Kate helped Liz to slice and salt eggplant and build a caponata. In tribute to Patrick, Kate taught Liz how to make red lentil dahl—à la carcinogen—with the bottom of the pan encrusted black. Over those first few days, Mervyn grimly, grinningly, tucked into three-bean stews, stuffed field mushrooms, and huge walnut and beetroot salads.
Kate had texted her father to say whom she was with, but since no one knew where Geraint lived, or even his surname, she was mercifully untraceable. Her only contact with the community was through her father’s text messages, since she never answered his calls and refused to check voice mail.
Sweets, it’s been a week now—you okay? When will you come back? We’re worried about you! Dad xxooxx.
She noticed that the message was sent at 2:13 a.m. and imagined him sitting alone in bed, lit by the light from the phone.
At Mervyn’s request, Kate and Geraint slept in separate rooms. She got the guest room with reading lamps set into the wall and a bed half-covered by a silky turquoise spread. Prior to her arrival on his doorstep, she and Geraint had done all the things they could easily do in the backseat of his tiny Punto, which was a lot, but not everything. Now they were living together, however, and with the twin catalysts of Mervyn’s disapproval and their being put in separate rooms, they quickly moved things forward, beginning with high-risk canoodling in the outdoor pool and ending with full, sacrilegious consummation in Mervyn’s Jeep while it was parked in the garage. Cold and uncomfortable, yes, but fizzing with family scandal. Kate secretly enjoyed spoiling the father’s pride and joy—both vintage vehicle and only son.
Considering that Kate had never spent any time in a suburban home before, she had a highly developed understanding of what to expect; during her upbringing, her father had encouraged her to make the most of his film collection, which had a lot to say on the subject, including The Graduate, Edward Scissorhands, American Beauty, and The Ice Storm. One of the community’s well-told stories was of Kate, age ten, setting an alarm for herself to wake at 3 a.m. so that she could come downstairs and watch Poltergeist, the definitive suburban horror film. When Janet got up to milk the goats, she found Kate awake at dawn, alone, in the corner, staring horrified at the loom, which had more than once been talked of as a machine for chopping up children.
It was difficult for Kate to imagine that behind the contented atmosphere in Geraint’s link-detached home, with garage, especially with swimming pool, there was not some kind of deviant interpersonal rot, rampant and unforgiving. By all surface assessments the Rees family were happy, which—according to Kate’s understanding of suburbia—meant that they weren’t. So it was with some relief that she discovered Mervyn’s insomnia. Although he worked full-time on the Evening Post news desk, he also stayed up half the night watching TV in the lounge; she felt sure this was the key to the family’s metaphorical basement. She remembered something her father had said: “Insomnia is not a condition, it’s a symptom.”
Why couldn’t Mervyn sleep? What monsters emerged in his dreams?
One thing Kate did know was that, most nights, garden slugs came out from under the baseboards and traveled across the lounge carpet. For some reason, Mervyn let them do their thing and, each morning, it was left to Liz to scuff away the glistening tracks. Kate liked that. The unspoken darkness between them.
That first night in the roundhouse, it was just Freya and Albert. They zipped their sleeping bags together, Albert showing her how to make a super-bag, and slept in the center of the room on a sheepskin rug. While they were there, Freya talked to him about his sister and said that he wasn’t to take her leaving too personally. It was by no means the first time Kate had run away. She was known for it. Once, famously, age twelve, weighed down with a backpack full of tins, she had made her escape but was forced to jettison supplies, least favorite first. Her father tracked her via kidney beans, then flageolet, chickpeas, whole plum tomatoes, and so on until he found her, exhausted, drinking the Juice from a tin of pineapple rings.
Albert disappeared deeper into the super-bag and that was where he slept from then on, a warm globe near Freya’s feet. She had brought an armory of herbal teas in anticipation of waking in the quiet hours with something tugging at her, an invisible rope between herself and Don. The reality had been different. She slept deeply and, that first morning, when she woke up, found she was alone in a two-man sleeping bag. Albert had already gone back to the workshop to visit Marina.
On the second night, Isaac joined them and she and the boys slept on the rug, with her in the middle. When they thought she was asleep, their pillow talk was alarming.
“Isaac?”
“Yep.”
“How do you think the world’s going to end?”
“Um. It’s going to start with a big noise like a bus noise and then ten buses’ noise, then twelve, then there will be birds and if they write your name in the sky you can get on the buses and if they don’t you have to die on the floor.”
Even that could not keep her awake. She had almost forgotten what a proper, unbroken, dreamless night’s sleep was like. The feeling of being upgraded. Fresh eyes.
By the time Isaac next stayed over, two nights later, she had come to realize that few things are more exciting to young boys than the idea of the world suddenly and explosively ending, leaving them as lone survivors, walking the toxic earth with massive knives. That was what made Marina’s theories so appealing. It would take more than drab rationality to distract them, which is why she made a concerted effort to get up before them and, when they woke, said: “Today, we’re going to have a lesson in time travel.”
She made them sit cross-legged on the rush matting while she sat on a stool opposite. It was a good exercise for the morning, while they were still in touch with their subconsciouses.
“Who here wants to drive a time machine?”
They both put up their hands. Albert raised his right buttock off the matting to give his hand an inch more commitment.
“Time travel is easier than most people think. Now, close your eyes and listen carefully.”
They looked at each other seriously, held hands, and shut their eyes.
“Imagine you’re in a lift,” she said, “and there’s a whole wall of buttons, numbered one to a hundred. Press the button that’s the same number as your age. So, if you’re six years old, Isaac, then press the button with six on it.”
Isaac’s forehead ruffled. Freya watched him. His face seemed hypermobile, changing the whole time, a kind of human lava lamp, giving the impression that he had a wider emotional range than most children.
“Okay, once you’ve pressed the button, let the lift doors close and feel yourself move upward.”
“Wo ho ho,” Albert said, bouncing on his bum.
“Ping!” Freya said. “You’ve reached your floor. The doors slide back.”
Isaac’s nostrils flared.
“Now, step out into the corridor. Feel the red carpet beneath your feet. Gold lamp fittings run along the walls. On this corridor there are one hundred rooms, doors on both sides.”
Albert’s foot jiggled.
“Start walking slowly up the corridor, counting the numbers as you go. Say them out loud as you go past, and stop at the door with your age on it.”
“Onetwothreefourfive …,” Albert said.
In his mind, he was running.
Isaac didn’t count out loud. He traced a circle with his finger on the floor.
“… eightnineteneleven!”
“You okay, Isaac? Are you standing outside door number six?”
He nodded.
“Okay. That’s your room.”
This was something she’d learned years ago when she and Don had attended a three-day nondenominational meditation course. She remembered Don used to say that every time he achieved “thoughtlessness,” he would be dragged back to the surface by his own sense of achievement.
This exercise was called “Visiting Your Future Self.” Freya remembered her future self told he
r that she did not need to come on a meditation course to speak to her future or past selves, and that these were the sorts of internal conversations most people saved for long bus journeys. Even if Albert’s “future self” told him something as banal as that, Freya would just be glad to see him indulge in self-reflection. She imagined him meeting a version of himself who was Kate’s age and whose concerns had shifted, as his sister’s had, from the fate of the universe to the fate of a university application.
“Now, walk down the corridor, until you’re another five rooms along. What’s six plus five, Isaac? Is it eleven?”
“Yes, eleven.”
“Good. You go to room eleven.”
“I’m outside mine,” Albert said. “Super-sweet sixteen!”
“These rooms contain the version of you at the same age as the room number. So inside the door you’ll find yourself five years in the future. He knows you are coming because he can remember sitting where you are, five years ago. If there’s anything that’s bothering you right now, then he’ll be able to talk you through it. You can ask him what it’s like to be his age. He’ll know if you are scared or upset. He can offer you perspective.”
She could see by her son’s expression that he was completely going with it.
“Turn the door handle and go in. Sit cross-legged on the floor opposite yourself, just like you are now. Take a moment to notice the room. Then notice your future self. Now, take this opportunity to ask—in your head—any questions you want to, and take note of the reply.”
Isaac’s head dropped. He let go of Albert’s hand, put his fingers in his ears, and pulled them out again. He tasted the ends of his fingers, then wiped his hands, front and back, on his jeans. He opened his eyes and seemed surprised to see Freya watching him. His face passed through a series of emotions in the guilt/shame arena.
She mouthed the words it’s okay and held out her hand to him. He dragged himself over to Freya and wrapped his arms around one of her calves.
They watched Albert. His face was moving: eyebrows tweaking, nostrils occasionally whitening at the edges.
—Albert!
—Yo!
—I’m sixteen!
—I’m eleven! How’s the next dimension?
—Insano!
—I knew it would be.
—Nonstop carnage!
—So what happened?
—Well, it all started with the swarms. Not just one insect, but all of them, over land and sea, to desiccate the earth.
—You know some words.
—I was standing on the flat roof when they blocked out the sun. You could hear them. They were making a documentary about me and they got it on camera when I said: Fetch the goddamn gasoline.
—Wow, yes!
—Then I poured the gasoline through the woods, in a circle around the big house. My henchmen all stood at different points along the circle, each with a box of matches. I went up on the flat roof and everyone waited for my signal. I knew that the forest would only burn for so long, and we had to time it right so the swarm would pass by before the forest burned out.
—Makes sense.
—I could see the MegaSwarm coming over the horizon—locusts, hornets, wasps, horseflies, mantises, midges—and I was like: Hold! … Hold! And I could hear the scrit-scrit-scrit of the super-intelligent ant armies approaching, carrying hundreds of times their own weight in weaponry, and still I was like: Hold! And behind the ants, the legions of ticks, mites, beetles, rolling their ball bearings, even spiders, although not strictly insects, swinging through the trees behind and still I yelled: Hold! Hold! Then I said … Let’s watch this city burn!, which was the signal.
—All of which was on camera?
—Of course.
—Fuckums.
—Yes. And the flames went racing up the trees, shooting into the sky, and my team ran back to the safety of the house, and we waited and watched as the hordes of ants fried themselves to the floor, huge clouds of flaming insects in the air, like fireworks in slow motion. The smoke acted as a force field, directing most of them around us, but still a few broke through, spiders, alight but alive, running through the undergrowth, gnashing their mandibles, so we went out in the yard with cans of Lynx and lighters and we fought hand to hand with those homos.
—Who won?
—Guess.
—Boom town!
—Exactly.
—All in the documentary?
—Oui.
—You’ve learned French?
—Oui.
—Then what?
—Then we were the only people left on the planet. Kate was at her boyfriend’s house and then at university, so she was dead.
—No!
—Sorry, but yes. Everyone else is fine. Mum and Dad are in the big house together again and I can do anything I want, like wander around in old libraries and castles and explore hotels. Living in the roundhouse will be really useful training for surviving in dangerous places.
—That’s pretty cool. But I’m sad about Kate.
—It was her choice. You’ll try to explain to her about how wrong she is, and that the world is really going to end, but she won’t listen. She’s sometimes very insulting. She even tries to kill Mum and Dad by telling them lies about how the world won’t end. You may not want to hear this, but pretty soon you’ll have to think of a way to stop her disrupting your vital preparations.
—Doesn’t she realize that she is wrong and come back to the community just in time?
—In a fairy tale, maybe. But this is real life, champ.
On the way to the bathroom, Liz passed the room at the top of the stairs where Kate and Geraint were studying together. She stopped outside the door and watched their stillness, the backs of their heads occasionally bobbing, the heavy textbook split on the desktop. She signaled for Mervyn to come see—shh! she mimed, with a finger held up to her lips, as he lumbered over, still in his office shirt. They stood there, arm in arm, trying to concentrate on their son concentrating, but feeling too excited and blessed. Liz rested her head on her husband’s shoulder as Kate’s fearless hand reached to turn the page.
Mervyn and Liz had scoured their drawers for the appropriate office supplies. They would not be the ones to stop her squaring the hypotenuse. If tricolor highlighter tabs might undo the damage of her drab, loose-knit upbringing then she would have tricolor highlighter tabs. High-speed fiber-optic broadband had been installed to keep pace with her untethered mind.
She was, they both agreed, an angel sent to raise their son’s grades by osmosis, a concept that was now well within his grasp. It was enough for him just to share a study with her superhuman concentration span. If their son seemed more subdued than normal, then that was only right because he was going through great changes, the painful retraction into his chrysalis. In the glimpses they got of his bedroom floor, they noted the slow retreat of foil trays, empty Baggies, fried chicken boxes, piles of clothes, shattered jewel cases, and snapped guitar strings until, one unseasonably warm day, they sat up in bed and listened to the burr of the vacuum cleaner coming through the wall. Their son’s bedroom’s famous smell—like damp cork, like the raw side of a carpet—started to sift and soften. Mervyn even claimed he missed it.
Thursday Meeting. 03/05/2012.
Members present: Don, Freya, Marina, Isaac, Arlo, Albert!
Visitors: Erin, The Tallest Man, No-neck Sally, 2 x Unknown.
Members absent: Janet (Bristol) Patrick (ankle) and Kate (death)
Albert loved taking minutes in the community notebook.
“People, our battery is dying,” Don said, standing at the head of the table. The table was round, but still he managed to be at its head. He had a shaving rash, Indonesia-shaped, on his neck.
Although they were “on holiday,” Freya and Albert were still expected at the fortnightly meeting. This was the first time Freya had been back to the big house, though the same could not be said of Albert, who had been returning most days to see Marina.
r /> Albert gripped his pencil and wrote: Battery = dying.
Freya divided her attention among peeling a wafer of mud off the back of her hand, reading Albert’s minutes, and watching her spouse’s newly visible lips move. Don made a pestle and mortar motion. He was speaking slower than normal and the skin beneath his eyes was murky.
Albert wrote: Last legs. Tighten belts. Membership drive.
Freya looked across the table at the empty seat, Patrick’s, a high Windsor chair with a patch of buffed wood where the rear of his head used to gurn against the backboard. Next to that, on the bench where Kate used to sit, there were the American newlyweds, Varghese and Erin, who had arrived last night to wwoof their honeymoon. They were smiling and tugging each other’s jumpers.
Albert wrote down: Patrick’s departure = reduced cash flow.
Freya watched Don chop the palm of his left hand with the blade of his right. His eyes went wide. He pointed at something in another room. Then he pointed at Freya and he gave her two thumbs up.
Albert wrote: Be like Freya and Albert. Minimal living—Roundhouse.
Everyone turned and nodded at her.
Albert wrote: Half-life. 300,000 years. The dinosaurs.
Don, still talking, pointed at each person around the table in turn.
Albert wrote down: Responsibility. Equality. The children of our children. (My children!)
Seeing Don without a beard made her think of him in the very first days of the community. Back then, he seemed to have a perpetual rant running inside him, sometimes silent, sometimes voiced, but always there. Whenever he emphasized a phrase, he used to lean forward, as though his torso became italicized in sympathy. New structures for living. Freya blinked and saw him now—trying to be reasonable. A small mound of dry mud had formed on the table in front of her, where she had been picking at her hands.
Albert wrote: Go digital. Tight ship. Full circle.
She noticed that, in between taking notes, Albert used his pencil to color in his arms, giving himself the gray sheen of someone with serious nutritional deficiencies.
Don looked around the room, catching each pair of eyes. Isaac, tiny in the wicker chair, drummed his fingers on the armrests, trying to synchronize left and right hands. Arlo held his tea in his mouth.