by Sulivan, Tricia; Nevill, Adam; Tchaikovsky, Adrian; McDougall, Sophia; Tidhar, Lavie
Crow alighted on the upended wheel. Its weight shifted the balance. The world turned.
Flowers budded yellow and orange, forcing their way like slo-mo time lapse photography, giving the illusion of speed yet stasis simultaneously. The sun arced across the sky, gave way to night and returned again, repeatedly.
Planes flew backwards across the sky.
A day which repeatedly came, reversed, came again.
If crow could smile, it did.
“What are you studying?”
Constance slipped behind me, one hand snaking around my waist, the other holding her camera.
“Analytical chemistry.”
She feigned a yawn, then yawned anyway, setting herself off. “Boring.”
“To some, maybe.”
She took a photo of my hand on the page. I was lying face down on the carpet in the living room. I say carpet, but in reality I was lying on photographs of the carpet. Constance reached past me and placed the slowly developing photograph on the floor, stapled it through the carpet and onto the floorboard as the picture of my hand and the book came into focus.
“Read to me,” she said.
I shrugged. “It won’t interest you.”
“It doesn’t have to interest me,” she said. “Read to me.”
So I read: In analytical chemistry, dark current refers to the constant response produced by a spectrochemical receptor, even in the absence of radiation. Dealing with dark current is a form of blank correction.
“That is boring,” she said. She yawned and the flash of the camera captured the inside of her mouth. “What’s blank correction?”
“Blank correction,” I said, “like everything else in the world, is whatever you want it to be.”
She moved her snaked-arm away from me. “Blank correction,” she repeated. “I like the sound of that.”
I closed the book. I understood none of it other than that the seed had to be planted. Dark current was an absence corrected by a blank. A nihilist would have loved it. For Constance, it would be the first step to regaining some sanity.
When I first moved into the apartment, on Constance’s insistence, I was bowled over by the sheer amount of photographic evidence of her life. In the bathroom, behind her toothbrush and toothpaste, were several photographs of her toothbrush and toothpaste. The bathroom mirror was almost totally obscured by her reflected face. Within days, mine joined hers. The small cupboard under the stairs which she used as a library was like a forest of books. In reality, there were only two shelves, but a series of photographs and mirrors turned it into a literary labyrinth. I would reach for a book to find myself reaching for my own hand, in a corner where nothing was real.
“Is this natural?” I asked.
“It is if I want it to be,” she said.
“Do you exhibit?”
The answer was coy, revealed nothing: “Doesn’t everyone?”
Much later - weeks later - after she had told me her dream of crow - of something she had no control over and could never photograph - I asked: “Do you think he knows about you?”
“Of course!”
I turned on my side, regarded the corner of the bedroom ceiling which was but a photograph of the corner of the bedroom ceiling. “Do you think he knows about me?”
There was no response. Only another photograph. Myself caught with sleep at the corner of my eye, a gritty memory, the dirt of a dream.
I did some research. To dream of a crow might signify completion of a successful business, but to dream of one flying in cloudy weather denoted anger, loss and misery. Seeing a blackbird meant great trouble, although to hear one sing signified joy and delight. And the starling, well, that was only a small discontent. Clearly there was a hierarchy in dream birds. I needed to find out exactly the type of bird, and in doing that there was only one option: to go inside.
Nowhere to hide, nowhere to run.
Never trust a stranger.
Following the advent of crow I bided my time and waited for the right moment. We stayed up late one evening, watching Coen Brothers movies one after the other. She fell asleep, almost unforgivably, during The Big Lebowski. After thirty minutes I turned off the DVD, dimmed the lights, then woke her with kisses.
One to the back of her neck, one to her belly, one to her knee, one to the inside of her forearm.
She stirred, woke, the word no caught in her mouth and turned to a moan: I had the password. I parted her legs and moved my body across hers, finding no resistance as I eased my way inside her. She invited me in semi-sleep mode, a curling smile on her face, reflected in several of the photographs which adorned the headboard. And then, unlike the other times we had made love, I did something a little different.
I pulled myself onto her, pulled myself against her. Knee bone connected to knee bone, hip bone connected to hip bone, jaw bone connected to jaw bone. Our internal organs touched and merged. I became inside her.
And I sought out the dream.
Half-concealed in mud, half-congealed in dirt, the metallic shopping trolley stands like a reticent sculpture.
I photo it.
Picking my way across the desolate landscape I capture the images of cans, their metal lids hanging by slivers of tin like robot ballerinas in music boxes. Reddish-brown bricks stand at all angles, lying where they have fallen. Broken glass reflects the light of the flash in this dim setting, a signal to find me should anyone be looking. Crisp packets hold water like bloated frogs. A blue Frisbee, upturned, becomes a bird bath. And it is there that I wait. And sure enough, there’s a sound in the air like a thousand feathers falling and after a moment the bird that is black is perched on the rim of the Frisbee, its weight tipping the water towards itself.
It drinks. And from behind the oil drum I take a photo.
Constance gasps and I push myself out of the dream and out of her body. The sheets are soaked with blood.
Only the sheets aren’t soaked with blood because this is now my dream, and in that dream I wait for the photograph to develop whilst searching through my Book of British Birds. Soon, there is a match. I can barely look.
Elsewhere I could have read: Dark currents within a photosensitive device are reduced through improved implantation of a species during its fabrication.
No, I don’t understand; but Constance is perfectly correct. As an artist she is completely aware that the world and its meanings can be exactly what anyone wants them to be. And through a positive negation of negative behaviour I can cure her compulsiveness and turn it around.
So I show Constance the photograph and explain that this is a starling and she takes my knowledge as read and she never sees it again.
Sometimes things are as simple as that.
Although crow won’t be happy.
There are side effects. She never again says no when she wakes.
I know this, although I am no longer there to hear it. Yet her knowledge is only imparted in my dream.
Before she woke I removed all of the photographs from each and every surface. A blank correction. And in removing the photographs I removed the wallpaper and the bricks and the hidden electricity and the floorboards and the plaster, and each and every item that had ever had any relevance or pseudo-relevance in the life of the artist formerly known as Constance.
She wakes within a white box. A blank canvas. The things that were there then are not there now.
It’s what she should have wanted.
And then – because I just cannot resist – I leave a black feather on her pillow: negating the negation.
Within the vestiges of her memory I am the trickster.
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Loose Connections
Finn Clarke
“Did you go to the clinic?”
“Damn.” Jess dumped the groceries on the kitchen counter. “Forgot.”
“I thought you were going at lunch time?”
“I was. Only Cartland wanted the marketing figures for the end of month
and before I knew it – well, you know how it is.”
Tom smiled; he knew how it was with Jess. He came forward to help with the shopping.
“Blimey.” Jess looked at him properly. “What happened to you?”
“Uppity patient.” Tom touched his bruised cheek gently. “We’re doing the high-level DCs this week and one of them objected. My fault. I wasn’t on the ball.”
“Never a dull day for a psychiatric nurse. Do you want me to put some witch hazel on that?”
“No, I’m fine, thanks. So what are you going to do about clinic?”
“No problem.” Jess began unloading the food. “I’ll go next week.”
“Next week’s May.”
“So?”
“So, you didn’t go in March. That already puts you at a level two. If you miss April…”
“Fuck.” Jess stopped unpacking.
“And three –”
“Three strikes and I’m off to the unit, I know. Jesus, Tom.” Jess let out a long slow breath. “How did that happen?”
“Well, it’s probably something to do with the fact that you’re scatty, disorganised, and have an unhealthy attitude to authority.”
“You know that’s eerily similar to what Cartland said when I complained about missing lunch for his bloody stats.”
“Harsh, but true. Unlike Cartland, however, I have a solution.”
“You do?” Jess’s eyes lit up with hope. “I know I shouldn’t have put it off, Tom. It’s just that a level two seems so…”
“Heavy. I know. Still, better than a level three. And if you get your act together you can come with me tonight. I’m driving over to the Greater Hampton clinic then meeting Carla for a drink.”
“Tom.” Jess put her palms together in front of her chest and bowed. “That would be…”
“Wonderful, I know.” He suppressed another smile and glanced at his watch. “We’re leaving in thirty minutes.”
“Thank you.” Jess walked forward and kissed him on his good cheek. “You’re a star, you know? Totally wasted on Carla. Too bad we don’t fancy each other or I’d grab you for myself.”
Tom turned away and investigated the shopping. “Too bad, indeed,” he said, his back to her. “Now go and get ready while I put this away, because I’m not going to wait if you’re late.”
It was still daylight when they got there, an evening softness soaking in from the west, clouds rolling back for a clear night. St John’s Ambulance had taken over the village church, long since converted to a community space, their black and white logo on either side of a broad black banner that stretched out above its double doors. Dark Currents, it said, a jagged lightning fork zapping through the large yellow letters, Keeping Your Crime At Bay.
Beneath it, an unkempt chubby man with a wispy beard was handing out flyers.
“Freedom for the waiver signers,” he muttered, thrusting one into Jess’s hand. “Say no to the Illegal Immigrant Act. See justice done at last.”
“Thanks.” Jess folded the flyer, put it in her pocket and made to carry on, but Tom stopped.
“Have you got a petition?” he asked.
“Um…” The man looked uncertain.
“Or a website?”
“Website, yes.” The man nodded without conviction. Tom sighed.
“Try and get a website together,” he said. “And a petition. They’ll really help.”
The man nodded some more, staring at him until Tom turned away.
“I thought you weren’t allowed to sign petitions,” Jess said. “Public servant and all.”
“I’m not allowed to do a lot of things,” Tom said. “Doesn’t mean others can’t do them.”
“Tom the rebel,” Jess said in solemn tones, documentary-style. “The real man behind the establishment façade.”
Tom rolled his eyes, pulled open one of the heavy oak doors, and entered.
Inside, a trestle table had been set up in the antechamber, its long stretch blocking the doorway into the main hall. Behind it, two clerks were manning the computers. Opposite, an ancient stone wall was lined with plastic chairs for people to wait in, nearly all full. Jess went to sit at the end of the line, picking up a leaflet the previous occupant had left behind.
“Should have brought a book,” Tom said, looking at the queue.
“Here.” She handed him the leaflet. “You can read us today’s options.”
Tom unfolded it and looked at the middle section, where different levels were set out like a menu.
“Okay,” he said, starting at the top, “0.5s. This week’s varied DC selection includes speeding – 42 in a 30 zone; fly-tipping; failure to carry an ID card –”
“Always the same old options,” Jess interrupted. “When are they going to get some new ones?”
“Soon, according to this,” the woman on her other side answered. Large, middle-aged, with two shopping bags between her legs and the face of someone eager to talk, she unfolded her Daily Mail and pointed to the headlines: Illegal Immigrants to Boost DC Dummy Numbers. “Now they’re cracking down on the foreigners, it says, dummy shortages will soon be a thing of the past. About time too. Not that I’d DC a foreigner, of course, but it’s only fair they get their just desserts.”
“Hmm.” Turning back to Tom, Jess took the leaflet from him and buried her head in it, hoping the woman would take the hint. On the back was the usual spiel about DC.
Everyone has a dark side, it stated, and since we discovered how to unleash this vicariously in a safe environment, UK crime has dropped by an amazing 92%. DCT, or Dark Current Therapy as it was originally called, grew out of developments in EST (Electric Sensory Therapy) designed to treat a range of mental health problems. Initially, this comprised electro-stimulation packages such as voices for schizophrenics, ordering them not to listen to any internal voice but that one; relaxation packages that engendered scenarios of sun and waves; phobic packages, such as the immensely popular arachNOphobia, inputting a range of basic spider confrontations whilst controlling fear levels; and so on. As technology evolved and bespoke packages became cost-efficient, however, experts began looking into how a variation of EST might be used to tackle our spiralling crime levels – and DCT was born. From the initial trials, allowing a criminal to provide dummy experiences of their crime in return for a reduced sentence, DCT has grown over the last decade to become the crime-fighting tool of the millennium. Channelling latent dark currents into vicarious action so they cannot spill over into everyday life, the –
“Your turn.” Tom gave her a nudge.
Jess looked up. Behind the trestle table, an ageing woman in an acrylic turquoise trouser suit was smiling at her.
“Next please,” she repeated.
Fighting the temptation to cut and run, Jess walked over.
“Name, dear?”
“Jess Reardon.”
“Thank you.” She clicked the mouse and peered at her monitor, turquoise earrings dangling. “Level two, right?”
“Yes.” Jess cleared her throat. “I’ll take the identity theft, please.”
“Identity…” The woman clicked again. “Oh.” She looked up. “I’m sorry, the identity theft’s not working tonight. Apparently the hall doesn’t have enough power to run all the dummies. That leaves assault or… oh. The drunk driver’s just been signed up.” She glanced at a young man heading into the main hall. “You could wait if you want to – about 30 minutes for a level two.”
Jess toyed with the idea. She could make her own way to the pub – but then there’d be no Tom for moral support. And drunk-driving scenarios weren’t necessarily better, given some of the crashes. She’d be sensible, probably, to bite the bullet. With a sigh she handed over her DC card, took the assault printout and then, with a final glance at Tom, walked into the hall.
Once there, she stopped to get her bearings. Cubicles had been set up around three sides, their curtains drawn to give privacy to those inside. Above them, the evening light shone through the high stained windows,
slanting different colours across the wooden floor to give the room a cheerful, friendly air. Beside her, on a table by the door, a monitor gave the booth numbers for each crime: assault was at the far end. Taking a deep breath she started down, past the gentle hum of machines and hidden people talking in murmurs, to booth number eight.
The nurse waiting for her was a skinny, middle-aged man, his white uniform hanging loose off his narrow shoulders, smudges of dirt on the knees of his trousers as though he’d been crawling on the floor. He looked preoccupied.
“Right then Ms –” and he glanced at his monitor, “Reardon. If I could just check your papers.”
Jess handed them over and looked around the booth while he studied her DC card, finding herself calmed by the familiar surroundings. The dummy on its gurney next to the cot she’d use, the tangle of wires and leads around the metal box behind them, the console and split monitor with its two sets of green lines – all were just the same as for a 0.5. Perhaps, she told herself, this wouldn’t be as bad as she feared.
The feeling was heightened when the nurse pulled the sheet off the dummy to reveal a young woman, early-twenties at most, looking small and vulnerable in her hospital gown.
“That’s my assault?” Relief surged through her. Surely such an elfin type couldn’t be too vicious.
“So they say.” The nurse flicked a few switches, stared at the monitor, muttered under his breath then pressed a button. The booth light flickered, failed for a second then brightened again as a loud hum cut the air.
Jess frowned. “What was that?”
“Church hall electrics.” He shook his head. “These old buildings aren’t up to the energy needed. Especially not at the end of the month rush – hence the back-up generator.” He nodded to leads trailing on the floor out the back of the cubicle. “Don’t worry, it’s completely safe. I’ve double-looped everything.” He unconsciously brushed the knees of his trousers. Then he adjusted a few dials and pulled the first wire over to Jess. “So, if you’re ready…”
Jess moved slowly over to the cot. Ready was a relative word. But the sooner she started, the sooner it’d be over and she lay still, trying not to flinch as he wired her up.
