Star Shot (12 page)

This lot? Um. Two primary schools, three private gardens, one day-care centre. And two unofficial stops.

Why unofficial? Dan is curious.

Not everything we do is done on request, or paid for.

Dan keeps quiet, waits to see if there is more to come, but Theo just grins at him, stands up and collects their mugs, looking absurdly tall inside the wooden house. As if he comes from a different century, thinks Dan.

You up for doing one more? Then we can go over to the trees.

Mud slips through his fingers like silk. It's the clay in it, Theo says, it's gorgeous stuff. Full of larvae. Dan's second tank takes far less time to prepare, and when he is done he gets up to stretch his back and wave at Lina and Teddy, now about three-quarters of their way around the pond.

There, he says. Looks good to me. Official or unofficial.

Theo looks at it critically. Bit short on the crowsfoot, he says; give it another clump.

Do they all take? asks Dan. I mean, you must have some that fail, don't get looked after properly; if there's a heatwave or something. He has a vision, from somewhere in his childhood, of a small green rancid pond.

Bound to lose a few, says Theo. But we help look after them once they're in, especially the schools. They have us over to help with lessons in the spring and summer. I've missed a few these last weeks, because of my mother; not everyone in the group is trained for schools.

Where are they? The others, I mean? Is this your headquarters?

Yes, effectively; here and up at the house. The others are all over the place but you might meet a couple this afternoon. It depends how long you can stay.

That depends on Lina, says Dan. And the trains home.

If we're doing a drop this evening we can give you a lift, says Theo. I want to go in to the hospital in any case.

He walked all the way round! says Lina proudly. I helped him over the streams, that's all. Her trousers are wet at the hems, and there is mud on her tunic.

Bachgen mawr!
says Dan, picking him up and hugging him.

We'll have some lunch at the house, shall we? says Theo. There's some bread and cheese. Apples. Then we can go over to the trees. I've got a couple to deliver for planting later on – you can help me dig them out.

But Lina is squatting down again at the edge, cupping water in her hands, letting it trickle through.

Is there a microscope at the house? she asks suddenly.

Yes. But there's one in there too.

Oh, she says. Could I? Just quickly?

Of course. I'll show you.

I'm taking him up to change his nappy, says Dan. See you up there, is that OK?

Go ahead. There's stuff in the fridge, help yourselves.

They go into the summerhouse and Theo reaches the microscope down from a shelf. Her fingers run over it softly. It's lovely, she says.

Pretty old-fashioned by now, he says. The one at the house is slightly better, but this isn't bad. Here, I'll get you a chair.

She makes a contented sound. I'm salt-water really, she says, but the water is so beautiful here. Thank you.

He watches her set up. What did you work on – in Syria, was it?

Yes. We were in Homs.

Oh, says Theo.

She looks up at his tone of voice, meets his gaze.

My brother was killed there, says Theo. Photographer.

She nods. My husband too, she says. Doctor.

She twists the lens into focus. Hey, this is busy water you have.

So what is your field?

She looks up again and smiles at him. Marine microbiology. Specifically, Radiolaria. More specifically, the actinota.

Ah, says Theo, delighted. Beautiful. Just beautiful. Have you seen the Blaschkas at the museum? The glass models?

I don't have much money, she says, apologetically.

You don't pay, says Theo. Amazingly. You can go and see them whenever you like.

38.

It's the underground, though she can't see the names properly. Not Paris, or Moscow, or Prague, or Madrid, just one of the grottier outer branches of the underground, on an unfamiliar line, with a familiar fear in her stomach. The carriage is packed at first, and she is standing, swaying, clutching the pole, keeping her eyes down as she always used to in case one day, by sheer ill luck, she should look straight up into the face of the man she is afraid of, but then the people begin to drain away and she is pretty much by herself, tucked against a window, watching indistinct platforms pull up, blur, and vanish. Between them she watches her own thin face stare back.

When the train stops and shudders and the harsh lights spring on she understands that it is time to get off, and steps onto a well-lit platform with no name and no one else around. There is only one exit, and she takes it, walking decisively in her smart shoes, click clack, along a corridor lined with bright posters advertising circuses, they all seem to be for circuses, three, four, five, half-a-dozen different circuses, which seems like a lot, though she hasn't got time to stop and look. Then the corridor splits without explaining why. She goes left. It is slightly darker here, and the posters are harder to catch in passing, but look to be much the same, if a little more tatty.

An escalator, going down, which seems counter-intuitive, but doesn't bother her any more than does the absence of other travellers. She stands on it, lets it carry her down gently past an elephant, a spangled girl, a dancing dog. There is another fork at the bottom, and this time she goes right, stepping onto one of those travelators that lets you walk and glide at the same time, like seven league boots. It sounds rattled, but goes fast enough to make her smile, she can't remember the last time she was on one of these. It pulls up at another junction. Left, now. She has a superb instinct for direction, though she knows it can be difficult for anyone underground.

After a good while walking like this her feet hurt. She takes off her shoes and puts them in her bag. The concrete feels cold through nylon tights, but not unpleasant, and, as the lights get dimmer and the posters on the wall are nothing but ragged coloured scraps, being practically barefoot means she can tell when the concrete runs out and the path becomes something like compacted soil, perhaps sand. It is obviously not any kind of approved official exit, but for some reason this doesn't worry her, and she is thinking quite phlegmatically that she could always retrace her steps and catch the next available train back when the path comes up against a stone wall. The light is very dim by now but she can see how massive the blocks are, and that they curve round; she can't make out how high they might go. There is a single low arched opening, like the entrance to a tunnel, through which she can see only dark.

She doesn't need to stoop, but does anyway. Her hands guide her through the vaulted archway, down some stone steps, three, four, five, and then she is on a circular terrace looking down on an enclosure, a shallow pit. There is an odour of straw and animals but what catches her breath is fresh air: she looks up to see stars, a million bright stars opening out above her in the night sky. She smiles, and as her eyes adjust to the new light, looks down.

On the floor of the pit a large figure is lying asleep. She can hear it breathing, and is curious enough to want to get closer. A zig-zag path leads her down into the enclosure. The figure is lying on a pile of straw and rags and as she moves quietly towards it she can see it is a man, or something like a man, naked and half-curled, his bull's head resting on one big arm. She is standing very close now and looks down on him, fast asleep, profoundly peaceful, and sees with fascination how at the nape of his neck, where the heavy animal head joins the big man's body, his dark hair is slightly tinged with grey. She stoops over and strokes him very gently. He moves, but doesn't wake.

Feeling suddenly exhausted by her long, long walk, and a little chilled in the starlight, she crouches down on the straw next to him and pushes herself into the space made by his curved warm body. Then she closes her eyes. The creature's big arm moves instinctively across her waist, and pulls her in tighter towards him.

39.

I tried a couple of days ago, she says, but I couldn't get through, I turned back. Stupid.

What happened? he asks.

Grief, she says. Loss. Hopeless. It didn't seem to matter any more, and then I didn't think about it at all until this morning. Then I saw you.

It's not just you, he says, don't worry. I've watched dozens of people turn back like that. The woman I know in Natural History says visitor numbers have been dreadful, and Dan says the university has set up some kind of cctv to record what happens. They interview people. They'll be after you, you watch.

She smiles. It didn't work, then, the Parade?

Apparently not. Come on, I'm here now, and going in anyway. I'll help you through.

He gives her his arm, and they climb the steps quickly. As they get nearer the top he puts his arm right around her shoulder and hurries her through. He doesn't let her go until they are in the main hall, under the echoing dome. He watches her look up, and around her, astonished.

I haven't been anywhere like this for a long time, she says. A long time. It's incredible.

Would you like some tea? he asks. I've got about twenty minutes before I'm expected. Or would you like me to show you the Blaschkas? Are you OK for time?

She nods and smiles. Early shift, she says. I'm finished for the day now. Tea would be good. Then I will explore all this. She makes a big gesture.

He laughs. Come on then.

She doesn't tell him that she hasn't eaten since breakfast at the hostel, many hours ago now; that the money for her cheese roll went on the lemons, carefully chosen and amicably haggled for at the corner shop. But she lets him buy her a thick slice of lemon cake, with almonds, and as the girl at the counter puts it onto a white plate she thinks of the three bright lemons left in a white hospital bowl this morning next to the sleeping girl. She imagines her waking.

They talk about their work, going almost straight into the finest details, discovering with pleasure how much of a shared language they possess. Her brown eyes are warm, and she tells him about being in the States as a young woman, an assistant researcher on a big international project on the Radiolaria. He tells her about articles he has seen, developments in the field she knows nothing about. They do not, not yet, talk about their dead.

Theo takes his leave; she has his phone number, she must ring him soon, he says. He points her towards Natural History. Past the stuffed animals and up the stairs, he says. Good luck.

Alone again, she feels daunted. She stands for a moment, a small figure in a dark tunic and headscarf, collecting herself beneath that huge ceiling, and then on an impulse heads up the grand flight of stairs to the right, to the art galleries.

There she drifts unsystematically, letting herself be drawn by colours, by faces, looking only occasionally at the labels. A handful of medieval Madonnas, each with Child. The women are lovely, though most of the babies are unconvincing, one or two almost grotesque; but she finds one she likes, a sweet-faced girl holding a boy who reminds her of Teddy, soft curly blond head, laughing. His mother must have been fair, she thinks; Dan is quite dark.