Acid Song (24 page)

‘Reception. How may I help you?’

A woman’s voice. It would be, wouldn’t it? Luke hesitated. How could she help him? He wanted to see naked women. How to put it?

‘Um, yeah, I’ve just been having trouble with my television, I’m in room …’

‘Five-oh-four.’

There was no hiding from them. They knew who you were, what you watched, what you thought, how you left the toilet seat.

‘Yes.’

‘What sort of trouble, Sir?’ As if she couldn’t guess.

‘I’m just trying to watch a movie, and the screen’s blank.’

‘A pay channel?’

‘That’s right.’ His voice was shrinking, the adult pushing the adolescent down.

‘All right, well just let me check whether … was it a blocked channel, Sir?’

She emphasised the word blocked, said it in the way a plumber might. Here was the problem, the distasteful thing which must be
dealt with. She would humiliate him. This was the compensation she claimed, as one of the uniformed, the underpaid. As a woman.

‘What?’

‘The channel you selected, Sir, was it one of the adult movies?’

She wielded the word expertly. Adult. A small pause first, clearing out the debris, letting it stand alone, exposed. Did they joke about these calls later, leave cryptic notes on the guests’ files? Of course they did.

‘Yes.’ Luke winced at the confession. But she did not know him. That was important. He needed only to breathe through this, remove himself from the conversation, and it would pass. He would have his moment, his flesh, his fleeting hit of power. She couldn’t understand.

‘All right, well your set does not appear to be locked. Check the connections at the back of the set, running from the decoding box. I can send someone up to have a look at it, if you would like…’

The thought of porn rescue arriving at his door was too much for Luke. That he could not breathe through.

‘No, no it’s fine. I’ll check the connections. I wasn’t really … it doesn’t matter. Thanks for your help.’

The connections were not loose. Luke tried the procedure one more time, but the result was the same. He was vaguely aware he might have incurred thirty-six dollars of charges, and knew that on checking out he would not query them. He returned to the minibar and surveyed the overpriced stock. The anger that had brought him to this place returned: a dark sense of the inevitable. He found himself pacing the room like a prisoner. He reached the door for a third time, switched the light on then off again. Once, twice, three times. He felt fear, a sudden surge of clarity. Was it possible a mind could be lost so easily?

The woman on reception watched Luke walk across the foyer. Surely it was she who had answered the phone. He avoided her eyes,
put his head down in the manner of one in a hurry and lengthened his stride. He felt her watching him all the way to the door. She wouldn’t understand.

Luke did not check the bar before he entered it. The blast of warmth and music was enough of a reason, and the bouncers did not stop him. It was like the movies again. The outsider repairs to a bar, strikes up a conversation with the barman, is introduced to an interesting stranger. The talk comes easily, they are witty and refined. Cigarettes and cynicism, cool observations and charming replies. They do not go home together, it is enough that a connection has been made, that they understand they are not alone.

But the barman looked sixteen: overweight and pimpled, perspiration glistening through his crew-cut as he danced between the demands of the drinking and the drunk. Luke pressed amongst the thirsty and bought himself a beer. He worked his way back through knots of laughter, making for a darkened corner. He would find a seat and spend a while watching others. That was interesting wasn’t it? You could film it.

He did not see her, sitting on the other side of the table, lost in shadows.

‘Hello.’

Too late. He was already sitting.

‘Oh, sorry, is this seat …’

‘Help yourself.’

It wasn’t until she grinned that he realised. Out of uniform they looked so different. Fuck.

The moment presented itself. He could stand awkwardly and back away without explanation. Just a small thing, a small coincidence in a small city. They both understood this. But if he did not take the gap, if he sat here and let it close over, that was not a small thing. She watched him. The decision was his alone. He raised the bottle to his lips, concentrated on the simple business of tasting, met her eyes.

‘So where are all your mates then?’ She sipped the last of her drink through a straw that was too long for its stumpy glass.

‘Just popped in for a quick one,’ Luke told her, lamely holding up his bottle as if all things could be explained this way. ‘How about yourself? Who are you with?’

It came out wrong. He blushed, thankful for the darkness. This was ridiculous. His mouth went dry and he drank a thirsty denial. Sophie. Year Twelve Biology. A good student. An interesting student. Bright, but pulled back to bogan by a force bigger than the both of them. She smiled again. A great smile. Dimpled and broad. He’d melted for less. Those were the days.

‘You know, just popped in for a quick one.’ Taking the piss. She held up her empty glass. ‘Or two, if you’re buying.’

‘I’m not sure…’

‘I won’t tell if you don’t. Bourbon and Coke. Thanks.’

Clearly he should have walked away.

When he returned she’d moved over, so that there was room for him to sit beside her on the bench seat at the end of the alcove.

‘I like it here. You can watch people.’

Luke could smell her shampoo. She rearranged herself on the seat, moving closer. Her thigh was firm against his. He pulled back slightly and she followed. He couldn’t tell if it was deliberate. Her face was all innocence. Of course he could tell. He saw them practising this every day. Fucking hell.

‘Seen anything interesting then?’

‘A guy who starts a new beer before he’s finished his old one.’

‘Where? Oh, I see. Yeah. Just a little …’

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Been a long night.’

‘What have you been doing?’ She was leading the way, making it normal. He told himself he was simply inhabiting the space she cleared for him, no more than that.

‘Nothing much. Just watching the election.’

‘I voted today.’

‘You’re not old enough to vote.’

‘I’m not old enough to be here either. Ask me how I did it.’

She pushed at his arm to prompt him. His body became acutely aware of the contact. He wanted her to do it again. Less than five minutes’ walk from here was a hotel room. The key was in his pocket.

‘How did you do it?’

‘I pretended to be my mother. She doesn’t vote.’

‘Why?’

‘Why not?’

‘I mean why doesn’t your mother vote?’

‘You’d have to ask her. You shouldn’t though. She’s dangerous, around men. You’re safe though. Married right?’

‘For now.’

So obvious. But that was the point of the game. Her skin was smooth, in the dim light flawless. He wanted to touch her.

‘Bad day?’

She asked it in the manner of an adult, like they do on television.

‘No, I always come drinking alone at night,’ he said, enjoying the chance to over-dramatise.

‘Sorry, am I in the way?’

‘No, of course not. Good to see you.’ So obvious.

‘Want to talk about it?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘How come you teach?’ She sucked at her bourbon, like a child at a birthday party. He wished he’d bought her a drink without a straw.

‘Man’s got to earn a living.’

‘You don’t seem like a teacher to me,’ she told him.

‘That’s okay. You don’t seem like a student to me.’

‘Well no, I didn’t think you’d have bought me a drink otherwise.’

She would. He saw it. This was not a game. If he asked, she would follow him. And so he wouldn’t ask. Mustn’t ask. But … fuck.

‘You want another one?’

‘Not yet.’

‘So why don’t I seem like a teacher?’

She gave the question due thought, her smooth brow creasing with the need to get the answer right. For a moment he thought she was going to give up on the task.

‘Sometimes I watch you in class and you seem like you’re not sure why you’re there.’

‘That’s not teaching. It’s life.’

‘How do you mean?’ She had this well sorted, listening like she was interested. He wondered if she knew what she was doing. Or was she the sort who years later would protest that life had made a victim of her, that it wasn’t her fault she’d always attracted the wrong sort of man?

‘I don’t know. Well, just that if you ever stop and wonder if you’re where you’re meant to be, the answer’s always no. Sorry, that makes no sense does it?’ He smiled apologetically; painfully aware now how much he needed her to like him. To show him that she liked him.

‘No, I know what you mean I think.’

‘So the trick then is simple.’

‘Don’t stop and wonder.’

‘Precisely.’

‘What beer’s that?’

‘Macs.’

She leaned across and took the bottle from his hand. Or rather took his hand, then gently worked the bottle free. She held it to her lips and tilted her head back.

‘Nah, don’t like it.’

‘That’s because you’re a child.’

‘And you’re such a grown-up,’ she smiled.

‘Can I tell you a secret Sophie?’

‘Shoot.’

‘I’m fucking miserable.’

‘We’re all fucking miserable.’

‘He’s not.’

Luke pointed to a long-haired man who stood at the bar, swaying in time to the music, a liquid smile dribbling off his face. Sophie gripped Luke’s arm and laughed harder than she needed to, leaning forward so that her breasts presented themselves. Luke looked away, as he was conditioned to do. Saw, enjoyed, looked away.

‘I THINK IF we take one question at a time,’ Jed shouted into the microphone, ‘this will all go a lot more smoothly.’

Richard had to admire the depth of his colleague’s optimism, for if there was one thing this evening would not be it was smooth. The outraged stood waving for attention. Susan, tired of being one voice amongst the many, took the initiative and clambered down across the desktops to stand alongside the two professors. Jed backed away, allowing her access to the microphone. Not democratic perhaps, but at least this way held a promise of order.

Susan leaned in to the microphone, owning it, and waited for silence. Academically speaking, she was one of Richard’s oldest
friends, and it was oddly comforting that tonight she should be the face of the enemy.

‘Normally Richard, in the circumstances, given your loss, I would allow you considerable leeway. But I’m afraid this time it’s just too damned important.’

She pulled her head slightly back, by way of punctuation, and rode the applause.

‘And so my question to you is this, and it’s in two parts so bear with me.’

As if he had a choice.

‘First, given the findings at this stage are so clearly preliminary, how confident are you that what you have presented to us tonight is anything more than pure speculation? And second, given the speculative nature of your findings, what in God’s name are you doing presenting them? What exactly were you hoping to achieve?’

Her nostrils flared, as if inflated by the second round of cheering that burst from the rally. For this is what it had become now, a rally. Here was the moment Richard had constructed. His creation, and so his responsibility. He edged towards the microphone. He knew how this worked as well as any of them.

‘Science is by its nature speculative. I have spent my whole career speculating, and have stood many times before you with nothing more than the hint of a research programme. Sometimes these hints prove fruitful, other times they waste entire careers. Such is the roulette of discovery. One must never apologise for speculation. Every research programme needs its catalysts, just as surely as it needs its lab workers, its statisticians, its master communicators or its securers of funding. But you would not have intended to ask me a question with such an obvious answer. What you really want to know is not, why have I speculated, but why this speculation? And so I will, if you allow me, offer an answer.’

Richard spoke quietly, letting the amplifier do the work, carefully
imitating the voice of reason. The booing had stopped, and those who had been queuing for their turn to hurl stones had taken their seats again. Here was the claim Richard had relied upon his whole career, that curiosity was a stronger force than dogma.

‘First let me thank you in advance for listening. When the first results came through I spent three weeks rechecking them, before I would even allow myself the possibility they could be correct. Then I wanted to burn them, and then I decided to bury them. But I didn’t. Because I couldn’t. By that I mean a very simple thing. If these results turn out to be accurate, if what is now no more than a highly suggestive study turns out to carry weight, then I can not bury it because it will grow back. The first rule of managing any scandal is “control the story”. Get the information out there yourself, put your spin on it, don’t allow your hand to be forced.

‘For the people in this room, the results suggested here are indeed shocking. And part of the reason The Institute exists is that we know there are many who do not feel this way, who indeed have been waiting a long time for results just like this, that they may abuse them. There is a story out there, a reprehensible, destructive story being told by those we would call our enemies, that needs these results. I am aware of this. William was aware of this. How could anyone not be aware of this?’

‘And so you’re going to hand it to them?’ Susan interjected. Others shouted their support of her question. Richard moved back in front of the microphone and waited for the noise to subside. There was no hurry, no panic. He had been through this argument so many times he knew its shape from every angle.

‘No, I’m handing it to you.’ Richard lowered his voice to highlight the contrast. ‘And as you say, it may be that these findings, these suggestions, will in time be disarmed. We may find the flaw, explain the discrepancy and package them neatly away, another successful diffusion. Such has been the history of every other study in this area,
and such I hope will be the history of this one. I am not here to tell you that you are wrong, for I very much hope that you are right.’