Last night, while we were having sex, I started reciting old adverts. Ones from when we were kids. “The red car and the blue car had a race . . . formulated and controlled by Laboratoires Garnier . . . turns the milk chocolatey.” I think James assumed I was enjoying myself.
I’m reaching Events Square now, where the Sea Shanty Festival is being set up. Bunting and beer stalls. There’s a group rehearsing in the square.
Goodbye, fare thee well,
We’re going away to leave you now,
Hoorah, me boys, we’re homeward bound.
I break into a jog. The jog turns into a sprint. I run all the way up to Pendennis Point; then I look down at the water. I’ve spent a lot of time looking down since my trip to Sherwood Forest. Every time I look up, I feel guilty. What was it Evie said? Every time they see the sky, I want them to think of me.
Four more weeks and I’ll be back in the diving chamber.
25
“Deano?”
My uterus is a salt marsh, a mudflat, a mangrove. It is teeming with grass shrimps and peanut worms. I feel grateful to be able to cultivate something so abundant and fruitful within my own body. I feel grateful to be able to cultivate something so abundant and fruitful within my own body. I feel grateful—
“Lad?”
I am to spend at least ten minutes a day praising my dank dwelling. I found the visualisation exercise on YouTube, and it appealed to me because I’ve been feeling so dried-up lately. The more I picture my uterus as a sopping wet swamp, the more right for James I feel.
“The others are calling you. Your John Skinner’s ready.” Dale’s voice, coming from the bunk beneath me, is not conducive to a meditative state.
“On my way,” I say, climbing down.
“Thought you were Bo-Peeping,” says Dale. He heaves himself up to sitting. “Right. Time for work.”
We’re two weeks into the dive. Rich is not with us, and there have been no panic attacks, no life-or-death scenarios. It’s been ten hours a day in the water, eight in the bunk, and the rest of the time for food, toilet, TV. Normally, I’d be getting lots of reading done, but I’ve only got Ruth Rendells and I’m not in the mood.
Kevin, Bailey, and I are on nights. Kevin is Rich’s replacement. I’ve worked with him a few times. He once ate a whole box of doughnuts—twelve Krispy Kremes—after a morning shift. He’s already halfway through his dinner when I get into the chamber.
“Took your time, lady,” says Bailey.
Bailey’s on the team instead of Cal, who’s apparently having a wart removed. I haven’t worked with Bailey before. Last night, when I came out of the loo, he asked if I’d finished “faffing around.” He laughed afterwards, as if laughter were a balm that turned an insult into a joke, but I didn’t laugh back.
Tai is on the dive too, working days with Eryk and Dale, but I’ve barely had the chance to talk to him. I’ve seen him on his bunk a couple of times, in between shifts. He’s not reading about how to chop wood any more. Now he’s reading a book called Wills, Probate & Inheritance Tax for Dummies.
It’s 6:00 a.m. and I’m about to settle down to a scallop supper. Fortunately, time doesn’t mean much in here. I think if I were outside, watching the sun rise, hearing the birds sing, I’d struggle to eat a hot dinner. In here, I can kid myself that it’s six in the evening.
I sit down too fast and bash my shin on the table leg.
“That’s gotta hurt,” says Bailey.
Earlier on, I banged my head while getting into the bunk. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
Kevin hands me my food.
Bailey passes me the chilli sauce. “Madam.”
I stick the telly on. Today it’s an old episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation. I’ve seen this episode before. My mum used to like Star Trek, so my dad tells me, and knowing that has always drawn me to it. In general, despite loving space, I’m not a sci-fi buff. I’d rather watch an action movie. The night before I left for my dive, James and I spent a good half hour surfing Netflix, trying to find something we both fancied. He wanted to watch a TED Talk on vulnerability and I wanted Die Hard. We compromised with a travel programme.
In this episode of Star Trek, the android Data is in danger of being dismantled by a scientist who wants to see his inner workings. Captain Picard must defend Data in a Starfleet court, explaining that Data is neither a slave nor a possession. Intelligent life, artificial or otherwise, must be treated with respect. Our nuts and bolts don’t make us who we are—all they do is keep us from falling apart.
“She’s only bloody crying,” says Bailey, pointing at me.
“It’s great to experience human emotions, Bailey,” I say, sniffing. “You should try it sometime.”
If I ever do make it to Mars, I’ll need to be okay with confrontation. All sorts of issues are bound to arise. Hopefully, of course, the people who go will be polite and progressive. A microcosm of a perfect Martian society. It’s the kind of thing some folk might feel sexy about: a group of men and women, living in close quarters, tasked with creating a new civilisation together. In truth, despite having joked about it with Evie at Center Parcs, I find sex in space about as appealing as sex in a compression chamber. Or sex anywhere, come to think of it.
I found myself looking at an asexual website while lying in my bunk yesterday. “Asexual people simply don’t experience sexual attraction,” said the website. “It’s an orientation, not a choice.” Apparently, you can be asexual and still be in a happy relationship. You might even experience sexual arousal; you just don’t want to act on it. I wish that each time I used Google, I’d understand
