People in Season (8 page)

‘Whatever you think is right,’ he says.

‘Can’t you give me a clue?’

Francis stares back at her resolute and in reaction to the stance, he sees a fork of lightning appear over the horizon in her eyes.

‘I don’t like games, Francis.’ Though she recovers quickly from the display of irritation, the clap of thunder is left rumbling over the social agent when she holds up her phone. ‘I really need to take care of something.’

‘Alright, I think we’re done.’ Laying the tablet down, he stands to watch her exit the room. ‘Thanks again for the coffee.’

Ava stops in her tracks when she hears him grasping at straws like this.

‘Let’s say you owe me a drink. I like wine, Francis. A cabernet. Something Chilean.’

When she’s gone, he falls back into his chair, devastated by the suggestion and its implications. A drink, he swallows the thought. She likes wine. Chilean wine. Do they sell that in Tesco? From his seat he sees an Ava shaped cloud dissipate as she races past her confounded editor and right on out of the office. Waves are left in the woman’s wake. The journalists jostle in them, some amused, some afraid, each assuming that whatever happened inside that office has fazed the unshakeable Ava O’Dwyer, and soon will happen to them.

There are five-hundred and twenty-three dots on the ceiling. At least, that’s the number Francis manages to count up to. A mysterious gravy stain covers a panel in the corner. He’s trying to keep from thinking, angry for letting her get to him – And how? What has she done to get under his skin? He notices the smell of perfume hung in the air. Inhaling it deeply, her face shimmers in his mind, balanced and soft, plump lips set on startling white. No, he assures himself, it’s the newsroom that’s getting to me. Whatever she is, she’s only doing what everybody else in the office is. His finger is a ticking clock on the desk. Is she the one setting the tone for the room though? One person? In his interview guide there are circles that need to be filled. There’s no fields for comments or questions beside them, and this troubles him all the more, because with no release valve, his comments and questions are swelling inside. Doubt, the sound bite plays, doubt is a dirty word in Agent Mullen’s profession.

‘If she’d worn a little more eyeliner and a little less blush my job mightn’t exist.’

The coffee has gone cold. He wanted her to save herself so he wouldn’t have to face questions he doesn’t have the answers to. Is she really any worse than the rest just for being untouched? He opens a file on his screen to type his thoughts into some kind of order, but finds he only has one thing to write. Jotting it down purposefully, he underlines the short remark before reading it out loud – But she set off the fire alarm.

It couldn’t have been anyone else.

There’s a circle that should be filled. Francis finds he’s just sat looking at it, caught in the pull of its centre. It’s as though he’s been called on stage by someone in full magician garb, and everyone is waiting for him to pick a card, but he’s stuck, a dumbstruck fool staring into the spotlight.

Drumming the elevator button and watching the numbers pause on every floor, Ava grows frustrated and makes a dash for the winding stairs instead. Spiralling downward, when she’s met by the guard’s smile at the front desk, her own freezes tersely, each corner stuck to a cheek by pins as the thought flares – Maybe he was going up in the elevator as I was running down. One heel follows the next as she spurs herself forward. If he is up there, his arrival in the newsroom would be, for all its effect, a bomb blast. The concern turns out to be unfounded. As she pushes through the door to let the light of day blind her, she squints to see the doctor standing in the smoking area. Propped against the rail, Alistair has one leg hitched over the other and a bunch of roses held haphazardly in the hand hanging at his side.

‘What are you doing here?’ Ava shoves him away from the car park. ‘Are you trying to get me fired?!’

‘I was bored,’ he says, then quickly adjusts to a syrupy inflection. ‘I brought flowers. You work hard, I thought you’d like a nice surprise.’

Ava snatches the flowers from him. A stream of petals spill into the air as she dumps them into a dustbin they fly past.

‘Alright, so you don’t like roses,’ he says. ‘Tulip’s next time? They’re a bit cheap aren’t they?’

‘There won’t be a next time,’ she snaps and glances over her shoulder to the building that looms behind them. ‘My editor has been pushing for a story on you and so has everyone under her. That’s not even taking the social agent into account. That’s the social agent who knows your face, is searching for UPD candidates and–’

‘And what?’

‘And seeing you here, giving me flowers. It might give him the wrong impression. Do you think that you can show up and they won’t notice? That they won’t connect it to me? I don’t want them thinking I’m burying your story to benefit my own personal life. That we’re cohorts in some dramatic conspiracy.’

‘What do you care?’ he asks.

‘What?!’

‘I said what do you care, you’re not untouched, right?’

‘You know I’m not.’ Ava stops in her tracks and wraps her coat tightly around herself.

‘So relax,’ he pulls her close.

‘I don’t need the hassle, Alistair. Group self report sessions? Personality reviews? I’m here to put other people under inspection, not submit myself to it. That damn electric scanning machine he’s lining us up to suffer. What’s it even for?’

The building’s panel of glass is grey. Impenetrable from her angle, the Dublin coloured sky is spread across its surface. Inside is the social agent, armed with a set of questions designed to tie a noose around her neck. Outside, here in the windy parking lot with Alistair, she can breathe again.

‘Let’s go somewhere,’ he chooses the boyish smile for his face, knowing she’s back on side. ‘I’m horribly bored. They won’t let me do anything practical in the labs. I’m just sat around an office all day choosing who I want to call up. You should be happy it’s you.’

‘I’m honoured, really. Top on the list of bimbos you count as entertainment.’

Ignoring the sarcasm, he takes her comment as agreement, ‘Alright then, let’s go.’

‘I have work to do,’ Ava protests.

Exasperated by her dragging feet, he insists, ‘You can do it from anywhere. Why do you people even have an office?’

Stumped by the question, Ava is forced to accept his argument and with a link of their hands, they’re away.

‘Where are we going?’

‘You’re the one who got me out of work!’

It’s Alistair’s turn to pout now. In the short time they’ve known one another this is the pattern they’ve formed, swapping positions as it suits them, alternating who is to withhold affection, making each other work for the other’s company. Though it’s a constant wrestling match, there are precious occasions when the pair manage to sync their good moods. It’s possible that someday both of them could play the cold shoulder and really, just give up altogether, but in this instance, Ava sees an opportunity and decides to reach out. She has her mind set on fine tuning his style and directs him to take her into town.

Since she found Alistair, Ava has done little research into the crimes he was accused of, and even in close observation of his behaviour, hasn’t been looking for slips of the tongue that would reveal his seedy past, the body count he had supposedly racked up, and the list of women offended to the point of legal action. All that mattered to her was getting him under thumb. No easy task and one to be handled delicately, but, however difficult, the investment seemed worthwhile – Oh, the places they could go and the things they could do... Yes, she would train him, inch by inch if that’s what it would take. When they arrive at the shopping centre, Alistair is demonstrating the rare ability he has to appear and disappear in plain sight of those around him. Charm fully under his command, he can sink into the background one minute, and like a spotlight has revealed him at the click of his fingers, he has the attention of anybody he wants the next. With this ability, his own interests are pursued at whim. Intently fascinated by a given person, he might bore of them in a heartbeat and move on, patiently searching for another form to hold his attention. The nutrition facts on a packet of crisps have no less potential to do this than the man who sells them. Chomping down half a packet, he might drop them lightly as they leave his mind and somehow conveniently land the rubbish on a serving tray they pass in the food court. A bad habit he has, which irks Ava to no end, is stopping at windows and staring past himself as he fixes his hair, forgetting altogether their surroundings and the woman he’s with. At first, this aloofness seemed to Ava the doctor’s own method for seizing power in their relationship, a juvenile strategy to remain free and do as he pleased, but as their time together collected from hours into days, she supposed more and more that it was just who he was, and something she would need to take into account when whittling him down to a less unwieldy shape. Regardless, she was staunch in her struggle to get him where she wanted, and once they entered the shopping centre, put up with all of his delays in her stride. It isn’t until they arrive at the counter of the jewellers and he announces, ‘I don’t want a new watch, I like the one I have,’ that her patience finally snaps and she pinches his arm between two long fingernails.

She knows his watch already. In fact, it disgusts her. Having taken her time with Alistair to judge his closet by the outfits at each meeting, she has approved of his wardrobe. Tailored suits, slacks hanging just right over an ever changing selection of shoes and designer shirts, always ironed to the same standard, no matter the day, he could have been a runway model. She realises Alistair doesn’t understand or care why his suits are so good, that he just knows that they are by the price tag. Normally a safe rule, she was happy enough with the man she reeled in until she noticed there was one glaring problem with the catch – an ugly thing he wore on his wrist, the gaudy black and gold Rolex with chunky chain links and large roman numerals set into the face. It looks like something a wealthy deep sea diver would wear.

‘My old man gave it to me,’ Alistair pines.

‘And when was the last time you saw him?’ Ava asks, unconvinced. ‘It’s lovely for the right occasion, Alistair. A school reunion, a wedding, a funeral, that kind of thing. But you need something a bit more subdued for your profession.’

From here, Alistair might as well just be a hand Ava has taken along. Everything else happens between her and the salesclerk until they’re in another taxi with a tote bag dangling unnoticed in Alistair’s fingers.

‘I hate these sleeping drivers,’ Ava complains, despising the bald, speckled skull of the man at the wheel.

‘They never have anything interesting to say when they’re awake,’ Alistair says. ‘You want to hear about his kids? His gambling? I get enough of that from my subjects.’

Ava sits quietly, considering if she wants to accept the point, then, turning away from him to look at the stumpy buildings of Dublin swish by, she asks, ‘Why should they get paid to sleep? It’s health and safety gone mad. Like he’d wake up in time to do anything helpful if there were an accident.’

The doctor barks. ‘You’ve got a social agent in your office, picking people’s heads apart, and you’re saying the taxi drivers are a health and safety issue gone mad.’

‘They are. Anyway, they’re just as bad,’ Ava cuts through his laughter. As an afterthought, she says, ‘It’s a world of nanny states. Whoever got your medical license suspended is a part of it. You could be changing people’s lives right now and they won’t let you near the sick. And I bet you’re the best doctor in the city.’

Alistair sours in agreement with her assessment. Sinking into his jacket, it’s like he’s fallen into a bog, and sapped of energy, his suit shoulders push up to his neck. In a dearth of emotion, he seems to be peering out from something inanimate. It’s that same expression he gets when he studies his reflection, only there’s some foreboding movement in the black pools of his eyes. Ava doesn’t notice.

‘For crying out loud,’ she mumbles. ‘He’s snoring.’

‘I hear that,’ Alistair says, a warning in his voice.

‘He’s getting paid for it too. We’re giving him money for this.’

The doctor does not deign to reply.

Arriving at her apartment, the engine murmurs tensely. Ava leans forward to insert her card, but stops when she’s interrupted. Alistair is lightly tapping the glass that separates them from the man in the driver’s seat. He calls to him and the man snores louder again, choking on some phlegm that gurgles in his throat.

‘Hey!’ Alistair shouts.

Ava jumps. ‘Oh, leave it. What do you want from him?’

‘You don’t like sleeping drivers,’ his tone, coated in sugar, matches the one he used to deliver her a bouquet of flowers, ‘I’m waking him for you.’

‘We’re already home, Alistair, I don’t care anymore.’

Tightly linked to her on the back seat, he shows her a blank smile, their faces so close she can see the cogs grinding to dislodge a trapped thought, and as the moment passes, he turns back to the window in front of them and sinks lower into the seat, pulling his overcoat up to give his legs room to manoeuvre. Ava is about to ask what he’s doing when his foot springs up and out, smashing the heel of his loafer against the glass to make a crack that grows a leg.

‘Alistair! You’re going to get glass all over us!’

His foot smashes the window, which shatters into jagged marbles, and his heel clips the driver’s ear as it breaks through. Dazed, the driver groans and searches for a wound with a shaking hand. Having flung the door open, Ava pulls Alistair with her as she shimmies out of the car, makes sure to hide her face from the dashboard camera, and brushes pebbles of glass off her skirt as she stands on the path. Alistair is shouting abuse at the car as they walk away, taunting the driver whose hand trembles all the more as he finds blood on it. When they’re around the corner, Ava is seething.

‘You are just trying to get us caught, aren’t you?’

‘What?’ he asks, confused. ‘You think he wants to catch up with us?’

‘I don’t need our faces seen together on the six o’clock news.’

‘So don’t write a story about it,’ he laughs.

‘You’re on his camera,’ she says, exasperated.

‘Oh please. He won’t report us. He was sleeping on the job. He doesn’t want them checking the footage.’

Ava replies with silence, appeased but refusing to show it. Alistair watches his feet as they walk, at a loss as to why she would be so angry with him. The puzzle pieces are all laid out in front of him, but they don’t seem to fit together. Sensing his confusion, almost feeling sorry for him, Ava pushes her anger down into the pit of her stomach and grabs his hand. It’s a grip that says he’s forgiven. Later, the incident is all but forgotten.

***

Lying in bed, knotted in a post coital embrace and tranquilised by serotonin released on orgasm, the lovers remain a thousand miles from one another. Alistair is perplexed by his new watch. It’s side by side his old one on the bed stand. They sit like clock towers among the scattered artefacts of his pocket. His wallet, his keys, a bottle of medicine.

‘It doesn’t look like it cost as much as it did.’

‘You just don’t know how to look at it,’ Ava purrs.

Propping his head higher on the pillow, he adjusts his position in an attempt to see them from another angle. The Rolex and the simple piece Ava selected. One looks like it could be traded for a Ferrari and the other, maybe it could buy a pair of shoes or a dinner, but not a comfortable pair and certainly not a four course meal.

‘I feel like I’ve paid money to show off something that doesn’t look like how much I paid for it.’

‘That’s the point,’ Ava tickles him. ‘People with class will know it’s a good watch. People you want to know. If they don’t have any style, what worth are they themselves?’

‘Everybody I know likes big gold watches,’ he rolls her over and pins her with an accusing glare. ‘Everybody, except you.’

‘I’m not a bad person to know, Doctor Evans. You don’t think the nice article I might provide is more than that? One thing leads to another and before you know it you’re a media star. We’ll make you an institution all in yourself, brick by brick.’