He takes out the journal he has bought; it is called Other Rooms, Other Cities, and he supposes even if the Boursier story isn’t any good there is at least an outside chance one of the others will be worth reading. But he will read the Boursier story first; time to finally see what all the fuss was about. Taking another swig of the beer, he begins.
The Smell Of Paprika by Boursier
Brent felt like he had been driving all day, the monotony of the motorway forming no memories in his mind and so not allowing him to gauge time’s passing. It is only the near accident that caused him to come back to himself—a large, official-looking black car in the middle lane swerved across into his own and then slowed down, causing him to steer right around it, only just avoiding clipping it and sending himself spinning off the road. As he drove past he looked at the car but its windows were all tinted black and he couldn’t see the driver. He held down his horn to chastise it.
“Twat!” he shouted.
He pulled back into the left hand lane and in the rear view mirror watched the black car get swallowed up in the grey fog as he accelerated. He was somewhat shaken up, feeling the tremors from his arm twitch the steering wheel, and it was then he saw the sign: Next Services 6 Miles. Brent was so tired he couldn’t at that moment recall the length of his journey and if here (wherever here was) was a good place to make a stop, but he decided not to worry about that for the moment. When he reached the junction for the services, the sign almost illegible in the mist around it, he pulled in.
The car park was packed, everyone else seemingly having had the same idea as him—in the mist the different makes and colours of cars all looked the same. Some of the cars even had a neglected air, parked carelessly over two or more spaces, splattered with bird crap and brown leaves as if the owner had just abandoned them there. Brent looked up to where he could hear the calls of birds in the low grey sky, and maybe he saw a glimpse of ghostly white wings. Gulls? he thinks. They had sounded like seagulls too, although he hadn’t thought himself anywhere near the coast.
He got out of his car and pressed the key to lock it, its clunk muffled in the fog, then he walked towards the pale glow of the services building, looking like an abandoned, listing ship. Halfway, he turned and wondered how the hell he was going to find his car again if the fog didn’t clear, for behind him all he could see was row upon row of indistinct grey shapes.
The automatic doors slid open as he approached and he entered the building. It was as if some of the fog had leaked inside, for it still seemed an effort to see clearly. The interior walls might have been painted white but they looked a dull grey colour, in some places smudged with hand prints as if people with dirty palms had beaten against them like trapped flies, years ago.
There were the usual franchises selling fast food, coffee, maps and books around a central seating area. Some of the company’s logos he didn’t recall seeing for years. As he saw what was on offer at the various food stalls Brent couldn’t help but notice that their selection seemed paltry compared to usual. Maybe for some reason the expected deliveries hadn’t got through? Although his stomach felt empty none of the available food appealed to him; now the adrenaline of the near collision had faded from his system he just felt weary. It didn’t help his mood that so many people were just stood around in the central area, or milling between empty spaces with a distracted air, as if they had nowhere else to be; as if the motorway services were a destination they had arrived at rather than a stop on a journey, and now they were here they didn’t know what to do other than go through the motions...
Irritated, Brent decided to go to the Gents and relieve the pressure on his bladder before he decided what to eat. Obscurely, he thought of a holiday in Brittany with his parents as a child, and how they had eaten paprika-flavoured roast potatoes while looking at the expensive boats and yachts on the marina. The potatoes had been cooked in the dripping fat from a rotisserie, and the man had been about to shut for the day and had given them all he had left, in exchange for barely any money—Francs, he remembered; old money. Brent shook his head. The bright memory seemed to have more reality than anything around him, but it was stupid tantalising himself with the idea of food that wasn’t available; that in all probability he would never get the chance to eat again.
All the cubicles in the Gents were occupied, and only the middle urinal was free—feeling uncomfortable Brent went and stood at it, trying not to look at the men either side of him. He couldn’t help but notice how ashen they looked though, how motionless their bent faces were. It was silent in the toilets and Brent wondered if he’d ever be able to piss; he sometimes couldn’t go when there were other men at the urinals. He waited for one of the others, who had been standing there when he entered, to finish and leave, but neither did and he felt a mounting annoyance. He eventually managed to go, the sound very loud and obvious, and then zipped himself and made to leave. As he washed his hands he could see in the mirror the two men stood with their heads bowed behind him. They were completely motionless and silent, and Brent had the odd impression that they hadn’t even unzipped themselves.
Brent left the Gents and went out into the main services again—opposite was a cubicle full of arcade machine consoles, but they were all switched off and dusty; where the glow of their graphics should have been was just grey.
There are no kids in here at all, Brent thought.
He stood and looked at the open plan space in front of him, and something about it seemed wrong to his tired, misty eyes—people were queuing, but were the queues actually moving? People were walking but were they just going in circles? Everyone’s movements looked lethargic, aimless, as if they were on the verge of ceasing movement altogether. A woman took a few steps from the crowd in Brent’s direction and stopped; her eyes were vacant and they didn’t seem to register his presence, and if they blinked he couldn’t see it. Her mouth fell open, but then snapped shut without utterance. The woman turned and walked slowly back into the crowd; Brent noticed how faded and torn her clothes were.
He no longer felt hungry.
He looked behind him and saw a sign saying Emergency Exit, with a bar across the door to press down and he almost... But he told himself he was being stupid, that the tiredness and fog and the near accident on the motorway earlier had affected his nerves. He decided he’d drive to the next services, which would no doubt seem more normal than this benighted place, and he would eat there.
Brent walked through the centre of the services, avoiding the lurching people—he felt a strong distaste at the idea of them touching him. It was only then, when he was in amongst them, that he realised how silent the place was—he could hear the shuffling sound of shoes against the floor, but nothing else. No one was speaking.
And then his arm brushed against the flesh of someone who drifted past with a stagger, and Brent swore he felt a deadening chill at the touch. He looked but the woman was already past him—he couldn’t tell if it was the same woman who had stared at him before, and if it would have meant anything if it was... She was soon lost in the crowd, or maybe just the increasing blurriness of his vision.
The last few metres towards the doors felt like an effort, and for a moment they didn’t slide open as he approached as if not registering his presence, and he felt a mounting panic... But then, almost reluctantly, they did so. Brent left the services; no one else left with him.
Outside it was still grey with fog and Brent had no idea where his car was. Some of the cars had been here a long time he realised, seeing the flecks of rust, the deflated tires. He was holding his cold arm with his other hand, but couldn’t feel his touch.
He took out his car key from his pocket and pressed the button—the car that lit up and clicked open was not the one he had arrived in. Nevertheless, he moved towards it—he looked up as he did so and saw again the briefest glimpse of white wings, impossibly out of reach.
He got behind the wheel of his new car, barely registering its colour or make. It’s steering wheel was d
usty. The next services, he thought. He will drive to the next services, which will be the same as this one (which was the same as the last one) and maybe he will make it to the one after that. But he is getting slower, he is getting so tired, and sooner or later he will reach the services that is the one he will simply stay in... He pulled out into the slow lane of the motorway; looked to his right and saw the other cars, people vacant behind the wheel, on their journeys towards the services that were the only places to travel to or between... He wondered what would have happened if he had collided with that black car earlier, wondered if his visions of flame and blood were even realistic in this world. Maybe the black car had swerved deliberately into his path; maybe he should have swerved to meet it? But he knew, deep down, that he was too cowardly to do so.
Next Services 6 Miles he saw and he knew he would pull in there, park, and go inside the identical services building. But not eat or piss or talk or touch.
For the briefest of moments, there is the ghostly smell of hot fat and paprika, and then it is gone.
~
Fellows blinks in surprise a few times after finishing The Smell Of Paprika—when he looks up, the view of the statue of the city founder with the sunset behind it seems to have too many colours; when he forces himself to focus on the dates carved into its plinth they make no immediate sense. He can’t recall having been so immersed in a work of fiction for years.
Nowadays, when he reads, the analytical part of his brain still takes over, nit-picking, deciding how he would write such a story even though he hasn’t written a word of fiction for years. With Boursier’s story it had been a different sensation, that of being engrossed, of losing himself entirely in something that wasn’t real. And this despite all the odd detail—not just the futuristic, sci-fi feeling of it but the little, more telling things: the concept of the ‘services’ themselves, the idea of so many people owning cars, and driving on the other side of the road... all presented without contrast, as if the reader would just understand. Fellows wonders what nationality Boursier is; not everyone who’s been trapped in the quarantined city had been a resident, it had happened that fast. But despite all the strangeness, all the surface-level confusion the story had worked, all the peculiarities and strange words all part of a spell Fellows had accepted totally upon reading it. And the strange coincidence of the paprika-flavoured potatoes—well, Fellows reflected, he does live in the same city as me, and there are only so many places to eat, so it’s probably not that big a coincidence. He must have written the story only recently, he supposes—Fellows checks the back of Other Rooms, Other Cities but it is not the kind of journal to have a publication date.
I definitely want to read the others, Fellows thinks, although he is not sure how he will get hold of enough pre-quarantine money. Officially, there is not meant to be any left in circulation.
He stands from the park bench, puts his empty bottle of beer in the bin—the sun is falling more swiftly now and the old gas lights of the park have come on. God knows how the gas is still connected, he thinks. In their light the park seems darker, drabber, more old-fashioned than in the sunlight. He walks down towards the bottom entrance of the park, towards the sound of the fountain; he ignores the prostitutes asking if he has a light, if he has the time on him...
This exit from the park brings Fellows to one of the widest roads in the city, two lanes leading down to the city hall and old mercantile quarter. Fellows is still wrapped up in the story he has read, and without really thinking he looks to the right before crossing; he sees, as usual there is no traffic and he steps out...
He quickly steps back onto the pavement, wondering what the hell he was thinking—why was he looking for traffic driving on the left? If something had been coming the other way he would have walked straight out into it its path. Almost getting run over once today was surely enough, especially if this time it had been due to his own stupidity. Okay the roads are quiet but—yes, he can hear a car approaching. It sounds like the same one that almost ran him over earlier, the one whose noise, muffled by the odd acoustics of the quiet city seems to be coming from all directions at once.
But still some instinct makes him look right again, and he sees the same large black car coming up on his side of the road, driving on the left. He stares at it in confusion as it passes, as if hoping for someone to shout some explanation from its windows; but they are closed and tinted an opaque black.
He stares in equal confusion at the second, identical car that follows behind—it seems as strange, to Fellows, to see two cars together as it is to see them driving on the wrong side of...
Very slowly, like when he worries the ghost has sneaked behind him, Fellows turns to look at the road sign that he is standing next to. Slow Children (on the other side of the road from the park is the orphanage). To his left, facing him. Visible to traffic driving on the left-hand side of the road.
Like in the story, is his first thought, like in Boursier’s story.
The two cars are going so fast he expects to hear the noise of a collision, but they disappear from view, round the corner that will lead them to whichever local government building they are headed. Now they are out of sight the reality of what he has just seen seems less pressing; it was an obscure prank, he thinks, or just two idiots driving on the wrong side of the road for the thrill of it, knowing they’ll meet no one coming the other way. Or even, perhaps, this is another new, unintelligible policy imposed by the unity government—they changed the currency for no discernible reason, so why not the road laws? Ridiculous certainly, a pointless expense, but something new and that came into force today, and not something he can have been wrong about all of the time he has been living in the quarantined city.
He looks back up at the sign; the faded, rusted sign. He looks up the street and sees the others facing him; he looks down the street and sees the back of... No, no, no, he thinks. He bends down, examines the pavement to see if it looked like the road sign had been recently fitted or tampered with, but he can see no evidence that it hasn’t always been like this.
Another car is coming up the road, while Fellows is just standing there—Fellows can’t remember when he last saw three cars almost simultaneously in the city. He hasn’t seen one for weeks. It is the same long, sleek black model of the unity government, but going much slower. Again on the left. It pulls up and stops opposite the park. There is the honk of its horn, and one of the tinted windows is slowly wound down. Fellows can just see blackness in the interior. Behind him, Fellows hears the prostitutes start to move towards the sound of its still idling motor.
“Hey, hey,” he calls out. He moves quickly to the driver’s window. “Hey,” he says, until the driver reluctantly winds down his window.
“Look, piss off mate,” he says. “No offence to your sort, but he (the driver gestures towards the passenger seat behind him, which is behind a partition) isn’t here for the men, if you get my drift. Some of them, but not him.”
“No, I’m not...” Fellows gabbles, looking down at himself in his old suit. “I just... why are you driving on the wrong side of the road? It’s not right, I know there’s no traffic but...”
“Plenty enough tonight,” the driver interrupts, a suggestion so stupid Fellows ignores it.
“... but just because there’s no other traffic you should still drive on the right, the right, side of the road,” Fellows says. “Why, I saw two cars earlier...”
“What are you on about? The right?” the driver says. He sniffs and Fellows supposes he can smell the alcohol on his breath. It was one beer, he wants to say. Behind him, he hears two of the prostitutes start talking to whoever is in the back. “Good job you don’t drive mate,” the driver adds good-humouredly. “But now look, piss off like I said.”
Some kind of agreement is made, and both prostitutes get into the back of the car. The driver winds his window up, still grinning at Fellows as he turns the handle, and then the car drives off. Fellows stares at it until it is out of sight.
>
Feeling a numbness in his limbs, he goes and sits back on the bench in the park. The prostitutes and rent boys, after seeing his exhibition at the car, are ignoring him completely now. He opens another beer and reads The Smell Of Paprika over and over, as if there could be some explanation there. The small text is hard to read in the gaslight, but by the time the sun has fully set he feels he knows most of the story off by heart anyway. The ghostly smell of hot fat and paprika; the briefest glimpse of white wings.
His thoughts loosen as he drinks, and he realises that sat in the small circle of light from the lamp above the bench, he is in danger of letting his doubts veer out of control, to overwhelm him. There will be an explanation, he thinks. Maybe he has got a touch of heat stroke today? It will be all right tomorrow, he thinks, somehow it will have... you’ll be all right tomorrow.
He wants nothing more than to go and see Georgia, to speak to someone friendly, who can at least call him a twat when she tells him the obvious explanation for the cars driving on the left, but when he reaches her street the window of her flat is dark. Out drinking or asleep drunk, he thinks. The night is still warm and he looks up at the cloudless sky for a few moments, at the unceasing patterns of the stars. Then he heads back to his own house, feeling sober despite the beers, wide-eyed and staring at the quarantined city as if he is afraid other things familiar to him might have altered while he wasn’t looking.
He shuts his front door on the strange streets behind him, and closes his eyes.
When he opens them it is to see the welcoming, disjointed arms of the ghostly child spread as if for an embrace, coming towards him in the dark of his house. He screams.
The Quarantined City Page 3
