Solomon's Keepers

by J. H. Kavanagh

  There are three judges. The first in line is a small man with silver hair and a goatee. ‘Harriet, what sort of experiences would you like to relay to our subscribers?’ he asks, deadpan.

  ‘Oh anything,’ she says, ‘mostly though I would really like to help them experience beauty.’

  They only put one through to the second round. He is a tough-looking man in his twenties. His video is ordinary but captures a genuine spirit of fun. It shows him in a restaurant with friends, kissing several women, windsurfing and riding a motor bike. I am a regular guy who knows how to enjoy myself, I’ve been doing a good job of that for myself and there’s not much I haven’t tried or wouldn’t try. I look after myself so that I am in good shape for anything….

  The panel confers and then the silver-haired man says ‘Congratulations, you’re going through to the next round.’

  The nascent people’s hero punches the air. ‘Yes!’ he mouths to camera.

  Twelve

  The washers on the rental car give out somewhere on the motorway and Eva watches the city gather around her through the twin arcs of a windscreen now misty with dirt and pureed insects. The traffic slows to a crawl and she sits under a painted intersection breathing smoke and dust through the open side windows and wondering whether it’s only men that produce graffiti: huge blocky names, hurried spray. The traffic picks up again. The railings skip by, measuring off the pavement. She finds the car park in the shabby footprint of a demolished high rise and parks the car in the far corner. The perimeter has a twelve foot wire mesh beyond which, through a gap between the buildings, she can see a wasteland of concrete, knee high with weeds.

  A tall white van loops the car park and pulls up alongside. A young woman in a jade sari spills from the driver’s seat, tosses a rope of black hair and leans through the window. ‘I’m Sooya, I’m a friend of Jake’s, are you Eva?’ Her eyes run a quick tour of the inside of the car. Eva says Hi. A handshake is briefly a possibility but is awkward at that angle and turns into a scrabble for the door handle. Sooya steps back as Eva climbs out of the car.

  ‘Jake couldn’t come.’ Sooya says. ‘But he’ll meet us. You want to come with me?’

  They step up into the van and Sooya drives off in a whirl of dust. Rap stutters and slithers on the stereo.

  They climb a steep hill that makes something large shift in the back of the van. ‘Omnis,’ Sooya shouts over the engine. Got a delivery after you.’

  They pull a few turns down rat runs of side streets and leave the towers behind for a suburban sea of houses. The urban ratio: one house, one dish, two vehicles, one wreck and several children.

  Eva looks across at her driver. ‘So are you into KomViva too?’

  Sooya is playing chicken with a driving instructor in a Japanese Mini. He cowers into a space behind a skip at the last minute as she sails unflinchingly past.

  ‘Oh yeah, sure. I got Jake into it. We distribute Network One Petanet gear. That’s what all that is in the back. Can’t get them fast enough.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘All wait-listed. Most people can’t get them for another three months. That’s what they keep promising. We’ll see. We have a few strings to pull.’

  ‘I’ve been trying. I just came over from Spain for a new job. No chance there. My flatmate saw Jake’s name on a forum and talked me into it, he said he’d cut the wait time and get me a set.’

  ‘You got the money?’

  Eva’s confirmation is lost in the shriek of brakes as Sooya brings the van nose to nose with a jerking blacked-out pick up. She leans out of her window to shout at the driver and point. ‘You bloody blind or what?’ The only reply from the darkened interior of the cab is the bass that’s warping the door panels with a cartoon heartbeat. It waits for a moment and then gives in and reverses into a space ten yards behind. Sooya guns past. ‘Bloody kids. They think they own these streets. You wouldn’t even bother at night when they’re all stoned. Car’s probably stolen too. Never mind. They’ve all got K-sat.’

  ‘And they’re all on the waiting list?’

  ‘Round here? Every bloody one of them.’

  Jake’s place is a new house in a partly built estate. There’s an army truck on blocks out front and a big Honda bike leaning against the wall in the driveway to one side. A small garden on two sides is enclosed by a high boarded fence. Except it isn’t a garden, it’s still a building site with a caravan and a collection of ramshackle sheds and containers that have acquired an air of permanence. The carved wooden sign at the door reads Anfield.

  Jake looms darkly in the frosted glass. He is heavy and square and wears a black tracksuit and leather clogs. His eyes are a jostle of blue riding high in his big lardy face like children in the back window of a school bus. His hair is slicked back with gel, recently applied.

  ‘You’d better come in then,’ he says and turns a broad nylon back to Eva. ‘You’re in luck. We usually sell out the same day.’

  Sooya calls out that she’ll see him later and Eva follows him inside.

  The house is hot and smells like a launderette. Jake leads the way into a small sitting room and gestures at a maroon velvet couch which has backed several stacks of magazines against the wall. A small table with a complex pattern of rings stained on its surface holds an ashtray full of butts.

  ‘Scuse the mess. I’ve been busy,’ Jake says, lowering himself into a leather recliner. ‘Things have been going kind of crazy.’

  Eva glances around the room. The mantelpiece over the fireplace holds a row of candles and a picture of a racing motorbike. A tousled white carpet lies like a dead sheep in the middle of the floor. A fig tree is trading leaves for dust in the corner. Behind Jake a large poster depicts a mountain climber suspended in a fiery sunset. The word STRIVE is printed across the bottom in large white letters.

  Eva feels Jake’s eyes on her. She’s glad she has dressed casually in cotton chinos and an old washed silk blouse. She sits back, crosses her legs and pulls her bag towards her.

  ‘Been here long, Jake?’

  ‘I bought it two years ago new. This area’s on the up. Lots of building work now but give it another few years and…’ a pout of the lips finishes the idea.

  ‘Are you from round here, originally?’

  He needs to think about that. ‘My Mam is.’

  ‘Right.’

  Jake lights up and leans forward for an ashtray.

  ‘So what about you? Scientist, huh? Your English is good.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ve lived here a while, off and on. Family there, work here. The whole Woho thing is just kicking off in Spain now. I saw your advertisement and didn’t want to wait.’

  Jake nods sagely. ‘Bet you didn’t.’

  Eva smiles. ‘You still can’t find out a whole lot about it. Just the hype. Hence my chasing you.’

  A wry smile lifts the free end of Jake’s mouth. ‘Started like that here. You had to be in the know. It’s all been very cleverly planned. There’re some very smart people behind this, very smart people.’

  ‘Is it alright to try out the service first? I haven’t used it before and if you wouldn’t mind…’

  Jake leans forward to flick ash.

  ‘Right now? Yeah?’ Jake is poised for takeoff.

  ‘Yes, absolutely fine. I have the money here.’

  Jake zips the envelope containing the cash into his tracksuit pocket and spreads his hands wide. ‘A drink to celebrate? I can offer you a special brew or…’

  A very small one. I’m driving.’

  Jake is carrying a large cardboard box. ‘De derrr!’ He says and thumps it into the dead sheep. ‘One Nandie for Madam. Trust me, this is the nuts. You can get stuck in straight away. It won’t do the full job until you’ve calibrated it but you’re eighty percent there anyway. You want to wear it overnight as soon as you can. Makes a difference.’

  They squeak the polystyrene off and rip into the bubble wrap. The helmet comes up like a diver, a dome of silver with an angu
lar pod at the front like a cowling over blind eyes. It reminds Eva of photos of embryos.

  Jake pulls out some papers from under the helmet as it emerges. ‘Ignore all the bumf in here, it’s all in Chinese. He’s on his knees and a moment later a red pin prick glows in the front pod.

  ‘Auto test,’ Jake says. After a moment the pinprick goes green. ‘Ever see one of these with a flashing amber, it’s in use.’

  Eva holds the pod in her hands. It’s heavier than she expects, weighted at the front over the forehead. The shell is plasticky and slightly soft. When she turns it over the inside is lined with tiny spines like a wire carpet.

  ‘Never mess around with the villi inside, they get enough crap on them as it is and then you have to clean them up. Won’t break if you drop it but you don’t want to shake it too much and don’t wrench the cable. It’s hard sometimes to remember you’re in it when you get going. You’ll see what I mean.’ Jake plugs a jack into the back of the helmet.

  ‘So is that it. Am I ready to go?’

  ‘You want to read that stuff and do the practice routine a couple of times. You just hit the green button with the one on it, here, to go. Keep it in your hand and press this one, feel the O on it, there, when you’re done. I’ll leave you to get sorted. You all right in here?’

  Eva says fine.

  ‘I’ll be around. I’m in the kitchen when you’re done. Take a break after the first practice and use the lav before you know you need to. In case you think I’m being previous, I’m not.’

  Eva slips on the helmet and drags it over her ears. It feels tight around her skull but leaves her jaw free. Her scalp tingles. She can see and hear nothing.

  She presses the go button.

  Jake watches her feet start to move. She does what everybody does and lets her arms float out like wings. He knows exactly where she is as she suddenly clutches her chest and her legs kick out together.

  ‘Let’s get started,’ he sings to himself. ‘Enjoy the view.’

  Eva is panting when she tears the helmet off. The switch in her hand is damp but she grips it like her last handhold on life. Her head is sweating and her hair is matted slick to the back of her neck.

  ‘Christ! I don’t believe this,’ she mutters through short breaths. She is back in her own body, back on firm ground, back in the little sitting room at Jake’s. She has slipped on to the floor and sits with her back pressed against the settee. She looks around the room, relieved to find she is alone. She runs her palms over her hair and shakes it free. Her hands are trembling, her insides jangling but settling slowly, her heartbeats like knives dropping in a drawer. She hasn’t smoked in two years but now she needs a cigarette and pinches one from Jake’s pack. She jiggles one into her mouth, jiggles it alight. She blows the plume of smoke out and it pulls a loud laugh behind it. ‘That was…’ What was it? A smile breaks out on her face. She can’t help herself. ‘…unreal. That was so great!’

  Jake’s head appears around the door. He catches her grin. ‘Enjoy the jump?’

  She holds out her hands and laughs out loud. ‘I just can’t believe that. I mean…it really happens. It is real. I did it. I bloody jumped off that…Shit, what would’ve happened if I’d waited?’

  Jake is enjoying watching her. There is pride on his face, a told you so look and welcome to the club. Yes it is something else. No, you can’t tell anyone. They never get it. You just have to try it.

  ‘You’ll find out next time. It’s okay. You’ll like it.’

  Eva looks at him and thinks for a moment. It has been so real that it hasn’t occurred to her until now that everyone would have the same experience. That body, those moves, the view over the cliff edge. Everyone gets the same. Jake had done it, she could do it again, and again. Not remember it or ‘relive it’, by which people just meant putting your back into remembering it, but really do it again.

  ‘I need to use your loo.’

  ‘There aren’t many people who make the landing first time,’ Jake is saying. ‘I suppose that’s why they do that. Sort of make you take a short sharp shock to begin with. You need to know, it needs to know, how you handle getting shit scared. Well, and other things.

  ‘How long was I up there? In there?’ She looks at her watch.

  ‘About five minutes,’

  ‘And how long is the live thing?’

  ‘An hour, hour and a half maybe.’

  ‘And you get through that do you?’

  ‘Oh yeah. Wouldn’t miss a minute. You’ll be the same, I guarantee you.’

  ‘It’s just so weird. The whole thing is just so weird. And being a man! I mean…’

  ‘You wait till you use it.’

  She watches him laugh and laughs with him. This is the most breathtaking, fantastic and unbelievable thing she has ever done. It isn’t just going to be big; it is going to be huge.

  ‘Come on, I want to do another one. What do you recommend?’

  ‘You like boats, the sea?’

  She’s not sure about the look he gives her. She says yes anyway.

  First the smell of fish rotting in water and then the cold hard weight of the metal around your neck. It’s a collar and someone is jerking it. Metal links chatter ahead of you leading upwards. When you move they chatter behind, below. A metal wall echoes but your feet are on creaking steps, wood grain on your bare soles. You’re holding a rope banister and the stairway is steep, the heat and sweat from many bodies rushing upwards to a square of sky and seagull shrieks in open air.

  The chain snatches and you move together, a jangling centipede spiralling layer by freshening layer towards the air.

  Light fountains downwards over nakedness; bloods the many tones of black skin, finds you and your pallor. The last turn brings a dazzling square of sky overhead and you stand in a shaft of dancing dust.

  A face leans into the daylight. ‘Move it. Get on with it.’

  You step out on deck into screams of circling gulls, into sun and a salt breeze like bleach in your eyes. The fat man breathes putrid meat in your face and jerks you off the step as he has each one before you. It’s an old container ship. To one side stands the bridge, a tower of flaking white paint, misty windows and rusted rivets; the other way the windings and suspensions and clutter of the foredeck; an anchor chain tangled in ropes, scuffed boat bellies under blistered davits and, eventually, the prow pointing to open sea. Ten naked men strung across the deck on a line; limber, scrawny bodies, smooth but for shaggy heads tossing and pubes like forgotten rosettes.

  ‘Hold it there. Unhook them at whitey there and hold the rest. Face this way!’

  Rough hands grapple the chain behind, tightening then loosening and letting go. The hatch slams shut behind you.

  ‘Thought these days were over eh?’ The fat man says to no one in particular. You’re watching the line of men turn towards the figure in the faded yellow Hawaiian shirt, watching him strut, watching his hands worry the coiled whip. You check behind. Beyond the ship’s rail the shore is a distant brown seam between worlds of grey. This is not a landing.

  ‘You’ve been below too long. You stink and we need to clean you up before we land. You swim together. You go over the side, there, down the net. You swim around the stern, that way; you come back that side, there. Okay, start with him.’

  Your neighbour turns a knowing eye to you and holds your gaze. ‘Yeah, and when we’re done they’re gonna hand out towels, right?’

  It’s too much for a man down the line. He starts to plead. At the first shot he screams. The second is muffled in the wind and he is silent. The fat man moves down the chain to where it sags.

  You count three above deck: The fat man with a pistol, the one with the whip and a nervous looking oriental with a headband and a shotgun.

  One by one the collars are opened and segments of chain crash to the deck. The line moves hesitantly towards the side. The ship lists in a trough of water and a rush of wind is white noise in your ears. Next but one has a stiff collar and the fat man yan
ks it and swears as it comes away. A knot of figures is waiting by the net; the first men are over the side. The body lies where it fell. No one is speaking. The oriental is creeping towards the rail in the shadow of the tower. Your neighbour stands silently with his head lowered and his hands clasped in front of him like a mourner. When his collar comes off the length of chain drops to your side. The fat man reaches at your throat.

  He turns the key in the lock and tosses it free. The collar is stiff. He jams his fingers under the metal to get a grip. His knuckles are in your throat. The gun hand is a shadow at your side. You seize the collar and twist your whole body sharply. His trapped fingers wrench to his shoulder and his locked arm spins him. A moment is all you need to stamp into his knee, tear the chain free and wrap it around his neck. A single savage twist and he snaps limp. The pistol fires two wild shots before you have his hand.

  The oriental runs towards you. He fires first at the group and then takes aim at you. But the fat man is a shield and he hesitates. You have the pistol in your grip and are shooting before he can work it out. The oriental drops but you keep firing till the gun clicks empty.

  A splash of pain in your back and a shot. Not a shot. The snap of a whip and an electric stripe all the way round to your chest. You gasp and turn. The lash flips back behind the Hawaiian shirt. He’s backing away; no gun. You run.

  The lash meets your raised arms, snakes and burns. You can’t catch it. It comes again, singing to a snap as the distance closes. This time it overlaps itself and holds your arm. You bowl into the target of palm fronded yellow in a world gone red. He lands heavily against metal and splays and you land on top and plunge with a knee. He is still. You pull away and stand and turn to the group now clambering back over the rail. You walk, still fizzing with adrenaline, towards the body on the deck. They shout. You turn and meet the Hawaiian’s wild-eyed charge. Rage drives your fists. You don’t stop. You back him against the davit and smash a blow into his face. It squashes bloodily and he reels. No thought now. Just all your energy like a torrent; fists swinging, finding flesh, pounding bone on bone until they pull you off him.