn’t imagined that either.

  Can a machine feel that good?

  I listened to the silence again. Faint sounds of the night were drifting in through the open window – insects chirping, the soft sigh of the wind, a motorbike droning away in the distance – and from across the room I could hear the quiet buzzing of a solitary fly. I stared at the blank television screen, the remote in my hand, my thumb hovering over the play button…

  ‘Twinkle, twinkle,’ I muttered to myself, ‘let’s see what you are.’

  I took a deep breath and pressed PLAY.

  ∗

  It was all still there. The things I didn’t understand, the black things, the grey things, the shadows of silver things. Dulled white, shining dark. Like metal, like plastic. Tubes, patterns, circles and waves, tiny asymmetrical grids… I’d thought it might have been easier to face this time, not so much of a shock, but it wasn’t. In fact, if anything, it was even harder, because this time there was no doubt that what I was seeing was me. I knew it. It was me. All of it – the thin gauzy membrane, the blackened chamber, the filaments, the struts, the crystals…

  Inside me.

  The wrong-coloured liquids, milk and oil, shimmering like mercury. The brown of something alive. Shreds of whiteness, flecks of red, a heart of pulsing stars…

  It was all still there.

  Of course it was.

  It had always been there.

  And it always would be.

  I sat there for an hour or so, replaying the tape over and over again… watching the things inside me… watching the machine…

  Watching myself.

  My self.

  When I couldn’t bear to watch it any more, I took the video out of the VCR, turned off the TV and went back to my room.

  It was two o’clock in the morning.

  I got into bed, turned off the light and wished I could cry.

  21

  The next few weeks seemed to pass really quickly. We didn’t really do anything, and nothing much happened, but somehow the days and nights just came and went and we gradually fell into a routine. We’d get up whenever we woke up. I’d go to the shop for bread and milk. We’d eat breakfast together, drink coffee, sit around talking for a while. In the afternoons, we’d go for a walk together – around the village, down to the beach, up into the mountains. Occasionally we’d get on Eddi’s motorbike (the tinny little thing I’d seen in the hallway), ride into Nerja and spend a few hours wandering around the shops. But most of the time we didn’t bother leaving the village. We’d sleep for a time in the late afternoon/early evening, then Eddi would start tapping away at her laptop, looking for anything that might help us find out what had happened to me. While she was working, I’d watch TV or read a book, or maybe go out for another short walk, then at eight or nine in the evening, Eddi would stop working and we’d go out together for something to eat.

  We ate in the same place every night, a little restaurant called El Corazón. It was situated on a hillside lane that looked down over S
an Miguel, so you could either eat inside or sit out on the balcony and watch the world going by on the street down below. That’s where we always sat. Eating and drinking, talking quietly, gazing down at the gentle bustle of village life – families going out together, young men on horses, old men on donkeys, kids on scooters and motorbikes, boys and girls, doing their thing.

  We didn’t really talk about much.

  Eddi rarely said anything about how she was getting on with her research, and I didn’t ask. Sometimes she’d ask me specific questions about Ryan or Casing or Kamal, or the non-existent microchip, and sometimes she’d ask me for details about my past – names, addresses, dates – and I’d try to help her if I could, but a lot of the time I couldn’t.

  ‘It’s not that I can’t remember anything,’ I told her once, ‘it’s just that the memories are all mixed up because I kept getting moved around so much. This Home, that Home… schools, foster parents… it’s hard to remember how it all fits together.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Eddi said. ‘My family moved around a lot when I was a kid.’

  ‘Really?’

  She shrugged.

  I looked at her, waiting for her to go on, but she just sat there smoking a cigarette and staring into the distance.

  ‘Why did your family keep moving around?’ I asked her.

  She shrugged again. ‘It was just a work thing… my father’s job… you know…’

  ‘What did he do?’

  She looked at me, and I got the feeling that she didn’t really want to talk about it, but she didn’t want to explain why she didn’t want to talk about it either.

  She took a drag on her cigarette. ‘My father was an officer in the Army,’ she said reluctantly. ‘His job took him all over the place – Germany, Cyprus, Hong Kong, Belfast – and wherever he went, he took us with him.’ She sighed. ‘I didn’t even know where I was half the time.’

  ‘Who’s us?’ I asked.

  ‘Me and my mother.’

  ‘No brothers or sisters?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is your dad still in the Army?’

  She shook her head. ‘Both my parents were killed in a car crash when I was twelve.’

  ‘Christ… that must have been hard for you.’