2184

by Martin Parish

  "It's loud in here," I said.

  "They're noisy little bastards, aren't they. It's only the adults that talk, but you'd think it was all of them."

  "How many do you have in here?"

  "Half a million," he said. The shed was warmer than the outside. Heating would suck too much electricity; maybe he'd insulated the lls. It must have taken him plenty of time, effort and probably help to build all this. “Maggie!" the cricket farmer called out. She was crouching next to one of the white plastic tubs, what I gather they call brooders. Inside the tub swarmed hundreds of frantic dark shapes, a restless seething mass of life, crawling over cardboard and plastic fixtures while Maggie removed a tray of damp sand from the base of the tub. It took me a moment to distinguish the individual crickets. One of them climbed onto Maggie's wrist, his antennae flexing, studying his world through the million facets of his compound eyes.

  "Yes, Dad?" she said, and when she saw us the same stealthy flush crept across her misshapen cheek.

  "You keep on with what you're doing, I'm showing these fellows around."

  "Course," she said and brushed the stray cricket back.

  "Now you see that tray she's got there," the farmer explained, "that's what they lay eggs in, is moist sand. We take those trays out once they lay eggs and put that in a warm box so they hatch. They only live 8 weeks or so, then you've got to get rid of them, it's a cycle."

  "How many crickets in each box?" I asked.

  "Thousand or so. They live on those plastic holders you see in there, and we clean the box when we take out each batch before we put in the next."

  "And how do you know, I mean-How do you keep track of which box is hatching, and which box is at what stage in the cycle, and that kind of thing?" I asked.

  "We keep 'em all stacked in a certain order, so we move 'em along these metal racks depending on where they are in the cycle. That way we know exactly what's going on with each box." At least it was easier than rearing beef cattle must once have been. No one raised cows anymore; the Mods considered our old carnivore habits inefficient, and in their place we turned to these other expedients - by a decision they took for us.

  "Now if you kept a cat," Kamal said, "it'd catch any that escaped and you'd never have to feed it."

  The farmer smiled. "Maggie keeps a jahwallah. That's something like a cat. Don't she, Mags?" Maggie glanced up and nodded.

  "And you feed the crickets off brown algae?" I said.

  "I do. Matter of fact, I can show you that too." I followed him, although I'd lost interest; already my attention strayed elsewhere. Nonetheless, I listened to everything and complimented him on his ingenuity since, as he told us proudly, "it was all my own design. I'm not saying I didn't have any help, mind you, but it was all my idea." On returning to the house he drank some more and the synthetic liquor quickly took effect, because he grew taciturn and finally told us he was going to "get some kip.”

  "Don't have much in the way of furniture," he said; "but there's a couple of chairs. Bench out on the porch iwant."

  "I've slept on worse," I said; "that'll do fine. But I don't want to sleep just yet. I think we'll be out on the porch."

  "Suit yourself." He sat down on the couch and just as quickly nodded off into a gentle sleep. It was my guess he'd been drinking all day.

  "Half a sec,” I told Kamal. “I'm going to go out back and see if his daughter needs help with anything," I said in an undertone.

  "All right. I'll be out front." I opened the back door - slowly so the hinges wouldn't scream - and dashed through the rain to the cricket shed. Maggie was cleaning out one of the cricket brooders and glanced at me in surprise, then her eyes eluded mine again.

  "Maggie?" I said. "Just wanted to find out if you needed help with anything, since we're here I thought I'd ask."

  "No, I'm all right, thank you.”

  "Are you sure? I hate to leave you out here working by yourself."

  She hesitated. "Well - I'm almost done with this for right now, but if you want you can help me out in a minute. If you like." She seemed nervous, naturally enough. We were alone and she didn't have any idea who I was.

  "Sure." Her fingers were thin and well-formed, unlike her face, although her hands were rough and - her father to the contrary - she probably did most of the work. Typically when we think of physical defects we assume mental defects accompany them, but she seemed sensible enough. She was definitely shy but if I'd had her face I'd have been shy too. Chance, the capricious god, had dealt her a bad hand; her genome had cursed her before her birth. As she was, so she would remain. No one would ever kiss those twisted lips; no one would ever tell her she was beautiful; no one would ever find in her anything besides an object of contempt.

  "All right. I'm afraid I don't know your name-"

  "Mark. Mark Henshaw."

  "OK. What we've got to do is take that - you see that tub right there?” she lisped. “Those're crickets we've already roasted; now we've got to grind them up. You can do that if you want and that way I'll clean out these."

  "All right then." The standard is that 1000 crickets will make enough flour to cook dinner for five. As I opened the tub there were easily more than five thousand crickets inside; roasted, dull-coloured and all very dead. "So I just pour them in here and then turn this crank?"

  "Yes, but if that filter clogs you've got to clean it out." When you grind up crickets, a large part of their bodies are in fact the exoskeleton, the hard outer shell, and the crank emitted an irritating sound as it turned, like sand caught in gears. I paused a moment to clean out the grate she called a filter.

  "So how long've you and your dad lived here?" I asked.

  "About ten years."

  "And where'd you used to live before that?"

  "In London."

  "In West London?" I asked.

  "Yes."

  "And you like it better out here?"

  "I don't really know. I was just a kid,” she lisped. “Don't remember very much, except there was hardly ever any food." She was younger than I was - if she'd been growing up around the time of the Species War, that would make sense.

  "It did used to be like that, yes. Of course I think it used to be like that pretty much everywhere. It's better now." I started grinding again. "And how is it out here? is it safe?"

  "About as safe as anywhere else, I think. We haven't had much trouble."

  "And do you go into Reading often?" I asked, turning the grinder again.

  "Me? No, not me. Dad does." What would she do when her father died? It would be unsafe for a single woman on her own to live here. She might be better off in the village, or in Reading itself.

  “Do a lot of people live close by?”

  “A few. There's a few other families that live down the road from us, then over in the village. We visit sometimes.”

  "It must get boring every now and then," I said.

  "No," she said slowly, "no, not really. There's nearly always something that needs doing."

  "Perhaps it's better that way," I said. "I prefer boring. The last four or five months haven't exactly been boring, come to think of it." I laughed.

  “Why, what happened?"

  "I was deported."

  "What for?"

  "I crossed Central London after dark."

  "They arrest you for that?" she said.

  "Apparently yes. They're always worried - since the war - so they have all these restrictions. Everyone says they don't enforce it anymore, but-" I shrugged - "they caught me."

  "So they sent you to a work camp?" she said. The ugliness of her deformity gave her a child-like appearance.

  "Yes. It's a landfill, they have you dig through it looking for old scrap metal, anything valuable. At least it's made me an expert on used electronics. So you could say I learned something. But I'll be glad as anything to get back. Soon as this rain lets up. I just can't believe it'd start raining today, just as we're leaving.”

  She didn't say anything else, but grew flustered
, as if something I said upset her. She returned the tub she'd been cleaning to one of the racks and took another from the shelf, but she stumbled and it fell to the floor.

  "Oh, my God." she said in an undertone. She dropped to her knees and clamped the lid back on. It was too late; a couple hundred crickets had escaped and were crawling around on the level dirt. “Oh hell. Oh my God.”

  "Don't worry, it's not too many of them. Here, I'll help you catch them." I left the grinder, surprised by her exaggerated alarm. Most of the crickets, bewildered by the light, remained where they'd fallen; a few more enterprising spirits set out in search of broader horizons. I scooped up these bold explorers in my hands one by one. Fortunately most of them were still stunned and easy to catch. It seemed cruel to dash their hopes. There was one in particular that waited until I almost had my hands on him – then raced away again.

  “Little git,” I said with a chuckle as Maggie burst out laughing at my antics. “He's trying to spite me.”

  “Troublemaker, is he?”

  "Stubborn little beggar. I don't blame him, if I was him I'd try and get away too," I said as I caught another befuddled wanderer near the base of the rack. As I returned him to the box my hand brushed against Maggie's; her misshapen face flushed.

  "Good thing your jahwallah's not in here. He'd've eaten them all by now.”

  "Yes, he'd like it. Thanks awfully, I don't know how I'd have caught them all by myself.”

  "No, thank you," I said. "I'm just glad I have a roof over my head. Back in the camp when it rained we had to use the old garbage bags. I have to say this is an improvement. So if it takes chasing crickets, I don't mind at all.”

  "I just can't believe I dropped it. Must be getting clumsy in my old age or something,” she lisped.

  “Old age, whatever. You're must be nearly my age, maybe three or four years younger. At least if you were a kid when the war started.”

  “Why, how old do you think I am then?”

  “Oh, I'd say nineteen, twenty...”

  “Good guess. Twenty-three,” she said.

  “Ah, you see, you're older than yo look.”

  She smiled her misshapen smile. “I'll take that as a compliment.”

  “Here, I think that's the last one,” I said as I dropped another cricket into the box. She clamped it shut. “Any more of them that need grinding up or anything else you need help with?”

  “No, not really. There is one thing you could do for me though. Have you seen my jahwallah anywhere?”

  “No, I don't think so.”

  “I haven't been able to find him all afternoon. He's probably just hiding somewhere from the rain, but if you see him could you tell me?”

  “I could just bring him to you.”

  She shook her head. “I don't think he'll let you. He doesn't like strangers, and he's got teeth. He'll chew you up.”

  “I think I can handle a five-pound omnivore.”

  She laughed. “How brave of you.”

  “Oh, I know. But if I see him I'll tell you.”

  I was in two minds about Maggie, I thought as I recrossed the dripping yard to the house and crept in through the back. She was undeniably ugly; but there was something I liked about her on impulse and without any obvious reason. Our instincts are sometimes better judges than logic or common sense; there are times when we knew immediately that we liked or mistrusted a new acquaintance, and however irrational that first impression seemed its wisdom became obvious later on. Perhaps the same genetic influences that shape our personality reveal themselves by outward signs our senses can perceive, just as a dog knows his pack by their scent. Or perhaps the face over time comes to wear the habits of its owner's mind.

  Come on, I told myself. What do you care. You'll never see her again. The sooner you're on the road the better.

  I rejoined Kamal on the porch. I heard a noise in the house; I must have awakened the cricket farmer as I crossed the living room.

  "All done?” he asked.

  “Yeah. There wasn't really that much to do.”

  "Actually, you know, I wanted to say, sorry about this morning. You're right, there was nothing we could do.”

  "Forget it. Just forget about it. There's a bench out here, isn't there,” I said.

  “Yes, it's over that side.”

  “All right. I'm going to sleep out here. Don't want to overtax our friend's hospitality. He's absolutely tanked.”

  “He must've been working on it since before we came.”

  “Looks like he's got some kind of blanket on this,” I said, rearranging it to make myself as comfortable as possible.

  It was always easy to fall asleep in those days; sleep comes easier to the young than it does to the old, and it only took me a few minutes. I awoke some hours to find the rain had stopped. I glanced at Kamal – also asleep on the bench – then at the moonlit walk leading to the road and yawned. For a moment I thought my eyes duped me. A shadow bent double like a hunchbacked little child sprinted across the walk. Towards us.

  “What the hell...”

  Now wide awake, I stood up. The shadow climbed the rails at the far end of the porch, watching me with a pair of glowing green eyes. I was about to wake up Kamal when I finally understood.

  I laughed softly. “For a minute there I really was scared of a five pound omnivore.” I could see the creature better as it emerged into the moonlight. It huddled on all four hands, chin against knees, its hairless leathery skin crinkled like tinfoil. Its unblinking green eyes peered out of a head it kept on one side, like a curious goblin trying to understand its master's behaviour, its pointed elf's ears jutting out in both directions. The thin-lipped brown mouth shaped a wise inscrutable smile. It was immediately reminiscent of a gargoyle crouching on a cathedral facade. Jahwallahs were bizarre enough the first time you saw one but largely harmless – unless you were an insect.

  “Hello, there, little fellow, where've you been?” The only answer was the rasp of the creature's breathing. “Suppose you will try and claw me to death if I pick you up. I'd better go tell Maggie.” The front door, however, was locked. “I'll go round back,” I murmured, “and if that's locked too then forget it. You'll be all right if it's stopped raining.” I picked my way around the side of the shack, avoiding the dripping foliage wherever possible and treading carefully.

  The back door was also fastened, however, and I nearly decided to leave the jahwallah to his own devices when I heard a murmur from the shed, masked by the sound of the crickets. Curious, I listened for a moment. The murmur gradually resolved itself into audible words.

  “Who told you you'd talk to me like that? Who told you? Who?”

  “I'm only saying I already put it away.” Maggie's voice.

  “So now you're going to try and deny it.” The words subsided for a moment, then: “Look at you. That mother of yours. Filthy slut. You're not my daughter. Don't believe it.”

  I didn't wait to hear any more. I stole across the grass to the shed and unhooked the latch.

  Maggie stood with her back to the wall, the cricket farmer berating her with his hands on her shoulders. As I entered, he stopped mid sentence and stared at me, his face pale with guilty surprise like a man caught shoplifting. The look lasted only an instant before his features hardened into outrage.

  “What are you doing here? What do you want?”

  I hesitated. I reminded myself I was a stranger and that, however tempted I felt to intervene, I had no business meddling in their private quarrel. “Maggie, I came to tell you. Your jahwallah's out front.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “What are you waiting for?” the cricket farmer demanded. “He told you. Didn't you hear him?” Maggie slipped away from the wall past her father and followed me towards the front of the shack.

  “Maggie? are you ok?” I whispered.

  Her one good eye avoided my gaze. “Yeah, I'm fine.” I tried to imagine the life she must lead with her father gnawing on her day after day, like a dog chewing
at an old bone, and I was suddenly surprised the cricket farmer hadn't been poisoned.

  “If he treats you like crap,” I said, “why don't you leave?” It was a stupid question and I knew that as soon as I'd asked it. But Maggie shook her head.

  “Please. It's not like that, you don't understand.” No; I didn't understand. “It's – I'm sorry. I really can't explain. Weren't you going to show me-”

  “He's round on the porch.”

  "You silly thing," Maggie chided him. “Come on, Jitters.” The jahwallah uttered a deep-throated grumble and climbed down. From behind he looked almost exactly like an agile little goblin. He paused for a moment, staring at the mud, and Maggie picked him up, carrying him in the crook of her arm. “You could've been inside all warm and instead you're out here. Thanks for finding him.”

  “Aren't they strange. I can never get over the way they look.”

  “They're very clean animals, they don't like dirt. And their skin's all frizzy.”

  “Is it?” I said. “I didn't know that.”

  “Here, if you just pet him on the head he won't mind.” I ran my fingertips across the creature's forehead. The skin felt like velvet.

  “It does. Isn't that amazing,” I said.

  “They are. Listen. There's one other thing I wanted to tell you. You're walking back to London, isn't that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “When you go in the morning, be careful. The government's got something they're working on south of the M4, they've got construction going on and they've been clearing land, so they might have the M4 blocked off.”

  “Yes, Steve was telling us.”

  “Oh, he did?” she said. “I didn't know.”

  “That's all right. Thanks for telling me.”

  “Will you be leaving early?”

  “As early as we can, now the rain's stopped. Maybe in another few hours.”

  “Well, if I don't see you again – good luck,” she lisped. I looked at her, surprised, and our eyes met. Abruptly she blushed crimson and turned away. “I've got to get back. Thanks again.” I watched her retreating figure stepping gingerly across the puddles, slender and frail with the jahwallah staring goggle-eyed over her shoulder.

  Chapter 11