‘So why — why did the bullied become the bullies, if you see what I mean? How did people have so much power one minute and then none at all?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it. Once you’ve had power over people, maybe they hate you more. At the time, it was just what you did to protect yourself.’
‘But there must have been a ringleader,’ Merlin insisted. ‘Someone who never got it in the neck. You must have had a leader on your terror campaigns.’
‘You’re right, we did. Her name was Christine Poole.’
‘You shivered as you said it!’ Merlin said gleefully. ‘I saw you! Christine Poole. Creepy name. Does she haunt your dreams?’
‘I suppose she does.’
‘Let’s go and find her!’ cried Merlin. ‘Let’s go round and do her over, shall we?’
‘I don’t know where she lives,’ said Agnes, smiling weakly.
This was actually a he. Agnes knew perfectly well where she lived. It was in an unremarkable terraced house in their local town at home. Once, when she was home from university, she had seen her walking down the street. At first she hadn’t recognised her. She seemed so much smaller and drearier. She had permed hair and a haggard face, and she was pushing a pram. They had almost collided on the pavement, as if thrown together by the fugal force of their shared past. A flicker of recognition had passed between them. Agnes had thought of all the times she had dreamt of this meeting. It was to be a form of revenge. She had planned to be beautiful and successful, maybe with a man on her arm. She had even thought of clever vicious comments and cutting remarks. In the event, however, the girl had shunted the pram off the pavement to let her pass and they had gone their separate ways without a word. Agnes had glimpsed her feet as she passed, crammed into cheap stilettos.
At the time she had felt sorry for her, and pity had assuaged her vengefulness. Christine Poole, after all, had got what she deserved. Now Agnes was not so sure about things. Now, if she went to visit her, as Merlin suggested, she didn’t know what would happen. Now she was the one with failure written all over her. She was not so certain of defeating Christine Poole. She thought of Nina, and it occurred to her that nothing might have changed.
‘Where’s Jean?’ said Agnes as she arrived in the pub, where they had planned to hold an editorial meeting to discuss the latest issue of Diplomat’s Week.
‘With born-again Dave,’ Greta replied. ‘The rave from the grave.’
She drained her glass and set it down on the table. Agnes took off her coat and sat down heavily beside her.
‘Great,’ she said. ‘Marvellous. And do you think she’s going to find the time between — between hopping in and out of bed or whatever it is she’s doing to put in an appearance?’
‘Jean dates for Jesus,’ said Greta laconically. ‘She’s got all the time in the world.’
Agnes picked up the copy of the magazine which was lying on the table. It looked much better; in fact, it was quite good. She turned to the article she had written on women in politics and saw that the byline read ‘By Agnes Hay’.
‘Who cares?’ she said, flinging it back on the table. ‘No one else seems to. Why should I? I don’t want to talk about work anyway.’
‘Aw, honey, what’s up? Don’t tell me your industry pill has worn off.’
‘Well, someone has to do it! We can’t all just be — be mooning around about men the whole time.’
‘You too have mooned,’ observed Greta. ‘In fact, you were pretty much a full-time mooner until a few weeks ago. Let the old hag have her fun, sweetie.’
‘It just annoys me that women have to fall to pieces every time a man shows any interest in them.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I mean, I know because it happened to me.’
‘My name is Agnes Hay,’ Greta cackled. ‘I am a Woman Who Loves Too Much.’
Agnes went to the bar and bought two vodkas with tonic.
‘Why does everyone have to criticise me the whole time?’ she said when she got back. ‘It seems to have become obligatory. It seems to have become a bloody national pastime.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Greta, pronouncing the phrase as one word. ‘Gee, I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. I was just playing around.’ She raised a concerned hand to her own forehead, as if suspecting a tropical fever might have gripped her unawares. ‘Gosh, I’m really sorry. You’re the best, really you are. God, that was so mean.’
Agnes could not argue with so comprehensive a display of remorse.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said. ‘You’re probably off-loading anger about something else.’ It sounded stupid, so she added: ‘I mean, we all do that sometimes, don’t we?’
‘Do we? That’s really smart.’
Agnes didn’t think it was that smart. She would have preferred people to keep their emotional goods on board.
‘Why can’t I say things like that?’ Greta continued. ‘I can’t explain things to save my life. You have a way with words.’
‘Do I?’ said Agnes, feeling at a loss for them.
‘Sure. Hey, I had a dream about you last night. It was really weird, you were standing on the edge of the ocean chucking these things into the water.’
She paused as if to signal the completion of her narrative, and Agnes experienced a moment of frustration at this early proof of her friend’s recently proclaimed defect. In general Agnes disliked the incessant fascination of others with their own dreams, analysing them like works of genius thrown up by their dormant imaginations. For her own part she rarely dreamed; such bizarre and wishful fantasies as her mind manufactured were indistinguishably fused with the reality of waking life, broadcast in daylight like an unwatched television set in a corner. The images which visited her in the night were but the residue of her conscious censors, from which she woke sweating and tortured.
‘What do you mean?’ she said. ‘What things?’
‘Well, they were these really beautiful things, kind of like glass but lots of different colours. Each one was different, they were all different but part of the same thing if you see what I mean. I couldn’t believe it when I saw you just throwing them into the water because they were getting all ruined and I was shouting for you not to do it, but you kept chucking them in. It was like you didn’t care, you know? So anyway, I promised myself then that I’d tell you when I saw you. Not to do it, that is.’
‘Not to do what?’
‘How should I know?’ Greta grinned. ‘Not to ruin the damn pieces of glass, I guess.’
‘Do you often dream things like that about other people?’
It seemed strange that she should have been discovered standing alone by some desolate ocean in someone else’s mind. It was almost as if she remembered it herself.
‘Oh, sure. Once I dreamed this friend of mine’s father was going to die in this horrible car crash, and then next day he did.’
‘And had you told him?’ said Agnes, aghast.
‘Of course not! Would you want to know a thing like that?’
‘I suppose not,’ said she, feeling rather chilled. ‘I wouldn’t want the responsibility of having to decide, though. Didn’t you feel guilty?’
‘Why should I?’
‘Well, perhaps you could have prevented it.’
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Agnes felt horrified that she should have said such a thing. What if Greta took it to heart? What if, filled with remorse, she should go off and inflict some terrible damage upon herself?
‘Well, I thought of that,’ said Greta, apparently unperturbed. ‘But then I decided, well, if that’s his destiny, what difference would it make? My telling him would be included in it, if you see what I mean. I guess I was just unlucky to tune in to his future. Most people ignore things like that anyway, like in that play — you know, the one where that fortune-teller says to the Roman guy that he’s going to get knifed if he goes to the meeting but he goes anyway?’