The next tug had been a little more forceful and had happened in public. His car was being serviced and he’d taken the bus to work. On the way home, exhausted by the demands of the day, he was nodding, half asleep when his head had been whipped into an upright position snapping him back to wakefulness. He’d looked around in furtive shame to have been so obviously caught out but no one had noticed. He tried to tell himself that he’d merely jerked himself awake as he sometimes did when napping.
Waking so suddenly and seeing all those oily black ducts protruding from every head; that was the moment when he began to look more closely at other people’s tubes. It was risky, of course, because if they looked up and caught him peering, however innocently, at the place above their heads where the tube was attached, it would lead to trouble. He wasn’t certain what sort of trouble but he guessed it would be the worst kind.
As he appraised those seated with him, he was assailed by many more conundrums relating to the tube and the first thing was this: how did they get in and out of the train without catching their tubes in the doorway? He almost laughed when the idea struck him but managed to stifle the sound. It might have come out a little cracked, a little high-pitched.
However, it wasn’t a question he felt he could leave unanswered and so, like a gynaecologist who ought to know better than to relish the view, he glanced up once more at something he was never supposed to have openly noticed. What he saw was dismaying. The tubes extended up through the ceiling of the bus, as if the steel encasing them were no more substantial than mist. He could see the tubes swaying slightly with the rocking of the bus, completely unimpeded by the ceiling. They went through it; up to somewhere else.
He didn’t have the courage to take any more risks during the rest of the journey but when he arrived home, it took all the willpower he had to hide his agitation.
That evening he watched television with his family as he always did on weeknights before the kids went to bed. Angelina sat beside him on their sofa and held his hand. She could feel the tension in his body but knew better than to ask him how he was. Many of her friends’ husbands were uptight at home in the evenings; work seemed to be a struggle for everyone and she knew she shouldn’t worry.
Michael and Rebecca sat cross-legged on the floor in front of them. Their favourite quiz show was on but Johnson couldn’t concentrate. All he could look at were the slightly smaller tubes, ones that were not yet fully grown, snaking upwards from the heads of his children and through the living room ceiling.
After a few minutes he could stand the temptation no longer.
“Got to take a leak. Tell me what happens, ’kay?”
“’Kay, babe.” Angelina said. Her eyes stayed fixed on the screen.
The children’s bedroom was directly above the living room and as he passed he peered in. It was too gloomy to see anything so he switched the light on. In roughly the centre of the room, two immature tubes stretched up from the floor and through the roof. A slightly wider, ‘adult’ tube, a little farther away did the same. Johnson stared for a moment and then clicked the light off before flushing the toilet and going back downstairs.
He didn’t catch much of the rest of the show. He was too fascinated by the viscous black cables extending from the crowns of his beloved children. Their hair hid the exact point where the tubes connected to their skulls. Was there scarring? He wondered.
Later, unable to sleep, he prayed that Angelina had not looked across and noticed where his eyes were really looking. He began to wonder if he was becoming some kind of pervert; a fetishist or porno freak. He didn’t even know the answer to that.
Chapter 5
A crowded kind of loneliness descended upon Johnson. No matter where he went, the one thing that made him exactly like everyone else set him apart from them. He’d changed now and there was no going back to a state of ignorance. He longed for the bliss of childhood, that easy innocence of the young but either it would not or could not return.
Meanwhile, the condition of his own tube worsened. More frequently his tube would pull his head in some direction or other as if trying to attract his attention. Often it would happen at a moment when he had almost forgotten the problem existed. It was as if it waited for him to be off guard for the more dramatic effect it would cause.
He assumed that, to others in his office, it looked like he had developed some kind of nervous tick or twitch but if they noticed anything, they never mentioned it. Everyone was under pressure at the firm and signs of stress were common. A bout of tears, a sudden snap of the temper, a muscular twitch. It was all pretty normal. No one bothered about it. Except Johnson. Johnson bothered about it a lot.
He decided to probe Shuckman for clues. As he knocked on his superior’s private office door, he had the intuition he was making a mistake but Shuckman had already recognised the knock and yelled for him to come in.
“How’s it going, Robert? Got another problem for me?”
“Not exactly, Bill.”
“Well what are you wasting my time for?”
Johnson almost shuffled his feet in embarrassment. He wanted to leave. Coming in here was stupid.
Shuckman registered his discomfort and toned down the office machismo. He liked Johnson’s dogged approach to work, his determination to finish every job properly. He liked his honesty, too. He could read the man like a comic strip. He saw the tiredness around Johnson’s eyes, the pulled up tension in his shoulders, the unusual lack of care taken over his clothes.
“What’s the problem, Robert? I’ve got five minutes for you and you can tell me anything. If I can fix it, I will. Davies giving you heat again?”
“No. It’s uh…it’s kind of personal.”
“You mean Angie?”
“Oh, God, no. Nothing like that, Bill. It’s more like a stupid health problem or something.”
“Drippy dick?”
“Jesus, Bill, what kind of guy do you think I am?”
“Take it easy, Robert, I’m kidding. But there
It was Shuckman’s oldest and favourite joke where Johnson was concerned and for the first time, Johnson actually laughed. He laughed because he needed the outlet, not because he was amused, but Bill took it as a compliment and it bought him some more of the man’s time.
“So, spill it.”
Johnson put his toe in the water.
“Ever get those twitches?”
“What twitches?”
“You know, the ones that make your head move.”
Bill thought about it.
“Can’t say that I do. Why? You get ‘em?”
“Kind of.”
“It’s probably a muscle spasm, Robert. I mean, look how tense you are. You’ve got all that frustration and internalised bullshit pulling your shoulders up around your ears, for Christ’s sake. It’s no wonder your head’s jerking.”
“I didn’t say it jerked.”
“Twitches. Whatever, Robert.”
“You never had it happen?”
“Never. But the muscles around my left eye twitch like a son of a bitch sometimes, though. Always seems to be when I’m in a bar talking to a young lady. I don’t want them to think I’m crazy like that guy in those Pink Panther films—what was his name?”
“I don’t remember.”
“His face used to get all kind of–”
