Who are you? she demands, flapping her hands at him to move him further on down the hallway. What on earth dyou think youre doing?
Who are you? she demands, flapping her hands at him to move him further on down the hallway. What on earth dyou think youre doing?
Ive come to read the
Gene lifts the clipboard, trying not to trip up over the cats, his speech (through the torch) somewhat slurred. Both parties notice, at the same moment, that their torches are identical.
I should probably He lifts the struggling rat.
The woman darts past him (he registers the solid sound of her heels on the tiles), yanks the door open and shoves him outside. Gene drops the rat into the tiny, paved, front garden and it immediately seeks shelter behind a group of bins.
I thought you were my brother! the woman exclaims.
Gene spits out his torch. I came to read your meter, he stutters, but the door was ajar and when I
A phone commences ringing in the hallway behind her. It has an old-fashioned ring. It is an old-fashioned phone: black, square, Bakelite, perched on a tall, walnut table, just along from a large aspidistra in a jardinière. Gene frowns. He has no recollection of noticing either the phone or the plant on first entering the hallway a short while earlier.
The woman turns to inspect the phone, then turns back to face him again.
Stay there, she mutters, glowering. I should answer that.
She slams the door shut.
Gene waits on the step as a brief conversation takes place inside. He glances around him, looking for the rat. He inspects his watch again. He dries his torch on his shirt-front. The door opens.
It was just a bit of a shock the woman explains, calmer now.
Of course. Gene grimaces. I really should have knocked. I just
We have the same torch, she interrupts him, pointing.
Yes. Gene nods.
Mines a little unreliable, the woman confides, flipping it on and then off again.
Theres this tiny spring inside the top. Gene points to the top of her torch, where the spring is situated. I actually ended up replacing the one in mine.
The woman studies the torch for a moment and then peers up at him, speculatively. I suppose I should thank you for getting rid of the rat She indicates, somewhat querulously, towards the bins. I ran a bath a couple of hours ago, popped downstairs to fetch the watering can She pauses (as if some kind of explanation might be in order, but then fails to provide one). And when I came back
She shudders.
Gene struggles to expel a sudden vision in his mind of her reclining, soapily, in the tub. He clears his throat. It was nothing, he mutters, then stares at the corner of her lip, fixedly, where her lipstick is smudged.
Well thanks for that, anyway, she says, her mouth tightening, self-consciously. He quickly adjusts his gaze and notices a light glow of perspiration on her forehead, then a subtle glint of moisture on her upper lip, a touch of shine on her chin, a further, gentle glimmer on her breastbone
He quickly averts his gaze again.
Im actually She glances over her shoulder, frowning. Im actually in a bit of a fix she leans forward and gently tips his clipboard towards her so that she can read the name on his identification badge Eugene, she clumsily finishes off.
Gene cant help noticing her bare arms as she leans towards him. Her arms are very smooth. Utterly hairless. Slightly freckled. Her skin has a strange kind of of texture to it and exudes his nose twitches a slight aroma of incense (Cedarwood? Sandalwood? Frankincense? Musk?).
Under her semi-transparent plastic apron, shes wearing a strangely old-fashioned, tight, cap-sleeved khaki shirt (in the military style), unfastened to the breastbone with a jaunty, cotton turquoise bra (frilled in shocking red nylon) peeking out from between the buttons.
Gene blinks and looks lower. On her bottom half he can make out a pair of dark, wide-cut denims, rolled up to the knee. On her feet, some round-toed, turquoise shoes with neat ankle straps and high, straight heels.
I mean I know its a little cheeky of me, shes saying, but its only eight doors down. The other side of the road number nineteen
Pardon?
Gene tries to re-focus.
My niece. I have to go and fetch her. Its just she indicates over her shoulder I really should get back to my client. She wasnt very happy about
She winces.
Gene stares at her for a moment, confused.
And if youre headed in that direction anyway
He finally realizes what shes getting at. Oh. Wow. You mean you want me to go and ?
Would you mind? She bites down on her lower lip.
Uh, no. No. Of course not. Its fine, Gene insists. He glances up the road, appalled.
Id go myself she indicates over her shoulder again its just that I really should
Of course.
Gene nods, emphatically. They stare at each other, wordlessly, in a strange kind of agony, like two distant acquaintances whove just met up, arbitrarily, in the waiting room of a VD clinic.
So whats her name? Gene finally enquires.
Her name? Uh She puts a tentative hand to her headscarf. You know I honestly cant remember She frowns. Isnt that terrible? Something unpronounceable, like like Hokakushi Her frown deepens. Or Hokusha. Its Japanese.
Your niece is Japanese? Gene deadpans.
My niece? The woman looks mystified, then mortified. Oh God! Sorry She shakes her head. Ive been up all night. Im not firing on all cylinders, obviously. My niece My niece. My niece is called Nessie. Nessa. And the woman whos minding her is called Sasha She pauses, sheepishly. And Im Valentine.
She holds out a gloved hand. Gene reaches out his own, in automatic response, but before their fingers can touch, she quickly withdraws hers, apologizing, and starts trying to remove the plastic glove, muttering something about needing to maintain hygiene.
Dont worry. Gene smiles, taking a small step back. I should probably
Yes Valentines eyes are now lingering on his wedding ring. Well I suppose Id better She thumbs over her shoulder. My poor client
Absolutely. Gene takes another step. He inspects his watch. She remains where she is, though, still gazing at him. He isnt sure why, exactly.
You have the original glass, he mumbles, pointing, somewhat uneasily.
Pardon?
The original glass panels, in the door He can gradually feel his colour rising. Youre one of the only houses left on the street.
Oh. Yeah. Yeah. The glass Valentine peers across at it, fondly. My dad always loved it. He was completely obsessed by this period of design. I guess you could say it was his
Gene suddenly turns while shes still talking and hurries down the short path, then out of the garden (the gate swings gently behind him). He knows its a little strange. He knows its a little rude. And even as hes walking just as soon as he starts walking hes reproaching himself for it (What is this? What are you playing at? Are you crazy?!).
Valentine watches him go, surprised. He senses her blue eyes upon him, and feels possibly for the first time in his adult life an excruciating awareness of all his physical shortcomings. He automatically lifts his chin and pushes back his shoulders. He tightens his stomach. But even as he does so hes haranguing himself for it, lambasting himself for it (You bloody fool. This is ridiculous. This is laughable). His body feels leaden and yet light, all at once. His chest feels too small to contain his breath. He longs above everything to escape, to bolt, to flee. Its as much as he can do not to break into a sprint.
Theyre Genes, a sullen voice announces. All of them.
Huh?
Ransom glances up, startled. Hes just been idly rifling through a deep drawer in a heavy, dark (and profoundly unfashionable) Victorian sideboard in a somewhat cramped and boxy sitting room. In one hand he holds a bowl of cereal (mini shredded-wheat, drenched in milk, which hes eating with a fork), in the other he holds a medal. The person sullenly addressing him is a boy a short, thick-set teenager with a dense mop of black hair (carefully arranged to hang, with a fastidious lopsidedness, over one eye) and a copy of Bruce Lees Artist of Life propped under his elbow.
I dont know why he keeps them there, the boy continues, stolidly. Hes got dozens of the stupid things. Mums always nagging at him to display them properly.
I was looking for a spoon. Ransom quickly drops the medal back into the drawer, adjusts the towel hes wearing (a pink towel) and turns to engage with the boy directly.
You finished the milk, the boy mutters, darting Ransoms cereal bowl a petulant look before silently retreating.
Ransom glances down at his bowl, shrugs, devours another forkful, saunters over to a nearby bookshelf and casually scans the books on display there. After a brief inspection he soon deduces that the books are divided by and large into two main categories: the military and the spiritual. Ransom instinctively shrinks from the religious side and focuses his attention on the military end instead. Here, his eyes run over Clausewitzs On War, Conrad Lorenzs On Aggression, Richard Holmess Acts of War, then rest for a brief interlude on Wendy Holdens Shell Shock. He carefully places down his bowl and pulls it out, opening it, randomly: Too many people are jumping on the trauma bandwagon, he reads, in a society where to be a victim confers on people a state of innocence.
He scowls, tips the book over and inspects the cover, then slaps it shut and shoves it, carelessly, back into the shelves again. Next he removes the Clausewitz. The element of chance, only, is wanting to make of war a game, he reads, there is no human affair which stands so constantly and so generally in close connection with chance as war He scratches his head, intrigued. War is a game both objectively and subjectively he continues, and then, Every activity in war necessarily relates to the combat, either directly or indirectly. The soldier is levied, clothed, armed, exercised, he sleeps, eats, drinks and marches all merely to fight at the right time and place.
Ransom ponders this for a moment and then places the book under his arm, grabs Richard Holmess Acts of War, and quickly flips through it, pausing for a moment, beguiled, at a section that discusses how mans aggressive drive is inherited from his anthropoid ancestors. This genetic legacy apparently inclines him to fight members of his own species. Most other creatures, he discovers, avoid lethal combat with their own kind by employing a series of simple mechanisms like a pecking order, the ritualization of combat etc. Piranhas generally prefer to attack other piranhas with their tails rather than their teeth. Rattlesnakes air their grievances not by biting other rattlers but through bouts of wrestling