“Have you ever done any weight resistance?” Murray asked.
“I’m a brain in a jar, remember?”
“I can’t agree with you there,” he said. “You’re a fine feat of engineering. Well worth taking care of.”
“That is the strangest compliment I’ve ever been paid,” said Keiko.
“At least you’re laughing,” said Murray. “You didn’t slap me.”
“I’m catching it from you,” she replied, thinking she had never known someone laugh at himself so much, thinking it was a very good thing in a man.
“Me?” said Murray. “I laugh so I don’t scream.” And, of course, saying this he laughed again. “You can use the gym equipment anytime you like.”
“I wouldn’t know where to begin,” said Keiko.
“I can show you.” He wasn’t laughing at all now. “Then they can do their damnedest and it won’t get them anywhere.”
“Who?” Keiko said.
“All of them,” he said. “They’re no match for me.”
thirteen
Saturday, 26 October
Fancy dropped Viola off with Mrs. McMaster after breakfast and, leaving Keiko standing to attention behind the counter at Fancy That, walked to the top of the town. Pamela Shand in the Cat’s Whiskers took a flyer, asked for a poster to put in her window, and made an appointment for a peppermint foot massage later that week. All very well and good, Fancy thought, but you’re an incomer and a bit of a flake, so that doesn’t get me anywhere. At the hairdressers, she went right inside (Janette Campbell had a tattoo and couldn’t stand Mrs. Dessing) but she walked straight past Pet’s flower shop, telling herself that she could give Pet a leaflet anytime and Vi wouldn’t want her boring old mum cramping her style on her day at Granny’s.
Meanwhile, Keiko took details over the telephone of two children’s party cakes, booked out a Viking costume for the following weekend and, in the long pauses between calls on her attention, tried to work on her psychological profiles.
suggestibility/skepticism
suspicion/trust
innovation/conservatism
list making/actually doing something
She chewed her pen. You could buy profiling packages, but they were expensive. You could copy them, but everyone said the big professional profiling companies were crazy about protecting their copyright and always sued, every time. So she would make up her own.
If extraterrestrials contacted me, I would: see a doctor / call the police / find a priest / assume it was a hoax. She nodded. If I read that tomatoes caused cancer, I would: stop eating them / stop eating them raw / eat only organic / keep eating them. She tapped her pen on the paper. If I found a letter not meant for me I would: tear it up / open it / put it back where I found it. She crossed that out but immediately thought of another one. If two young women had suddenly left my town, I would: wonder why / try to find them / watch my bac-
She looked up as the shop door opened and Malcolm Poole sidled in.
“Malcolm, good morning,” she called out, safe and powerful behind the counter. He looked up in surprise and then smiled, coming towards her in an awkward route around the obstacles of copy machines and racks of costumes.
“Malcolm, can I ask you a question, please?”
“Anything.”
“What would you do if you read in the newspaper that tomatoes gave you cancer?”
“I’m not that keen on tomatoes,” he said.
“Or how about this one?” said Keiko. “If extraterrestrials contacted you, would you call the police, a priest, or a doctor? Or the army?” she added.
“Is this a joke?” asked Malcolm. “Oh, okay.” She watched him, her pen hovering ready to record his answer. “If extraterrestrials contacted me, I would… um… I would see what they wanted, I suppose. Get to know them.” He stopped and dropped his head under Keiko’s stare.
“Thank you,” she said. “That was most helpful.”
“Is that how you do it?” Malcolm said. “You ask a real-life question first and then you do your special ones?”
“N-” Keiko began, then checked herself. “I’m not supposed to reveal my methods,” she said. “Now, what can I do for you?”
“Just some copies,” he said slowly, bending one arm in towards his body and plucking some papers from inside his jacket. He laid them on the counter and smoothed across them twice with both hands. “I want these made into wee flyers. A5, I think it is.” Keiko slid down off her stool and took them over to the machine, Malcolm drawing up beside her just as the first sheet curled out and she held it up to show him.
“That’s perfect,” he said, with such animation that she looked to see what was on the paper; she had thought at first glance it was just a list of products and prices. “You get it?” he asked, and she looked again as the next sheet glided out. “We do these freezer packs. A Lean Selection-loin chops, chicken breasts, and that; and a Busy Pick-stir-frying, minute steaks, all ready-marinated. But the budget packs have never sold well. And I think it’s the name: Cheap Cuts.” He edged closer to Keiko to watch the flyers emerging. “So-here’s the genius-I’m relaunching it, but I’m calling it the Hearty Appetite-good big rolled cuts for slow cooking, nothing expensive, sausages-nice big thick ones to go in a casserole. And I thought I’d put in one different thing each time, with a recipe. Oxtail maybe, or tripe. Try to get people interested again. You see, the way I’m thinking, if people think they’re buying a budget pack it makes them feel poor and that makes them feel sad, but if they buy a Hearty Pack with my old-time recipe revivals they’ll still be saving the money but they’ll feel happy about it. It’s all about getting people over the door, really. Youngsters, I mean. Kids that weren’t brought up to go to the butchers. Once they’re in the shop I can talk them round to anything-even tripe!-but it’s getting them started. If I can just get them started, I’m laughing. And they’ll be the better for it, get them off all those pizzas and God knows what.”
He bent over slightly to look up into Keiko’s face as she rolled the sheets up and snapped a rubber band around them.
“That’s very kind,” she said. “What’s tripe?”
“Sheep’s stomach lining,” said Malcolm, “Delicious, really tender. You cook it slowly in milk and onions and it comes out like a kind of rich, creamy soup you eat with buttered bread.” Keiko felt her face twist and she swallowed hard. “It’s lovely,” he said. “The butcher does all the cleaning and the first cooking in the shop, so all the stomach contents and juices are gone by the time you…” He stopped.
“I don’t have a freezer,” offered Keiko.
“Don’t forget we’re having you for lunch tomorrow,” Malcolm said.
She hadn’t forgotten. Of course, she hadn’t. She had already bought a box of mint chocolates and a potted chrysanthemum to take with her. Fancy’s advice.
“A bottle of spirits would be a scandal, see? Might as well take a five-quid baggie. Wine is like saying their own might not be worth drinking. Flowers are a bit too swanky, but a plant-better value and more boring-is fine. Chocolates are a tough call. Anything in a flat box with a ribbon is showing off, anything in a stand-up box, likes of Celebrations or that, is thumbing your nose at them. Safest bet is something minty-not nice enough to be a proper treat, but kind of saying it’s a posh meal like you’d have mints after.”