Acid Song (3 page)

‘“I would have been more impressed by that comment Mr Watson,”
I rather shouted, drawing attention back to myself, “had you not made the prediction retrospectively. Which brings me back to my question. In what respect can we consider your theory predictive?”

‘He turned back to me then, and rolled his eyes, as if this was too tedious a business for him to be wasting any more time on.

‘“Look,” he informed the auditorium, letting out an exasperated sigh and running his hand through his foppish Oxford cut. “This complaint has been around since the time of Darwin, and despite being roundly beaten on any number of occasions, it simply refuses to die. I am almost reluctant to add to the punishment, lest it is some form of masochism which keeps it coming back for more.” He paused to give the congregation a moment to appreciate his wit. I waited for the killer blow. “Selection theory predicts that wherever there is complexity, there will be design. It predicts, in human terms, that there will be shared characteristics across cultures, that there will be average tendencies to behave in a certain way, and it predicts that these tendencies will be consistent with reproductive utility in the past. How many more predictions do you want?”

‘And still I didn’t sit, because now I smelled a hint of victory. And the very possibility of it, in front of my own, against a combatant of international standing, was simply irresistible.

‘“Considerably more predictive than that, Sir, I would respectfully submit,” I told him. “For unless you can show me the competing theory which explicitly predicts no such shared characteristics, or can outline for me right here and now a discovery which would shake your confidence in your theory, I am afraid I find it hard to accept that what you are doing amounts to any sort of science.”

‘A little knowledge is, as they say, a dangerous thing, not least because of the appetite it gives one for battle. I didn’t, back then, know what I was talking about, not really: I was just flailing about, seeing what I might hit. And what I hit, by luck not design, was the softest and fleshiest part of his agenda.

‘The questions moved on, but he was shaken and his performance suffered. I had become the story, at least in the eyes of those who saw in Stephen Watson a threat to all they held dear.

‘Susan of the attentive breasts embraced me as I left the auditorium, and I was whisked away by a group of admirers to a pub off-campus, where we drank and made instant legend of that single brief encounter. And as the empty jugs crowded out our table, we did something even more outrageous. We made plans for a new sort of research centre, an institute where scientists and social scientists would work alongside each other, complementing rather than denying one another’s contribution. I had no idea at the time just how well-connected some of these people were. Before I could properly articulate the how or the why of it, I – along with Susan and an anthropologist by the name of Pipa Whyte – was moving down to Wellington, to establish the country’s first solely academic research institute. It lasted only two years before it was brought under Victoria’s wing, but university politics makes for a dull interview. That in brief is the story of Stephen Watson, and The Institute. A tale of chance in the end. Written perhaps in the stars.’

Richard leaned back and stretched his arms together above his head.

‘And that is all you’re getting for now, unless you are interested in making a film about penguins.’

‘Just one last question,’ Amanda replied, ignoring the dismissal as, Richard supposed, journalists must. ‘What, if you were to sum it up in hindsight, is The Institute’s achievement you remain most proud of?’

‘I suppose in the end the networks we have established. Internationally, there is a community of ideas, of interest, and we’re part of that. It’s old fashioned to say it I know, but we’re part of the ongoing search for knowledge. Maybe a futile search, but a profoundly human one. Will that do?’

He’d given that answer so many times over the years that it was polished smooth from the handling. And the smoother it got, the less plausible it became. These days, truth be told, he didn’t believe in it at all.

‘YEAH, SO, UM, see ya then.’

Ollie allowed himself only a quick scan of Sophie’s face to make sure she wasn’t crying, then looked again to his feet. He kicked at the ground, and waited for her to say something. Waited to be released. People swarmed all around, laughing, complaining, squealing, pushing their way past. If it were anyone else, Sophie might have thought he planned for it to happen this way, right at the end of lunchtime, at the bottleneck at the bottom of the stairs. She wouldn’t scream here. She wouldn’t break down. She wouldn’t plead or make a scene. But she knew Ollie didn’t plan things. If he was asked, if he was forced to think about it, he might even be able to imagine himself as the victim. That she just happened to him. Saturday night, at the party, it just happened. What she had thought of as his cool was something else, she saw that now. It was just unbothered. Too unbothered to say no, and then later, when the sex and the alcohol had both faded, too unbothered to answer his mates, when they asked, ‘So what’s the deal with Sophie?’ (What deal man? There’s no deal.)

He did it this way. He was coming down the stairs while everybody else was going up, finishing a lunchtime detention probably, planning on a session up at the pines as compensation. He saw her.
She happened to be there. He grabbed her arm, slowed her down, forced her to take in his smile. His easy, casual, nothing-happening face.

‘Hey, Sophie.’

‘Hi.’ She smiled back, felt it warm her.

He launched straight into it, as if it was a thought that had only just this moment come to him. Which was possible.

‘Hey, about the other night, that didn’t, like, just checking you knew that didn’t mean nothing right?’

‘What? Nah, of course not.’

Naked beneath him, terrified, wishing he would say something, wishing he would at least look her in the eyes, hoping it wasn’t the sort of park people would walk through, late at night. And if she couldn’t have any of that, then wishing she could be drunk like he was, as a way of deadening the disappointment. Why would it mean anything? What did he think she was, stupid?

Sophie shrugged, raised a single eyebrow, a move she had perfected in front of the mirror in Year Nine. Not for this. She’d had bigger plans for the eyebrow.

‘Right, sweet.’ Ollie nodded sagely, like an old man appreciating the late revelation of life’s pattern. Only he was sixteen, with a pimple forming between his eyes and oil glistening on his forehead. The nod he had picked up from a music video.

‘Yeah, so, um, see ya then.’

‘See ya.’ She smiled. The effort of it fractured fault lines in her brain.

Ollie bobbed against the tide a moment, then regained his momentum, his shoulders rolling out towards the door. The air. Freedom.

She was not crying. She would not cry.

‘Sophie, bio right?’

‘Ah, yeah, think so.’

Tessa stopped and looked again.

‘You all right?’

‘What? Yeah, sure. Just … you know, sick of it all.’

‘Sure.’ Tessa asked no more. She understood. Who didn’t?

They made their way up the stairs. Sophie’s legs were heavy; she felt out of sync, as if imposed on the scene by an amateur hand, three frames out of time. She stumbled on, determined to make up the ground, to swallow back the dancing that had hold of her stomach. Sick.

‘You think we can get him to play games today?’ Tessa asked.

‘If you ask nicely.’ Her voice was her friend. It would not betray her with so much as a quiver.

‘Me? You’re the one he’s always looking at.’

‘I wouldn’t say always.’ Sophie laughed.

He was Mr Krane, their biology teacher. Luke Krane, an odd one. All teachers were odd, that was a given: adults who’d never left school. Mr Krane’s odd though was different. He could make them laugh when he felt like it. Tessa was right. He did look at her, sometimes. And she didn’t mind. That sort of odd. Early thirties she guessed, not quite as old as her dad.

They were the last ones to class, five minutes late because Tessa diverted to the toilets to consult the mirror. Sophie was relieved to see her eyes hadn’t reddened. Maybe with an X-ray the damage would be visible.

‘Sorry we’re late,’ Tessa breezed. ‘Toilet.’

It was good to be a girl too, sometimes. Tessa chose seats beneath the teacher’s nose and looked up, flicking her hair back with long fingers. She’d dyed it blonde, in preparation for summer, and it made her look like a slapper. Sophie didn’t tell her this.

‘Sophie wanted to know if we were playing games today,’ Tessa said.

‘And what’s in it for me?’ Mr Krane asked. Oblivious.

‘I don’t know,’ Tessa replied. ‘I’m not Sophie.’

People laughed. He shrugged it off, like the nothing it was. The class fixated on the possibility of a game.

‘Yeah, let’s do one of those games, Mister.’

‘You promised us.’

‘When did I promise you?’

‘Before the last test.’

‘That was last term, Brendan. You don’t even remember last Wednesday.’

‘My long-term memory’s good, Mister. It doesn’t affect your longterm memory.’

‘Being stupid affects everything.’

‘You’d know.’

‘Well actually I wouldn’t. That’s the compensation for being stupid, you see. You’re always the last to realise.’

Each class depended upon the teacher’s mood. A sick sort of roulette, five long years trapped at the table. Today they’d get their game.

‘Okay, chairs and desks to the side. We need some space for this.’

Twenty-four pairs of arms and legs built messy nests at the edge of the room.

‘What’s this for?’

‘Reproduction. We’re going to learn about reproduction.’

‘What?’

‘Do we get to choose who with?’

Lionel was front row: large, wide and firmly planted. His face dimpled when he smiled, and when he scowled. People were afraid of him. Sophie’s friend Jade, who had fallen for him briefly some time last summer, swore that he was a lot cleverer than he appeared. Sophie preferred the alternative: that Jade was far stupider. For Lionel was a stupid boy, a bully who set the tone because nobody knew how to stop him.

‘No, we’re leaving it to fate,’ Mr Krane told him.

‘Is this still part of the ecology unit?’ asked Sean. Lionel hit him from behind.

‘Don’t!’

‘Or what?’

The teacher ignored the exchange. If you didn’t ignore Lionel, then the lesson was about Lionel. Every time. They wouldn’t expel him. That would be giving up. And it was
very important to never give up
. The almost-sports-stars they dredged up for assemblies told them so, every second Wednesday.

‘Get a die each. There are twelve green, twelve white. It doesn’t matter which you get.’

They took their dice, continued their conversations, milled about. Mr Krane was in no hurry.

‘Here’s what’s happening. Hold your die in your left hand.’

‘It’s dice. The word’s dice.’

‘That’s plural.’

‘That’s stupid.’

‘And with your die in your left hand, you cross your arms like this, hands to the opposite shoulders.’

‘Why? Why are we doing this?’

‘Because you don’t need your hands to reproduce.’

‘What?’

‘It’s so we don’t touch people’s tits.’

‘Shut up.’

Without Lionel, and Gavin, and possibly Andrew, this would be a good class. Without Ollie, school might be okay. Sophie forced herself to think of something else, but already a film had spread across her eyes. She wiped it away before anyone noticed, and swallowed down the misery.

‘Okay, now I want you all to close your eyes.’ Perfect. The world went dark, and Sophie’s mind followed into blankness. ‘And then
very gently, within this space … eyes closed, Lionel.’

‘It’s Sean, Mister. He’s been looking at me funny, ever since you mentioned reproduction.’

‘Fuck up.’

‘Thanks, Sean, eyes closed eh? Now, we are going to very quietly move about the space. If you bump into somebody, just gently move away, without opening your eyes, and keep going.’

‘Then what?’

‘I’ll explain when everybody’s doing it.’

Sophie felt a hand slide across her arse. She opened her eyes, but the groper had moved on.

‘And eyes open. Face the nearest person. Good. That’s your reproductive partner for this round. Introduce yourself.’

Laughing. Stupid comments. Boys faced boys, girls faced girls, Randall the exception. He faced Sophie shyly. He was shorter than her, and had made a good head start to obesity. He blushed, too hot in the jersey she had never seen him take off. The groper?

‘Now roll your dice. Whoever gets the lowest number must come to the front and change their die for one of their partner’s colour.’

‘What say we’ve got the same colour?’

‘Then nothing changes.’

Dice were rolled. Comments were passed, dice changed. Sophie watched Mr Krane write ‘Random Selection’ on the board. She tried to remember the words. He could not be relied upon to make his points clearly. He had no staying power. He wasn’t the sort you could depend upon, when it came to the exam. Sophie made up her own notes at home.

‘And if any pair throws two sixes, let me know. Eyes closed; mingle again.’

Three rounds later the first double six was called. Mr Krane stepped forward, took the pair’s dice and replaced them with red ones.

‘What’s this?’

‘A mutation has occurred.’

‘Mutants!’ Lionel jeered.

‘We’re all mutants, Lionel.’

‘I’m not.’

‘No, possibly less so than the rest of us. Quick show of hands. Who’s still got green? How about white?’ Three quarters of the class now had green dice. ‘Okay, remember that. Now, people with red dice: whatever you roll, add a two to the number.’

‘Random Drift’ and ‘Mutation’ were added to the list on the board. Sophie said each to herself three times. The game was good. It was helping her to forget.

‘Eyes closed, let’s go.’

It came from nowhere. That can’t have been true, it must have been bubbling over, perhaps all year, but from nowhere is how it seemed to appear.