Acid Song (8 page)

William raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement. He too took a taste from his glass, a signal of a truce of sorts.

‘If you’re right, and people’s fears are unfounded, isn’t there still a way of easing them? Can’t you, I don’t know, suggest a joint study?
How about offering to make your work available to your critics, to work with them in designing the next phase of the study? You don’t have to make any public statements. You don’t have to recant. They’ll say enough by themselves. You know, “we are suspicious of the data as it is currently being interpreted, and are working with Professor Harding to design a study which we hope will show how these anomalies have been generated.”’

‘They’re not anomalies.’

‘They might be. You said so yourself.’

‘It’s possible yes, but it’s not likely. You’re suggesting we spend the next ten years wasting time and money following up on the least likely of the available explanations. That’s the same as burying the data.’

‘No it’s not. It’s out there now. It’s available to anybody who wants to look at it.’

‘But nobody will. That’s the point, don’t you see? We’re all too frightened.’

‘Maybe with good reason.’

‘I never thought I’d hear you say we should be frightened of the truth.’

‘I don’t even use the word truth.’

‘Very fucking convenient.’

It was like this between them sometimes. It could turn personal without warning. Richard had never experienced it with any other of his colleagues. With them a vigorous disagreement was a sign of respect. With William it was more like being married.

‘Some people are saying you’ve changed, William.’

‘Why are using my name, Richard? Don’t you know that’s patronising?’

‘You did it before.’

‘I meant to be patronising.’

‘You’re avoiding the question.’

‘I didn’t hear a question.’

‘People are worried. That’s all.’

‘Of course I’ve fucking changed. How can that not change you? What am I meant to do, just get on with it?’

‘No, you’re not.’

‘You’ve never mentioned it before.’

‘I, it’s your business. I assumed, if you wanted to … You know where I am.’

‘I don’t want to.’

‘Okay.’

Again they both waited, holding their breath, as if not certain that silence could be trusted to take proper hold. But it did, finding its place between the sipping.

It went unmentioned. A Friday afternoon two years before. Richard was home with Elizabeth when they got the call. William’s car had gone off the road on the way back home to Eastbourne. The setting sun had blinded him as he came around the corner; he’d tried to brake suddenly, hit the accelerator.

It was the most beautiful road in the city, the last place the sun visited, lighting up the houses that hid amongst the steep dark bush, making green the water that licked at the road. The car barely sank past its roof, but that was all it took. William went down five times, trying to free his wife. On the sixth attempt he blacked out, and bystanders dragged him to the shore. He’d changed. And it would not be mentioned.

‘Are you saying,’ William asked, bringing his fingers together below his nose, his thinking pose. The knuckles on his left hand were scraped raw from the concrete. ‘Are you saying that people can’t handle this information? Is that, in the end, your thesis?’

‘No.’

‘I think you are.’

‘I’m saying …’ Richard thought carefully. What was he saying? He
was slipping. ‘I’m saying that with information of this nature, it’s never neutral. It can’t be presented neutrally. We have a responsibility, when it comes to how we choose to present it.’

‘A responsibility to whom?’

‘To ourselves, primarily.’

‘That’s pompous.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘You know the problem with liberals, Richard? Their education compromises them. In the end, to be a true liberal, you have to trust your fellow man, and the educated never do.’

‘Did you see Wilson’s speech today?’

‘I heard a little on the news.’

‘He’s polling at eight per cent. That’s why I don’t trust people.’

‘What about the other ninety-two per cent? Don’t they deserve some credit?’

‘It always starts somewhere. One Nation, what does that even mean?’

‘It’s a party for those who have trouble counting.’

‘He talked about the “Asian Problem”. Did you hear that? Last night a group of skinheads put a Chinese student in hospital. He’s in a coma. It’s touch and go.’

‘You can’t make me part of that.’

‘I don’t have to. There’s already a link to your study on the National Front website…’

‘If we stopped to think how every new discovery might be interpreted, where would we be?’

‘I’m worried about you.’

‘Snap.’

‘Then walk away.’

‘That would be giving in.’

‘So give in.’

‘You driving?’

‘I’ll leave the car here and get the boat across.’ Richard held his glass out for refilling.

‘Thanks for coming.’

‘No, of course. I had to. Which is not to say …’

‘I can’t deny what I know.’

‘Galileo did. What difference did that make, in the end?’

‘He died miserable.’

‘Dying’s a miserable business. Anyway, he was miserable when he was alive.’

‘Have you even looked at the numbers?’

‘Briefly.’

‘And …’

‘And I’d rather I hadn’t,’ Richard admitted.

‘You ever scared you’ve grown too comfortable?’

‘That’s a stupid thing to be afraid of.’

But Richard was lying. And every time he repeated it, the less convincing it felt.

THE RESTAURANT WAS too warm, and throughout the room carefully dressed couples regretted their choice of costume. It was that sort of place: quiet and expensive, with an imperfect temperature. A room where the commonplace of the wealthy and the special occasion of the middle class could mingle uncomfortably.

Luke studied Robyn, who studied her menu. Behind her, two of the dining dead sat in silence, sealed over by the already said. Luke
looked again at Robyn, and for a way back into their conversation. A conversation that parenting and careers, lost sleep and ‘worries for the future,’ had cut short. Almost mid-sentence, it felt. If only he could remember that sentence. Finish it. Unlock their lives.

‘You weren’t thinking of staying for dessert as well were you?’ Robyn asked. Not a question but a reminder; of a dozen conversations like it.
Fifteen dollars for ice-cream. We can buy ice-cream, perfectly good ice-cream, for a tenth of the price. We’ll eat it on the couch, in front of the heater, once Alicia is in bed
. Hokey pokey from a plastic tub, with the television on, and the thousand needles of jobs undone for company.

‘Dunno. See how I feel once I’ve eaten. You ever tried pheasant?’

‘Twenty-eight dollars. I think they’re quite small.’

‘Good, it’ll leave room for dessert. White or red? I’ll order a bottle.’

‘Just get yourself a glass. I’m fine.’

‘Oh for fuck’s sake!’

Luke hadn’t intended it to be this way. He had made an effort to leave the buttons unpressed, but they just went right on ahead and pressed themselves. He knew he should apologise, before her special look, a duo of bewilderment and accusation, set for the evening.

‘Can’t you just for once relax and enjoy yourself?’ Luke heard his voice rising to a fight and marvelled at its will. This was the truth. He simply could not help himself. ‘Happiness isn’t like saving for your retirement you know. You can’t set it aside, to be enjoyed at some later date. It doesn’t pay interest.’

Robyn accused him of having a temper, of speaking without thinking, and she was right. But so was he, that was the problem. So was he.

‘Keep your voice down,’ she told him.

‘Okay, I’m sorry. I’m just saying a glass of wine won’t kill you, that’s all. I wanted tonight to be special. Okay? Sorry.’

Luke smiled. She smiled back. He mistook forgiveness for a willingness to compromise.

‘So, red or white?’

‘Luke, I’m pregnant.’

The world stopped; every possible feeling rendered useless, clumsy, inappropriate. Luke recognised this state. Back then, the first time, he’d put it down to ignorance. Yet here he was again, with three and a half years of fatherhood to draw upon, still blank. All he felt was the lack of feeling. He smiled, as one must, and waited, and when that didn’t work, he tried to think the emotion to the surface.

Another child. You are going to be a father again. You love your child. Your child has changed your life. You are happy. You are truly, strangely happy.

‘Say something then.’ Robyn looked at him, anticipation crinkling to concern. ‘You are happy aren’t you?’

‘Of course I’m happy.’

‘We discussed this. We said how it would be nice for Alicia to have a little friend to grow up with.’

Luke couldn’t remember this. He certainly hadn’t used the phrase ‘little friend’.

Luke looked across the table. Tears were forming. She was vulnerable, devastated. Instinct kicked in, late but welcome. He reached across the table, took her hand, squeezed it. Said the words and felt, to his great relief, feelings swarming forward, smothering the gaps.

‘Robyn, it’s wonderful news. Jesus, of course it is. Better than wonderful, it’s … This will change our lives. I’m just a bit surprised, you know. It takes a moment to sink in. You must have been the same.’

A mistake, of course. She shook her head.

‘Have you, did you, like were you expecting this? Had you been, like, or did you forget? Or was it a mistake? A malfunction?’

She grinned, shrugged.

‘I guess I just forgot.’ Robyn looked down as if to mark a cute, inconsequential oversight, like forgetting to turn the oven on, or misplacing your car keys. Then she smiled, and somehow it didn’t matter. Luke noticed he hadn’t let go of her hand. Wouldn’t let go.

‘You are happy, really?’ she asked.

‘Yeah. Yeah, I am. What about you?’

She nodded vigorously.

‘I’m surprised,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know how I’d feel.’

‘You’ve just started back at work.’

‘Yeah, I know. But I can work through till Easter. They’re fine with that.’

‘You’ve already told them?’ He let go of her hand.

‘I had to check it all out, before I told you. So you wouldn’t have any worries. I’ve seen the bank too, we can just spread out the mortgage. And you know, maybe you can go for an HOD job at the college. You’ve said so yourself, how you were feeling like a challenge.’

The dead man behind Robyn coughed and brought his napkin to his mouth too late. The dead woman looked around, to make sure nobody had noticed. Luke saw a school corridor, full to bursting with the sounds and smells and bodies of ignorance, stretching out forever. He saw himself walking against its tide, heading towards an exit which he could not see, and awfully, could no longer believe in. He stopped, turned, allowed himself to be carried back towards the black hole of the classroom. Had he been alone just then, he would have cried.

‘Or maybe the steak,’ he said. ‘I fancy a steak. How about you? What do you feel like?’

‘Yeah, I’ll have the steak too,’ she smiled. ‘And I’ve been thinking about our cars. We don’t need two cars. I mean, not right away, but we should sell one, don’t you think? The school bus goes right past the end of the road doesn’t it? Yours, probably, would be best. We’d get more for yours. And mine’s fine. It still runs really well.’

‘It’s an automatic,’ Luke heard himself say, in the voice of a man who has just had the means of his execution explained to him.

‘Yes,’ Robyn agreed, happy that he should understand. ‘And it’s an automatic.’

DIFFERENT DRINKS, RICHARD found, each had their own way of turning him. Wine made him talkative, beer grumpy, whisky maudlin. All of them made him a little sick. The East West Ferry, on its last run for the night and barely with the energy left to resist the buffeting of the wind, didn’t help. The passengers crammed together out of the rain, and their smells thickened the air: Friday night drinks, wet woollen coats, perfume hopefully reapplied in the elevator, seasoned with sea spray and diesel. Richard sat on one side of a small table and tried to take his mind from the discomfort by staring out the window into the darkness. It was his wife’s birthday and he was late home. It was inexcusable, bad manners which a clumsy gift in paua would not, should not, make amends for. She deserved better. Always had.

Seeing William had depressed him. William depressed him. ‘When you choose to always be on the side of the angels,’ had been his old friend’s parting shot, ‘how do you know you haven’t just grown used to their company?’ Which he had no answer for. Doing right was hard enough, without the added difficulty of identification. But that wasn’t the depressing thing. What made him … ill was the right word, were the injuries on the face of a man who would never hit
back. And the secret Richard carried, that he knew he was too weak to share.

Across the table two young men were discussing the election. Even this close it was no easy matter distinguishing one from the other: the hair cut short and carefully worked up with gel, black and shining; dark confident eyes; stabbing fingers; smiles never more than a frame away from a snarl. Too young surely for the suits they wore, or the expensive watches upon their wrists. Richard could feel the line separating youth from age rising like a tide behind him. Soon it would peak and he and his generation would be discarded one by one on the shore, that the whole game could start again. Everything set back to zero.

‘Yes, but I’m saying,’ said Young Rich Man One, thumping the table, oblivious apparently to Richard’s scrutiny, ‘that she’s up herself isn’t she? Who wouldn’t be, after this long in government? I’m not saying it isn’t understandable. I’m not even saying she hasn’t done a good job, over all. History will be all right to her. But people like a fair go. They like to see people get their turn don’t they? And they don’t like people being up themselves. They want to teach her a lesson.’

‘But that’s a stupid reason not to vote for her,’ the other countered, immediately becoming Richard’s favourite.