looking, but she denied herself. Michelle had said their wheelie bin had been crammed with takeaway cartons, and she now realized the homeless person must have been responsible for these. Food is over, as far as I’m concerned, she thought. Pictures of Zoe were gnawing at her brain, like rats in a cage with no door.
ten
That summer, black slime came up through the drains of a Frobisher just down the hill. There was a heat wave, with temperatures creeping toward the upper nineties. Animals crawled into the shade. Children turned lobster-red inside their playsuits. Fragile citizens bought charcoal masks to protect against the excess ozone. Sales of ice cream and lager doubled, as did sales of cold and flu remedies. The lawns at Admiral Drive baked until they cracked, and the grass turned to patchy straw. Colette’s water feature had to be turned off: as all water features were turned off, by order. Fountains dried, reservoirs dwindled. Hospitals filled. The elderly expired. A plague of psychic shows broke out on TV, crawling all over the schedules.
Colette sat watching them with a sullen expression, denouncing the transparent cheating, the collusion, the simplemindedness of the studio audiences. It’s totally irresponsible, she said, to encourage people to think that’s the way you go about dealing with the dead. In the days when she and Al first got together, the days when the princess passed, the punters squirmed when they were fingered; they twitched in their seats, desperate to foist the message off on the person next to them or the person in front or just behind. But now, when they came to a dem, the TV shows had tuned up their expectations, they couldn’t wait for their messages. When a Sensitive asked, “Who’s got a Mike in Spirit World?” fifty hands would shoot into the air. They yelled, cheered, embraced each other, made faces for the camera even though there wasn’t one. They shouted, “Oh, my gahhd!” when a message came though, and burst into grating sobs and doggy howls.
I find it exhausting, Al said, just to watch. And I couldn’t do television myself, she said. If I were there in the studio something would malfunction. The picture would blank out. The network would go down. Then they’d sue me.
And you’re too fat for television, Colette said.
To think I used to blame so much on Morris! Al said. If the lightbulbs started flickering I’d shout, “Oi, Morris!” and if the washing machine over-flowed I would just give him a piece of my mind. But even now, your computer goes on the blink whenever I come near it, and we’re still not getting anywhere with the recordings, are we? The machine plays back tapes that aren’t even in it; we get material coming through from the year before last. All the tapes are speaking on top of each other, it’s like a compost heap.
And you’re too fat, Colette said.
So I think it’s my electromagnetic field. I think it’s hostile to modern technology.
They had got all the satellite channels, because Alison liked to home-shop; she often felt shy when she was out, and she complained that people looked at her in a funny way, as if they knew what she did for a living. “It’s not shameful,” she said. “Not like being a sex worker.” Still, it was a comfort to be able to buy some chunky gold chains and glittery earrings, low-taste stuff she could wear onstage.
Once, when they switched on their TV, Cara’s pixie face appeared on-screen; another time, Mandy’s sharp foxy features bobbed up. Colette said, “Natasha, huh! She doesn’t look a bit Russian.”
“She’s not.”
“They could have made her up to look Russian, that’s all I’m saying.”
When the credits came at the end of the show, the producers put a disclaimer notice on the screen, to say that the programme was “For entertainment purposes only.” Colette snorted and stabbed the OFF switch. “You should tell them straight, at your next dem. Tell them what it’s really like in Spirit World. Why do you have to be so soft on them? Tell them what Morris used to do to you.” She sniggered. “I’d like to see their faces then. I’d like to see Mandy’s face, when she’s on camera and Morris puts his hand up her skirt. I’d like to see them burbling on about the world beyond, if Morris came back and he was in one of his moods.”
“Don’t say that,” Al begged. “Don’t say you’d like to see Morris.”
She had never been able to teach Colette the art of self-censorship; never been able to make her understand how simple and literal-minded the organizers of Spirit World could be. You had to guard the words that came out of your mouth and even the words as they formed up in your mind. Wasn’t that simple enough? Sometimes she thought Colette couldn’t be such a slow learner. Surely she was doing it on purpose, tormenting her?
Gavin rang. He asked for Colette, and Al passed the phone over without speaking to him. She hung about, overhearing; though proximity wasn’t really necessary to her. She could tune in to Gavin any time she liked, but the thought tired her. Quite clearly she heard him say, “How’s the fat lesbian?”
Colette said, “I’ve told you, Alison is not a lesbian. In fact, there are several men in her life.”
“Who?” Gavin demanded.
“Let me see.” Colette paused. “There’s Donnie. There’s Keith … she and Keith go way back.”
Al stood in the doorway. “Colette … don’t.”
Colette gestured to her angrily, to go away.
Don’t make a joke out of the fiends, Al pleaded; but not out loud. She turned and left the room. You should know better, Colette, but how can you know better? You believe and you half-believe, that’s the trouble with you. You want the frisson and you want the money, but you don’t want to alter your dumb view of the world. She heard Colette say to Gavin, “There’s Dean. Dean really fancies me. But he’s quite young.”
“What do they do, these blokes?” Gavin said. “Are they fortune-tellers as well?”
“There’s Mart,” she said “Oh, and our neighbour, Evan. Plenty of men in our lives, you see.”
“You’re carrying on with a neighbour?” Gavin said. “Married, is he?”
“That’s my business.”
Colette had that fizzing, crawling feeling you get when you’re lying. When she heard what was coming out of her mouth she was frightened. It was quite natural that she should want to put the best face on things, with Gavin, but stop, stop, she said to herself, Donnie and Keith aren’t real and Evan is a wanker and Mart lives in the shed. Or used to.
“Fair dos,” Gavin said. “I mean, I can’t see anybody leaving his wife and kids for you, Colette, but then I’ve no right to an opinion, have I?”
“Damn right you haven’t.”
“No, you see who you like,” he said—still, she thought, with that lordly air, as if he were giving her permission. “Look, what I called about—they’ve been having a bit of a shakeout at work. They’ve let me go.”
“I see. When did this happen, this shakeout?”
“Three months back.”
“You could have said.”
“Yes, but I thought I’d get fixed up. I called a few people.”
“And they were out, were they? In a meeting? On holiday this week?”
“There’s a downturn, you know?”
“I don’t think it’s a downturn. I think they’ve finally rumbled you, Gavin.”
“No, it’s happening everywhere, all the big consultancies are shedding.”
“So how are you managing? Money must be tight.”
“It’s just a cash-flow problem.”
“I’m sure Zoe can help you out.”
He seemed to hesitate—so Colette said sharply, “She is still with you, I suppose?”
“Oh, yes, she’s very loyal. I mean, she’s not the sort of girl to chuck you if you had a temporary setback.”
“Not like me, eh? I’d be out of there like a shot.”
“So I have to ask you about the payments, for the flat. I have to cut down my outgoings. Just till I get sorted.”
“So is there a downturn in the modelling business too? Or is she in hock for her tit lift and her bum suction? Oh, it’s all right, Gavin, I can afford to carry you for a while. Alison and I are doing really, really well.”
