People in Season (12 page)

The scoffing bobblehead had followed Francis home, Barry’s gift to him in the days previous, it now takes pride in being a part of the social agent’s life. He had meant to bin it. Or to shove it in a dark drawer somewhere in the office. Now it’s in his room, making a place for itself among the collection of rubbish that has become his life – magic trick books and heist movies, old musty records and piles of dirty laundry, all falling atop another in his cramped bedsit. It needs to be put out of sight so that it can’t probe him with its constantly amused expression. Pleased in its new position, the inanimate object is already acting like it owns the place.

The lights are off. Split shadows from a decrepit tree break across his room and the lines, so black, crisscross the social agent’s clammy face. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t even know what to feel. Betrayed? No, loyalty was never offered. Stupid? That sounds about right. Relaxing into his armchair and dropping his pants down to his ankles, Francis had set about relieving his stress at the end of another long day in the newsroom. He let an image of Ava, splayed naked on a bed, come to the forefront of his mind. Wanting to savour whatever expiring bliss he could squeeze out, he made sure to take his time and rouse the brisk feel that her eyes had left on him in their first meeting. Thigh gripped with free hand, he observed the woman’s sinuous convulsions through a crack in the closet door he had imagined himself hidden, watching unknown as she pleasured herself. Before him, she groaned on the white sheets, a dark patch sprouting through her fingers as he had her whisper his name in panting breaths. She begged for Francis to come to her. It was useless though. Grasping for inspiration, he multiplied the sight of her, two Ava’s, three, bent before him, caressing each other in uncanny ecstasy, and in a blink the three became one again. She was always so far away, unreal and out of reach. As soon as she spread her legs to invite him in, he’d gotten a fright. There was nothing there. No comfort to be found, only a gaping mouth opened to swallow him whole. Before he could consider the strange thought, he’d remembered what was beside him, observing, impossible to ignore. He shifted the blame for his change in mood onto it. That damned figurine. As usual he had hemmed and hawed over what to do with it until it ended up in his pocket, and now, there it stands, triumphant on his closed laptop, challenging him to do something – anything. Instead, Francis started a staring contest with it, his bare legs dotted with goose bumps as he held it’s gaze. He was about to knock it over when its doppelganger had phoned. He couldn’t help but feel the real Barry was gloating when he’d informed him of the subterfuge in ChatterFive, but then, everything the man said sounded that way.

Her story’s got more holes than a colander, mate. Francis could hear him grinning down the phone, satisfied with a greedy gulp of his drink.

What business was it of Barry’s? Why did he care enough to inform a social agent of Ava O’Dwyer’s activities? Barry Danger, worried about the state of journalism? He was dancing on its grave in their interview. Barry Danger, reporting a possible UPD like any good citizen would? No. What difference would a UPD make at ChatterFive? He’d asked as much himself. The man was playing with Francis, winding him up to see where he’d walk, maybe even let him go so far as to waddle off the side of the table. And besides, how could Francis tell if the stock photo being claimed as the original wasn’t the fake? Barry should be the one selected for scanning, the social agent’s stomach knots. Barry’s the one who’s suspicious.

Headlights spin the shadow branches around his wall. A truck is rumbling by, rattling the room so that the bobblehead waggles in smug protest.

And if he’s not UPD, that’s a scanning slot which could be filled by a more likely candidate. Francis is allowed take only so many people for the final test. An opening would be gone, simply because he didn’t like the man’s attitude. So Barry thinks his job is a joke. That the world and the intersecting lives in it are just fodder for a comic routine. It would be suspect if only for how clearly the melancholy notes in his voice were heard. It wasn’t a happy laugh he used when he provoked Francis with his ideas. What about Ava though? She loves her work, doesn’t she? She believes in the power to make change for the better. She’d said so. It had been exactly what he wanted to hear. Like a pick up artist, she knew all the right things to say to generate chemistry, but didn’t feel a drop of it herself. They were just words. Once, he was suspicious of that, now, his questionnaire left in the office, he’s full to the brim with desire, latching onto the positive again as a sign of her devotion, a quality which he’d be happy to reward if not for his impotence under the glare of that scoffing bobblehead.

So what if she is untouched? Francis defiant, he looks at
his bedsit as if for the first time. The cosy nest he’s made for himself now more a lonely hole dug into the ground. This is what I’ve gotten, he thinks. This is what my good work has gotten me all these years. Every decision he’s ever made has been second guessed and turned over in his head, examined from every angle. Each act in his short time on the Earth had been dully considered so as not to hurt another. He moved through existence stepping to avoid snails on the path, never hurting a fly, never breaking someone’s heart. Well, he’s tired of it. He wants something now. Why shouldn’t he grab for it? All he has to do is let her pass. Carefully move her from one line to another. Don’t take her for processing. Once she gets to that stage it’s the end for her. Just let her slide by. Simple enough. Fill in the questionnaire so she’s safe.

After that? He laughs at himself. Ask her out on a date. He owes her a glass of wine. She’d said so!

The bobblehead quietly shakes it’s skull, grinning.

Oh just say what you’ve got to say! Francis jerks his trousers up, buckles his belt, and, furious as he paces back and forth across the room, steps over an empty mug and snaps up the deck of cards his landlord gave him. He hasn’t practiced since that night, a thousand years ago. Considering a visit to the old man, he wonders if it would make him feel any better and quickly decides that it would not. Whatever decision he makes, he comes out the loser. Why not choose the one with some amount of pleasure in it? The toy, not buying into his reasoning, is wobbling in the corner of his vision. Stomping over, he slaps it across the room. Dead on its back, it can shake no more, and still it wins. Francis can’t look at the thing.

In the kitchen, he searches frantically through the cabinets. Stocked full of spices and snacks and cans of food, there’s little room for anything else. Meat in the fridge, packets of pasta, a box full of wilted vegetables. All he needs is one or two more ingredients for the perfect meal. Easily amended. The main thing he’s missing is the bottle of cabernet. Swinging around, he grabs a long coat to throw his arms through and lets the door close behind him as he charges into the night. The room, lacking it’s occupant, is quiet now. Only the bare tree is heard. Pleading, it taps on the window pane.

***

Alistair is examining a bag of black beans, meditating on each seed for all Ava can tell. Floating through the supermarket, they’re forever drifting into the paths of oncoming trolleys. They’d have crashed by now if only for the other shoppers steering to the side, aware that they are the ones who shouldn’t be in frame of the catalogue couple’s scene. Alistair, as usual, is a dog, sniffing at the shelves for something that catches his fancy, one moment fixated on a product, the next on a passerby. He has an imitation smile that he flashes compulsively, two rows of sharp teeth to beam at people who smile in return. The man just can’t help but being liked.

When he arrived at Ava’s apartment unannounced, as is his habit, it was with the promise of something amazing. Without really thinking about it, or of how annoyed she was earlier in the day, she’d flung herself into her Burberry coat and let the lights turn off behind her. Terribly bored now, her arm is hooked into the doctor’s. They’re shackled together and oblivious to it until the chain goes taut.

‘I don’t like black beans,’ she informs him. ‘And anyway you have to steep them for hours. You said you’d have this spectacular dinner cooked tonight.’

‘I will,’ he frowns. ‘I’m the best cook in the world.’

‘Can you at least tell me what you’re making? None of the things you’ve picked go together.’ She doesn’t try to hide the irritation in her voice as she does a stock check of his basket – the bunch of bananas, a lime, pepper, chicken cutlets and bag of mixed nuts with raisins. ‘We’ve been here almost forty minutes.’

Alistair checks the time to confirm this, which Ava takes as a slight on her.

‘You’re still wearing that piece of rubbish.’

Bag of rice in hand, Alistair seems to consider both her comment and the package in one short chuckle, then dumps the bag into their basket. Happy that she’s taken a jab at him and amused she’s even bothered, he asks, ‘Is that why you have the hump? I thought you were still annoyed about that ignorant taxi driver.’

‘You could have taken the new one with you. You could have brought it home.’

‘So sensitive. Maybe I left it on your bedstand to make myself a new home. I’m nesting.’

‘You left it there to get at me. You wanted to annoy me for being locked up when I dealt with Joanne. Don’t deny it. You’re so petty. A big man-child.’

At this, he shakes and pretends to be scared. Ava squints into the middle distance, choosing to concentrate on something else instead. Around a bend, people shuffle to feed the self-service checkouts which beep monotonously in return.

‘I told you, it’s my old man’s. Do you know what he said when he gave it to me? Finally, somebody in the family will have places to go where they can wear this. He was a salesman and he said he never wore it because it made him look like a con artist. Don’t ask me what the difference is,’ Alistair lifts his arms, confused by the thought. ‘It has personal value, alright? My Dad said he felt like he’d won the lottery when I graduated.’

‘Your Dad was a prick,’ she reminds him. ‘You’ve said so yourself. He just liked you doing so well so he’d have something to brag about. I’m the one who’s here. I’m the one who supports you. Where’s he?’

‘How should I know?’

‘Exactly.’

‘I can be sentimental, can’t I?’

‘I didn’t say you couldn’t be,’ Ava allows. ‘I didn’t tell you to throw the thing out. But you don’t have to wear it everywhere, do you? Every day? You wouldn’t eat the same dinner every night, look at the same news story, listen to the same song, wear the same tie. How do you not get sick of it? It’s good to change things up.’

Alistair has already stopped listening. His hand lifts a scarf that rests on the back of a woman stood in front of them and lets the light material fall from his fingers. Ava grimaces, disgusted. She could give up on the matter, but it would mean giving up on him altogether. That wouldn’t be so bad. She could walk away right now and grab a taxi home, order Indian food and put her feet up. It would certainly save the remainder of the evening. Then she feels Alistair hold her hand tighter and with the squeeze of it she knows that he’s reciprocating what she’s been trying to get – devotion. He doesn’t apologise, but the grip is all she needs. With a little more wheedling the black-silver watch will be on his wrist a couple days a week, and shortly thereafter, weekends and special occasions if she so desires. It will get boring and outdated too, but by that stage she’ll already have got him accustomed to change and it will be together with the gold watch in a dusty drawer, or better yet, on the jewellery section of ebay. She tweaks her expression from vacant to happy, a simple matter that requires less than a second. ‘Let’s just cook a stir fry.’ Stepping around him, she stands on tippy toes to press her lips against his. ‘I feel like something spicy.’

Seeing himself in her gaze, Alistair replies, ‘Good idea.’

But as he tries to twist her around, she’s stuck to the spot, feet glued to the floor and her eyes gone intent as a shark’s.

Down the long aisle and into the next, a wormy man is weighed down on one side by a bag of groceries. The man’s terrified face contorts grotesquely, forced into a shape it’s never had to pull, and his mouth split open is a festering wound. Alistair turns back to Ava, who appears to be the source of the man’s anxiety. She looks down at their joint hands and pulls away, breaking their grip, as if his hand is an iron hot enough to burn.

‘Get away from me,’ she says.

The man at the end of the aisle has dropped his groceries. They’re scattered on the floor among a smashed jar of pasta sauce. He’s bent over to pick them up, but as he sees the shattered pieces he regards it all helplessly. Frustrated by the mess he’s made, the man gets the bloody pool of pasta sauce all over his chest and hands. All in a hurry, he glances timidly at Ava and the doctor, grabs a bottle of wine which survived the fall, and makes a break for the sliding doors, clearly desperate to escape the pair.

Alistair, seeing the man sprint away in fright, feels a deep rooted instinct to give chase, like he’s spotted some game on the run. Managing to suppress the impulse and remain still, he watches curiously as the hapless fool disappears. Ava though, she’s tipping forward to follow him out, running as fast as her high heels allow.

‘What’s going on? Who’s that?’

‘I said back off Alistair. Just go home!’

Already halfway down the aisle, she’s given in completely to the instinct which the doctor managed to ignore. Ava is away on the chase.