Annoying Lisa replied to the email. Ed — whoever he is — is taking her to the Canaries. Charlie’s an early talker. Six of her pupils had interviews at Oxbridge this week. Smug bitch. No, she hasn’t heard anything about Natalie’s ex for years:
He was trying to be a DJ or something — guess it never came to anything LOL. He was gorgeous though, wasn’t he. Intense. I used to be so jealous LOL. TTFN.
Gorgeous, intense — yes, he was. Natalie pours the dregs of a bottle of Cava into her glass and plants her bum against the table. Party music is still playing softly. His university was barely an hour’s bus or train ride from hers, and at first they met almost every weekend, comparing canteens, shower facilities, narrow beds — and work. Natalie worked hard: the studio was her passion and devoured huge tracts of time, late into the evenings, but she also had to keep up with modules on IT, construction principles, history and, worst of all, contract law. She needed support and encouragement from him, and was disappointed: he sneered when she wanted to attend lectures, skipped his own, and would sneak into the studio and distract her — it’s not easy to assemble tiny model components with UHU and tweezers while a guy is feeling you up.
His passion in those days was clubbing — he considered himself a techno music connoisseur, but he’d settle for anywhere with drinks, pills, dancing, a hedonistic vibe. He wanted Natalie to be there, but he would go without her and, when she had deadlines looming, often did. He was charismatic, of course, and attracted a ragtag of disciples. He had ideas. He passed his first year exams without effort. But he had a problem with authority, and with responsibility, and with commitment.
Back then. People change.
‘We did the nativity this week,’ says Hugo. ‘I was a wise man.’
‘Very apt.’
Again the fish and chips bench. James is earning another twenty pounds, which will help to cover his bus fare home for Christmas. The annual charade.
‘What’s does yapt mean?’
‘It means very suitable.’
Hugo has got ketchup on his scarf, and bows his big head to suck it off. James is surprised that he doesn’t topple forward. ‘I had to kneel down,’ adds the boy, sounding puzzled, ‘worship the baby Jesus and give him a bottle.’
‘I always think it’s worth remembering, even at Christmas, that when the baby Jesus grew up to be my age, they nailed him to a tree.’
‘No they didn’t — they nailed him to a cross.’
‘Oh yes, a cross. You’re right. He had to carry it himself. Shall I tell you something to make you even wiser?’
‘Yes.’
‘When Jesus had to carry his cross, that was a symbol. A kind of message. It means that we all have to carry difficult things.’
‘Like Trudy’s suitcase.’
‘No — things we have to carry in our heads.’
‘What things?’ James hesitates. Is the boy too young? No — he deserves the truth.
‘Cross number one: you are alone. Even if someone else is with you, you’re still alone inside — nothing can change that.’ Hugo frowns his huge, sorrowful frown, but he doesn’t argue. ‘Cross number two: you must die. You don’t know when, but you know it won’t be long. When someone says forever, they’re lying.’ The little man fishes out his last, soggy chip and stares at it with wide eyes. ‘That brings us to cross number three, the heaviest of them all.’ A look of dread creeps over the odd-shaped face, and James attempts a consoling smile.
‘What’s cross number three?’ A voice to break your heart. James scans the dirty grey horizon. A few ships, precise number immaterial.
‘There’s nothing new under the sun.’
Five minutes after signing off the day’s trade blotter and taking a last glance at his screen to observe that the Box’s year-to-date profit has crept above forty million dollars for the first time, Mike Vickers is approached in the street by a deranged-looking African man in ragged clothes. ‘You got to hep me,’ the man says, waving a crutch. The whites of his eyes catch the Christmas lights hanging above. ‘You got to hep me.’
‘Sorry,’ says Mike, trying to look sympathetic as he neatly swerves round the moving obstacle. Damn. Damn horrible world. Seconds later, his snap judgement — that this was just another supply-demand beggar who shouldn’t be encouraged — seems off the mark. The guy asked for help, not spare change. Mike could have told him about St. Martin’s, or some other shelter that would know what to do with him. Could have bought him a burger and walked him there. Could have shown a bit of humanity.
But it isn’t only Mike’s mind that has a void at its core. Apparently, his heart does too. His good intentions are repeatedly caught out by the little moral tests that life sets him. These tests can’t be crammed for like a maths exam or a sales pitch — they come in disguise when you’re not expecting them, each different from the last. Presumably, all you need to pass these tests is a measure of human decency.
Damn horrible world. Mike takes a breath, resets his face and hails a cab with a presumptuous flick of his hand.
Dear James,
I have suspended judgement on the question of benefitting my fellow man. I have means, but it is not yet clear to me how to proceed. I shall begin by attempting to do no harm and looking after myself. I don’t believe your own position is any better.
We’ve both a spent a long time doing what we’re doing. Today on the side of a bus I saw the slogan, ‘time is precious’ — meaningless unless you know what to do with your life, which of course these fuckers won’t tell you. May I take this opportunity to wish you a Merry Christmas.
He’s not sure whether that was a defence or a concession, but it makes him feel better.
Dan Mock has become vaguely aware that his right shoe keeps scuffing the ground, and that he’s subconsciously adjusted his walking pattern to stop it happening — as you might if you had a flapping sole. It was Natalie who first referred to this adjustment as a limp. Strictly speaking, it is a limp. And his fingers still feel weak and strange — sort of distant. After riding the bike, but not only after riding the bike.
Dan has no medical training beyond biology GCSE and twenty years of the New Scientist, but he is not, like many men, blind to his body’s messages. Something isn’t right. Natalie thinks a rest will cure him, but he has enough data to predict it won’t. He makes an appointment.
The GP, a woman in her fifties whom he hasn’t seen before, listens to his story attentively. She asks if he has any family history of neurological problems, paralysis, muscle wasting or tremors. He doesn’t think so. His father has arrhythmia, his maternal grandmother had arthritis. ‘It may be nothing,’ says the GP. ‘But I think you should see a neurologist, just to rule some things out.’
‘What could it be, in the worst case scenario?’ asks Dan. You have to get right to the point in these ten-minute visits.
‘In the worst case, it could be a neurological condition such as a form of multiple sclerosis. Or a genetic wasting condition that your family members have just been lucky not to develop.’ Great choice, thinks Dan. ‘On the other hand, it could just be a coincidence of several minor or not-so-minor health problems, possibly stress-related. The neurologist will have some very clever tests to figure out exactly what it is and isn’t. You’ll receive a letter with details of your appointment.’