The New Uncanny

by Priest, Christopher

  My bed was narrow. Through the thin ceiling, I could hear my father snoring; I knew whenever he turned over in bed. It was true that I had never heard them making love. Somehow, between them, they had transformed the notion of physical love into a ridiculous idea. Why would people want to do something so awkward with their limbs?

  I couldn’t hear Mother. She didn’t snore, but she could sigh for England. I got up and went to the top of the stairs. By the kitchen light I could see her in her dressing gown, stockings around her ankles, trudging along the hall and into each room, wringing her hands as she went, muttering back to the ghosts clamoring within her skull.

  She stood still to scratch and tear at her exploded arms. During the day, she kept them covered because of her ‘eczema.’ Now I watched while flakes of skin fell onto the carpet, as though she were converting herself into dust. She dispersed the shreds of her body with her delicately pointed dancer’s foot.

  As a child – even as a young man – I would never have approached Mother in this state. She had always made it clear that the uproar and demands of two boys were too much for her. Naturally, she couldn’t wish for us to die, so she died herself, inside.

  One time, my therapist asked whether Dad and I were able to be silent together. More relevant, I should have said, was whether Mother and I could be together without my chattering on about whatever occurred to me, in order to distract her from herself. Now I made up my mind and walked down the stairs, watching her all the while. She was like difficult music, and you wouldn’t want to get too close. But, as with such music, I wouldn’t advise trying to make it out – you have to sit with it, wait for it to address you.

  I was standing beside her, and with her head down she looked at me sideways.

  ‘I’ll make you some tea,’ I said, and she even nodded.

  Before, during one of her late-night wanderings, she had found me masturbating in front of some late-night TV program. It must have been some boy group, or Bowie. ‘I know what you are,’ she said. She was not disapproving. She was just a lost ally.

  I made a cup of lemon tea and gave it to her. As she stood sipping it, I took up a position beside her, my head bent also, attempting to see – as she appeared to vibrate with inner electricity – what she saw and felt. It was clear that there was no chance of my ever being able to cure her. I could only become less afraid of her madness.

  In his bed, Father was still snoring. He wouldn’t have liked me to be with her. He had taken her sons for himself, charmed them away, and he wasn’t a sharer.

  She was almost through with the tea and getting impatient. Wandering, muttering, scratching: she had important work to do and time was passing. I couldn’t detain her anymore.

  I slept in her chair in the front room.

  When I got up, my parents were having breakfast. My father was back in his suit and my mother was in the uniform she wore to work in the supermarket. I dressed rapidly in order to join Dad as he walked to the station. It had stopped raining.

  I asked him about his day, but couldn’t stop thinking about mine. I was living, as my therapist enjoyed reminding me, under the aegis of the clock. I wanted to go to the studio and talk; I wanted to eat well and make love well, go to a show and then dance, and make love again. I could not be the same as them.

  At the station in London, Father and I parted. I said I’d always look out for him when I was in the area, but couldn’t be sure when I’d be coming his way again.

  Continuous Manipulation

  Frank Cottrell Boyce

  IT MUST HAVE been Spring 2005. Which means we’d only been going out for a few weeks. The relationship was definitely still in its Frequently Asked Questions phase – the sitting up late, swapping childhood stories bit. Adé had a big advantage there. He was brought up in Ghana. Everything about his past was new to me. The names of streets, soft drinks, TV favourites, top ten tunes – they were all delicious and fresh. I had to spice up my own past just to justify opening my mouth. There was a story my mother used to tell about the four year old me, how I’d tried to cure a headache by pressing a Junior Aspirin to my temple, instead of swallowing it. I never believed it. Whenever she told it, I winced. But I told that story now, along with half a dozen others, as though I really remembered them, as though I’d never told them to anyone else. I turned myself into a fictional character, just to keep the conversation going. Cousins, aunts, teachers became cartoon franchises. My first real boyfriend, Peter Dillon – the one whose parents got divorced and then married each other again – I made it sound like they did that every week.

  Then we got to the ‘I’d really like to meet your family, Sue’ phase. What do you do then? You either say, ‘Look I’ve exaggerated. My mother is not, in fact, some sort of obsessive compulsive hygiene terrorist. She’s just a bit fussy.’ Or it’s goodbye. I booked a pair of Awayday Weekend Saver Firsts and took him to Carlisle. From the minute we arrived, I was apologising for the place. Carlisle has a rich, dramatic history but let’s be honest, it’s over. If you wanted to see Carlisle at its best you had to be here during the Roman occupation.

  ‘Stop it,’ said Adé. ‘To me this town is the Theme Park of Sue. I want to see it all.’

  He really did talk like that. My mother fell for him obviously. And my sisters. The four of them sat, wrapt, as he told them the name of his street, favourite soft drink, and TV programme. He sang them his top ten tunes. In the end I had to borrow a car and drive him to Silloth just to get a word in.

  ‘Silloth? What d’you want to take him to Silloth for?’

  ‘He’s never seen the English seaside.’

  ‘Silloth’s not a seaside. Silloth’s mud flats.’

  ‘It has an Edwardian promenade, and is home to breathtaking flocks of wader birds.’

  ‘He’s seen birds. They have birds in Africa.’

  ‘Different birds.’

  ‘Better ones. Why would he want to see barnacle geese when he’s got flamingos at home.’

  ‘Mother, just give me the car keys.’

  Silloth of course is where Peter Dillon used to live. Everyone fantasises about bumping into their ex in the company of a fabulous new partner. But that really, really is not why we went to Silloth. Or why we walked up all the way to the far end of the promenade where his house stood, staring out across the mud.

  As we passed I said, ‘If you wanted to see Silloth when it was buzzing, you really had to be here before the ice age.’

  ‘Sue, stop it.’

  ‘See that house there? See the porch? That’s where I had my first proper snog.’

  ‘Can we go and take a closer look?’

  ‘No we can’t. His Mum and Dad are probably home.’

  ‘Probably in the middle of a divorce.’

  ‘Or a wedding.’

  But we did go into that porch. And we did ring that doorbell. There was no reply at first. I peeped in at the window, shading my eyes with my hand. And there they were, Peter’s parents, sitting at opposite ends of the couch, as still and vacant as Playmobil. Mortified, I tried to duck down out of sight, but his mother got up in one single sudden movement, stood for a second as if deciding what to do, then swiveled towards me and smiled.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said when she answered the door, ‘I couldn’t just pass the house without saying hello.’

  ‘Hello,’ she echoed. ‘Come in.’

  Her tone was welcoming but impersonal, like a supermarket greeter. Did that bother me? Did I even notice? Not then. I had my own agenda. I was there to show them how well I’d done without their precious Peter. I was there to get Adé to eclipse my past. We went in. I wish we hadn’t.

  Peter was there. In the garden playing penalties with a little red headed girl. When he heard we were there, he came straight in, all smiles. His parents were all smiles. They asked all the polite questions. Adé gave new and fascinating answers. I said that Peter hadn’t changed. Which he hadn’t. And nor had the house. There was the cupboard with the board games in, the books
helf full of carefully chronological photo albums. There was even still a shelf of films on VHS. The little girl in the garden reminded me of his little sister, Ruthie – the same brass coloured hair. I was beginning to feel warm and nostalgic, which wasn’t in the plan, which wasn’t comfortable. Anyway, I’d made my point the moment Adé walked through the door. Hanging around would just be rubbing it in. So I said no thanks to tea and headed for the door.

  Peter, his Mum and his Dad, all followed us to the door. A bit too closely to be honest, crowding us the way kittens crowd you when you’re opening the Whiskas. ‘You must stay to tea,’ smiled his Mum.

  And I thought, yes, of course we must. Adé has never had a full-on Cumbrian spread. Of course we must stay to tea. Peter leaned forward, like he was going to whisper something, or kiss me on the cheek. But before he got close enough, he pulled back suddenly. He turned – almost span – on his heel and stepped away from me. It was the suddenness of it really. A mechanical, almost involuntary suddenness. I’d seen that movement once before. Ten years before. Seeing it again, here, I remembered. The two instances connected, they made a story. But not one I could share with Adé.

  We didn’t stay to tea.

  ‘I would’ve liked to stay,’ said Adé as we walked into the wind along the promenade. ‘They seemed so happy. The happiest family I’ve ever seen. Peter seems like a good guy, too. I love the way he plays with that little girl. Is that his daughter?’

  All his questions seemed like moves in a game I didn’t want to play any more. I drove home in silence. I haven’t really seen him since. I don’t see anyone much anymore.

  I started going out with Peter in Year Eleven. I suppose he was upset when his mum walked out but we were going off to university so what did it matter. We went to Manchester, both of us, together. New street names, new music, new food, new conversations, Manchester was as fresh as Ghana to us back then. We neither of us gave a thought to home till that first Christmas on the train home. As soon as we got north of Preston, Peter started fidgeting and staring pointedly out of the window when I was talking to him. It didn’t phase me. I said, ‘I’ll come to yours if you don’t mind. Before I go home. I fancy a stroll along the prom.’

  You could tell he was pleased with the idea from the way he said, ‘Whatever.’

  When we got there, Andrea was there. His dad’s new bit. Tanned, toned, and twitchy. She kissed Peter with her glossed lips and smiled all over him with her whitened teeth. I think about her now, the way she’d altered her appearance to please Peter’s dad. Just as I altered my past to impress Adé. How we girls do chip away at our own reality.

  She was thrilled to meet me at last, by the way, she’d heard so much about me. She even took my bag upstairs for me. She put it in Peter’s room, at the foot of his bed and winked, ‘You two will be nice and cosy in here, I suppose.’

  I must have blushed or something because she said, ‘Oh. If you don’t then...’

  ‘No, no. We do,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’

  Peter and I laughed about it afterwards. ‘I can’t believe I told her we were having sex.’

  ‘I can’t believe she got that out of you.’

  ‘I thanked her. I thanked her for providing sex facilities.’

  Peter’s dad breezed by, wrapped in a towel and smelling of aftershave. ‘Hi there,’ he said, as opposed to ‘No visitors in the bedrooms,’ which was what he used to say.

  ‘This place has changed a bit since Mum was here.’

  When we looked up little Ruthie was in the doorway, staring at us. I can still remember the way the light fell on those thick brass curls. She would have been eight.

  ‘Hey Ruthie,’ I said. And held out my arms to her. She didn’t budge.

  ‘I didn’t know you were home,’ said Peter. ‘Why didn’t you come down and say hello?’

  ‘I prefer it upstairs now. Are you going away again?’

  ‘Not till after Christmas. It’s Christmas holidays.’

  ‘So you’re going away again.’

  ‘After Christmas. Have to go back to uni.’

  ‘Can I come?’

  ‘You’re not old enough. Plus you don’t have any A-levels.’

  She went back to her room.

  Peter shrugged. ‘What d’you want me to do?’

  I followed Ruthie to her room. Ruthie’s room had changed. The Angelina Ballerina wallpaper was still there but the shelves were groaning with personal electronics – a TV, a PlayStation, a phone, a PC, a DVD player, even a popcorn machine. It was like a girly branch of Comet. ‘Woah,’ I said.

  ‘Dad took me out and bought all this,’ she said. ‘Then two days later she moved in.’

  ‘Right. Well... she seems nice enough.’

  ‘I can’t even play these games. I don’t understand the instructions.’

  ‘What have we got?’

  We had pretty much everything to be honest. It was me who chose Sims. That’s the one where you have a family to look after. The Sims. You have to satisfy their needs – nutrition, exercise, hygiene – nurture their development – reading, hobbies, conversation and help them fulfill their aspirations. Stuff keeps happening that you’ve got no control over – they get visitors, they get flooded. Sims get hungry and bored so you have to keep ahead of the game, keep them fed and entertained. Sometimes it seems like they have a will of their own. The trick is to master that will and get them to do what you want.

  ‘How do you win?’

  ‘You don’t win. You just keep it going. Some people keep their Sim families going for years.’

  ‘Do they die?’

  ‘They can die. They can walk out on you. You have to keep them healthy and keep home interesting.’

  ‘How d’you do that?’

  ‘Just make sure the Aspiration Meter is filling up.’

  You can design your own family but that first night we played with the default family. Are they called the Newbies? Ruthie found it all a bit emotionally draining at first. When Mr. Newbie started hitting his own thighs in fury, she almost burst into tears. ‘I’ve given him a good job and a lovely supper. Why is he so ungrateful?’

  ‘He needs the toilet.’

  ‘Oh.’

  But mum was hitting her thighs too by then. ‘Lack of appreciation. You need to give her a hug.’ I showed her how. ‘It’s non-stop Ruthie. It’s called “Continuous Manipulation”.’

  Once she’d calmed them down, she was thrilled by her own power and their pliability. She hugged, cooked, tickled, bought presents. In the end I fell asleep in her bed. The idea of an Andrea-sanctioned sex session had lost its appeal by then in any case.

  When I woke up the next morning, she was still playing.

  ‘Have you been at it all night?’

  ‘You can design your own family, look. Did you know that? Look you can make their eyes bigger, give them muscles, whatever.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘If you make the eyes big, that looks good because they look like babies. Babies have big eyes. But if you make them too big, that’s horrible. Because that’s like insects pretending to be babies. When they look weird, that’s called the Uncanny Valley. It’s all in the manual. And d’you know what? If you don’t want them to, they won’t get any older.’

  ‘That sounds good.’

  ‘Doesn’t that sound good?’

  She came downstairs with me for breakfast. I could see why she’d mostly stayed upstairs. Andrea had redecorated. The place looked like the reception area of a graphics company – simple lines, everything white, with aggressive splashes of colour. When Ruthie walked in with me, Andrea purred with pleasure.

  ‘Terry looks who’s here for breakfast.’

  ‘Hello, Ruthie.’

  ‘Look, look what we got for you yesterday.’ There was a big shopping bag over by the Aga. Andrea reached in and pulled out a white shift dress. Beautiful, simple lines, with a bold splash of blue across the shoulder. A dress that coordinated perfectly with the kitchen. A dress that would
turn Ruth into fixtures and fittings.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Ruth.

  ‘We can go again today and get you something for Christmas morning, what d’you say?’

  Ruthie didn’t say anything. What she did was hug her dad. He looked astonished. ‘What’s brought this on?’ he said, flushed with pleasure.

  She didn’t answer. She said, ‘Dad, what’s the offside rule?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘In football, what’s the offside rule. I asked Sue but she didn’t know.’

  ‘Why would you want to know that?’ asked Andrea.

  Ruth didn’t reply and by then her dad was already building a three-dimensional diagram of the offside trap out of Weetabix and milk cartons.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Peter, ‘Why would you want to know all that?’

  ‘It’s all in the manual,’ I whispered.

  When I went up to collect my bags, Sims was still running on the screen. It was the smoothest running game I’d ever seen. The little figures were reading, exercising, cooking. Improving themselves, enjoying each other. And the family was all her own design. There was a mother, a father, a teenage son and an eight year old girl. All rubbing along happily in the same house. They were called Mum, Dad, Peter, and Ruthie Dillon.

  Video games don’t normally make me cry. But the next few days I thought a lot about the tiny pixilated family inside the computer monitor, living the life that Ruth wished she was living. I thought at the time it was her version of the way things used to be, before Andrea.

  I didn’t go back over to the house on the prom till Christmas day. The plan was midnight mass with my family, open presents with my sisters, then over to the Dillons’ for Christmas lunch. The Dillons’ plan was Christmas lunch all together, then Ruthie’s mum would come and collect her and take her over to her grandmother’s. Peter and I might go too.