‘Does it, fuck,’ Guy snorts.
Haze looks at him, blinking rapidly.
We’re just finishing a curry we had delivered. Paul paid for it. Everybody thought Haze was going to cook tonight but it turns out he accidentally brought a bag full of football gear instead of his collection of specially mixed hand-ground spices and secret sauce bases. He was full of apologies.
We ordered too much, which is great; there’s another four full meals here – more if I boil some rice to go with it. In my head, I’m already reorganising the contents of the freezer to make room for everything. And this is even allowing for further grazing on the most snackable stuff. I may tidy up fairly soon to get the surviving main-meal portions safely out of the way and remove them from being tempting. This is sneaky, but frankly we’ve all gorged ourselves and it’ll probably be better for their waistlines.
More beer and wine has been opened, though everybody agrees they can’t get too drunk as they’re all heading home tomorrow. I’m drinking some medium-sweet white from a wine box Pris brought.
‘Whoa, dude. I’m just saying what I felt,’ Haze says, through a small cloud of exhaled smoke. Ali, sitting nearby, waves it away with quick, sharp flaps of her hand.
‘No you’re fucking not,’ Guy tells him. ‘You’re just repeating a load of ego … drenched, self-regard-saturated, pseudo-mystical bollocks.’
Hol mutters something about ‘calling my homie Freddy N on one of his greater insights’, though she says it so quietly I think maybe only I hear it as Rob sighs and says,
‘Just give up now, Haze.’
‘Is that from Touching the Void, that climbing—’ Ali says, as Guy jabs one bony finger at Haze.
‘How does the fucking void stare back at you?’
‘I was just saying, I was looking into the quarry this morning—’ Haze begins.
‘How the fuck does the fucking void stare back at you?’ Guy demands, louder. He’s already complained about having a headache this evening and he’s taken more painkillers than he really should. Sometimes when he’s in a lot of pain he gets more angry and combative and, well, vicious. ‘Where are its eyes, where is its fucking nervous system, where is the brain that is receiving the results of this so-fucking-directed staring? Staring implies looking, looking implies – requires, fucking demands – something to stare with, something to interpret and consider and fucking philosophise about the results of this “staring”. How does any fucking absence of rock or other material cobble together the intellectual wherewithal to do anything as organised as fucking stare?’
‘I think,’ Paul says, ‘it’s generally regarded as being just a metaphor for the connection you feel when you gaze upon something … profound.’
‘Really?’ Guy sneers. ‘I think it’s an excuse for the intellectually challenged and … pretentious to make themselves feel important. Wow, man,’ Guy says, suddenly switching to a deeper, stoned-sounding, slightly posher voice and slowing down a fraction, ‘like, I’m so fucking the centre of the world I can’t stare into this crack in the ground without it showing me the respect of, like, staring back at me, like, you know? Cos I’m, like, as vacuous as it is, yah?’ He shakes his head, switches back to his normal voice as he says, ‘Jesus,’ and drinks from his can of Newcastle Brown.
For a moment I can hear the rain spattering against the windows. It was heavier earlier. I checked on the fire ten minutes ago and it’s almost out, a lot of stuff only half burned.
‘Whatever you say, dude, but I felt something,’ Haze says, shrugging. He hands the joint to Guy, who takes it and says,
‘Whatever you felt, it wasn’t being fucking stared at.’
‘Have it your way,’ Haze says, sitting back and exhaling some more smoke.
I think Guy’s being a little unfair on Haze. I know what it’s like to stare at something and feel fascinated. Even trivial things can do this. I remember getting that feeling for the first time with a kitchen tap, and water. I was just a kid and standing on an upturned bucket or something so I could reach the big main sink and I was experimenting with the cold tap, turning it on and off and trying to regulate it as accurately as possible.
The phenomenon that really entranced me was when I got the flow just right, almost but not quite closed off. You had to start with the tap running, not from it being off – it works only one way, on our taps at least. You reduce the flow to just before it cuts into individual droplets, and, if you get it right, it suddenly turns into a single thin column of water, looking somehow so still that it might as well be made out of glass; you can’t see any sign of it flowing at all. The very first time I did this I was young enough to imagine that it literally had turned into glass, and had to stick my finger into the stream to see.
I loved the fact that you couldn’t see the water flow; you had to look into the sink, where it was hitting the white ceramic surface, to see that the water was actually still falling from the tap and heading down the plughole.
Of course, since doing Physics, now I know that what I was observing was an example of laminar flow, and that when you open the tap up a little further the stream’s behaviour modulates into standard non-laminar flow – with turbulence, which is the norm – but at the time I remember being mesmerised by the effect, and thinking that I was somehow connecting with something deep and mysterious.
(I also loved letting thin, clear honey or syrup dribble off a spoon and onto a slice of bread – from high-enough up – so that the hair-thin stream of it at the bottom wriggled and darted about the place as it hit, like a mad thing. Though that didn’t feel quite so profound and Zen as the static stream-of-water thing, maybe because it was about frantic, erratic movement rather than stillness.)
‘Anyway,’ Haze says, sounding almost upset. ‘The sodding void did stare back at me; only it was Kit. He was in it, in the quarry, or at least, like, just climbing out; he stared back at me. Didn’t you, Kit?’
Now they’re all looking at me.
I try to keep calm and not blush. ‘Yes I did,’ I agree, nodding and trying to look serious and unflapped.
‘In the fucking quarry?’ Guy says.
‘There’s been a landslip, just over the back wall,’ I tell him, then look round at the rest. This is something I’ve been thinking about, preparing for. ‘I wanted to check it was just the topsoil that had fallen away with all the rain, not the start of the rock crumbling, so I got a rope from the garage and took a look.’ They’re all still staring at me. I nod in what I trust is a reassuring manner. ‘We’re fine. Just topsoil and … stones and a few roots and stuff. No problem.’ They’re still staring at me. In the silence, I almost add, ‘You’re welcome,’ but that might be a bit too cheeky.
‘Is this where you were when you should have been helping me get up this morning?’ Guy asks.
‘Yes.’
‘How do you know it’s safe?’ Ali asks. ‘You’re not a geologist.’
‘Bit dangerous, no, Kit?’ Rob says, smiling.
‘You daft bugger; you could have fucking killed yourself!’ Guy says. ‘Who’d look after me then?’
‘You didn’t think to say anything?’ Hol is saying. She’s been mostly quiet this evening. She drinks from her glass of red.
‘Well, before, I didn’t want to worry anybody,’ I tell them. I shrug. ‘After I’d done it, I felt kind of foolish for worrying myself, so I didn’t say anything then either.’
‘And you,’ Hol says, looking at Haze. ‘You didn’t say anything.’
‘I just thought, like, this was something Kit did every day or something.’
‘What?’ Hol says.
‘For exercise,’ Haze says, looking down, as though he’s only now realising this sounds a bit odd.
‘… Anyway,’ Paul says. ‘On to other business. We have the tape.’
He smiles widely.
I can hear the rain; a flurry hits the window, dies away again.
‘No fucking kidding?’ Guy says, as Pris says,
?
??When were you going to tell us?’
‘Yeah, no kidding,’ Paul says to Guy, then looks to Pris. ‘This is me telling you now, honey,’ he says.
‘When did you find it?’ Rob asks.
‘Where was it?’ Ali demands.
‘Let me hand you back to my capable colleague, Mr Kitchener Hyndersley,’ Paul says, waving one hand in my direction. ‘Kit; if you’d be so kind.’
‘Oh,’ I say, suddenly on the spot. ‘Okay.’
So I tell them about looking down from the cliff and seeing stuff on ledges below me. Then about asking Paul for his help and us going to the charity shop and recycling centre, and then driving into the quarry and using the ladder to climb up to the ledge.
‘You’ve had it since this morning?’ Ali yelps, glaring at Paul, then me.
‘Yeah,’ Paul says, ‘but we weren’t sure we had the right one until I’d got it working. It was jammed. I wanted to be sure it was the right tape before I said anything. That took a while. Didn’t want to stop people searching in case the real one was still out there.’
‘So …’ Rob is saying, glancing from me to Paul and back again. ‘It is definitely the tape?’
‘Almost certainly,’ Paul says.
‘Only almost?’ Hol says. ‘What the fuck else could you mistake it for?’
‘Has … Kit seen … the tape?’ Pris asks.
‘Nope,’ Paul says. Meanwhile I’m shaking my head, to confirm. ‘Want to see it?’ Paul asks, looking round at us all.
‘With Kit here?’ Rob says, frowning.
‘Yeah.’ Paul is smiling. ‘That’s not actually going to be a problem. Trust me.’ Paul looks at Guy. ‘Guy?’ he says.
‘What?’ Guy looks angry.
‘You okay with this?’
Dad stares at him. ‘Fuck it, yeah. Let’s at least watch the start, eh?’
Paul stands. ‘I’ll get the gizmo.’
Once Paul has left the room, Guy looks at me. ‘Keeping this very quiet, weren’t we?’ he says.
‘I’m getting another drink,’ Haze announces. ‘Anybody else?’
I shrug. ‘Like Paul says, didn’t want to say anything until we knew.’
Another couple of top-ups and cans are requested. Haze leaves the room.
Rob is switching on the old combo player under the telly. ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘When did this start working?’
‘When I fixed it,’ I tell him. They all look at me.
‘So,’ Guy says, ‘do you know what was—’ He breaks off to cough. ‘Do you know what’s on the tape?’
‘Something embarrassing,’ I tell him.
‘One way of putting it,’ Ali says.
Hol is looking at me. It’s a funny look, like she almost doesn’t know who I am. I don’t think I remember her ever looking at me like that before. It gives me a strange feeling in my insides; not a nice one.
‘How the fuck …?’ Rob says, pointing the TV remote and clicking repeatedly.
‘Let me,’ Ali says, reaching, but he turns away so she can’t take the control from him.
‘No, I can—’
‘Will you just let me do it? You’re never any good …’
‘It’s just—’
‘Will you give it here?’
More pointing and clicking. ‘Maybe the batteries …’
They keep on arguing.
Guy looks at them with what might just be an affectionate sneer. Definitely a sneer, anyway. ‘Well, ladies and gents,’ he says, in an old-style, radio-DJ voice, ‘we seem to be experiencing a few technical difficulties at the moment, but we hope that isn’t spoiling your enjoyment of the smooth sounds here on RTFM …’
‘Fuck off!’ Rob says, as Ali tries to grab the remote from him.
‘Give it to the kid,’ Guy says.
‘You’re just being stubborn!’ Ali tells Rob, trying to take the remote again. Rob, still on his knees in front of the TV, has to raise the device over his head to stop her getting it.
Guy leans forward with a grimace, takes the remote from Rob’s hand and throws it to me.
His aim’s a bit off but I reach and catch it, then click a couple of buttons. The TV screen flashes, then fills with the fuzzy monochrome visual static I sort of vaguely remember from watching VHS tapes long ago. ‘There you go,’ I say.
‘Wait a minute,’ Haze says from the doorway, laden. ‘Was it a Newkie Brown or a Guinness, Guyster?’
‘Has it got alcohol? Is there a “Y” in the day?’ Guy asks, accepting a brown can of the former. He sticks the remains of the joint in the old can, drops it to the floor.
Ali looks at Rob, then me. ‘That’s what I was going to do,’ she tells him.
‘That’s what I was going to do,’ he mimics back at her in a pretend-lady voice.
She sort of almost smiles and slaps him on the arm.
‘Sit your fat arse on the couch,’ he tells her. This is unfair, as Ali does not have a fat arse.
‘Sit yours on my face,’ she tells him, still nearly smiling, then goes back to sit.
‘You should be so lucky.’
‘Yeah, I should,’ she says, lifting her wineglass.
‘That’s the wine box empty,’ Haze tells Pris, filling her glass from the silver pillow he’s extracted from it. He puts the remainder into mine, showing me how to get the very last drops out by careful squeezing and getting the tap-angle just right. Useful.
‘Ate viola,’ Paul says, returning, brandishing the trick VHS cassette.
The tape starts with more visual static and the sound of crackling. Then it switches to a view of Bewford, probably taken, I reckon from the angle, from the field that rises between the house and the city. You can tell it’s old because there’s what looks like a microwave tower on Almsworth Hill, and it appears they’re just building the multi-storey car park near Marshgate. The picture quality isn’t great.
‘The Irreconcilable Creative Differences Film Partnership Presents,’ says some cheesy-looking digital lettering across the middle of the screen. Ali sighs.
‘Are you sure Kit should be …?’ Pris is saying.
Paul holds up one hand. ‘You’ll miss the soundtrack,’ he says, as some organ music starts.
‘Christ,’ Hol says. ‘“Je t’aime” … etc. I’d forgotten.’
‘Seriously, Paul,’ Pris says, sounding panicky. ‘We can’t let …’
Her voice trails away as the music stops abruptly and the screen flickers, goes dark, flickers again, shows what might be a half-second of the same panning footage of Bewford, with some cursive writing in pink starting to slide across the screen – you can see the edge of the pane of glass it must be written on – before going grey-black again. I think the word in pink said ‘Debbie’, but only because Paul already told me the film was called Debbie Does Bewford; really it’s gone too quick.
Then there’s more scratchy static and then, suddenly, we’re looking at an interior, and the retreating back of a man … who is my dad, we realise, as he sits down on a seat facing the camera. He smiles. Actually the smile is more of a gurn. He’s sitting where he’s sitting now, in the same seat, in this same room. He looks only a year or two younger. He still has the comb-over remains of a full head of blond hair.
‘Right then,’ he says. He sits back in his seat and folds his arms. I wouldn’t have thought you could fold your arms pugnaciously, but Guy manages it. ‘The standard fucking disclaimer. If you’re watching this I must be dead. You lucky fuckers. Patently all your meagre supplies of talent were sublimated into staying alive.’
Paul asked for the remote when he inserted the tape. Now he points it at the VHS machine, clicks, and the image judders, stalls. It doesn’t freeze tidily like a paused DVD or something off a hard disk; it sort of slides to a stop halfway across the screen, the picture all mushed up and smeared like it’s a still-wet painting that somebody’s wiped with a damp cloth. Seems to have gone monochrome, too.
Paul looks at Guy, who is gazing at the screen with an odd expression that m
ight be sadness, resignation or even mild amusement. ‘I listened to the first bit of what follows, Guy,’ Paul says quietly. ‘Do you want the rest of us to hear it?’
Guy looks into his can, then nods. ‘Yeah, why not?’ he says. ‘Why should you have all the fucking fun?’
‘Okay.’ Paul restarts the tape.
‘Right,’ Guy says, from the screen. ‘Obviously I don’t actually want to die, but I am trying to find what positives I can in the shitty circumstances, and one of those is that I shall be glad to see the back of this poxy little country and this fucked-up world and this bunch of fucking morons constituting my fellow stakeholders in the species Homo so-called sapiens.’
(Rob sighs heavily and looks at Ali, though she doesn’t look at him.)
‘I shall,’ Guy says, from the screen, ‘consider myself well rid of this island’s pathetic, grovelling population of celebrity-obsessed, superficiality-fixated wankers. I shall not miss the institutionalised servility that is the worship of the royals – that bunch of useless, vapid, anti-intellectual pillocks – or the cringing respect accorded to the shitting out of value-bereft Ruritanian “honours” by the government of the fucking day, or the hounding of the poor and disabled and the cosseting of the rich and privileged, or the imperially deluded belief that what we really need is a brace of aircraft-free aircraft carriers and upgraded nuclear weapons we’re never going to fucking use and which would condemn us for ever in the eyes of the world if we ever fucking did. Not that we can, anyway, because we can’t fire the fucking things unless the Americans let us.
‘I shall not have to witness the drowning or the starvation through mass-migration of the destitute of Bangladesh or anywhere else low-lying and impoverished, or listen to another fuckwit climate-change denier claiming that it’s all just part of some natural cycle, or down to sunspots, or watch as our kleptocrat-captured governments find new excuses not to close down tax havens, or tax the rich such that the fuckers actually have to pay more than they themselves or their lickspittle bean-counters deem appropriate.’
(Rob is shaking his head. Hol is half smiling, half sneering at the screen, eyes bright. Haze says, ‘Yeah, tell it like it is, dude!’ as he builds another joint.)