Come to Harm Page 5

  I saw you again. You can’t hide from me. I will tell them all.

  And just like the first one, this one was taken straight to the fireplace in the lounge, crumpled up—envelope and all—and had a match held to it until it caught, flared, and died down in sheets of ash to be stirred away to nothing with the poker.

  Wednesday, 9 October

  Later in the afternoon she had an appointment with Dr. Bryant, her supervisor, her mentor, Socrates to her Plato, Plato to her Aristotle …

  Well, she had an appointment anyway. But she wouldn’t waste the morning. She set up her PC on the big table in the bay window and started typing.

  Facts, Scams and Scares: the production of consensus in dense social networks, she wrote, editing out the gossip right away. Consensus as (arti)fact: scams and scares in the construction of knowledge. A cup of coffee on her right and a cup of pens and pencils on her left made a neat arrangement. Consensual knowledge in networks: scares, fads and density. To be confirmed, she decided and typed: Something with a colon: the title of a thesis in social psychology. She put in a page break and started typing again.

  The aim intention objective of this thesis project research enquiry is to enquire discover explore develop provide an account mechanism model explanation theory hypothesis for the …

  I will listen to people talking to find out …

  She shut her laptop and took a sheet of paper instead, uncapped a pen.

  Title

  Introduction

  Literature Review

  Find subjects

  Develop psych-test materials

  Dry run

  Organize group

  Develop main test materials

  Experiments (test, feedback, retest)

  Analysis

  Write thesis

  Graduate & accept job at Oxford/Cambridge/Harvard or similar

  And wondering what sort of job openings there would be if she were looking for one today, she opened her laptop instead and waited. Then she remembered she didn’t have an Internet account yet. No wonder she felt so marooned and peculiar. No phone yet, no WiFi. But as she was thinking it, a dialogue box popped up telling of a connection, asking for a password. She typed the password she used for everything—phdgirl—and, looking at the red X denying her access, she had never felt so far from home.

  _____

  Murray was alone in the shop, standing not behind the counter but out in front, tidying the notices on a corkboard behind the door—Brownies Barbie-Q night, firewood for sale, greenhouse wanted will collect—lining them up and pushing pins into all four corners, stripping off the tattered ones as he went. His white coat and apron were freshly starched and dazzling, sticking out at the edges like the new blue oilcloth on the kitchen table upstairs.

  “Day off already?” he said turning to her and smiling.

  “Sorry?” said Keiko.

  “I thought you’d be away into town.”

  “Later.”

  “I’m not complaining,” said Murray, his smile even wider. “What can I do for you?”

  “Ah, yes,” said Keiko. “I seem to have Internet upstairs but no one told me how to get onto it. I wondered if you knew. Or your mother maybe?”

  “Mum?” said Murray, laughing. “She doesn’t even use a calculator, never mind computers. It’ll be Jimmy McKendrick that’s set that up for you. He’ll know.”

  “I see,” said Keiko. “I thought because it was your flat …”

  “Who told you that?” Murray said, giving her an exaggerated frown but still smiling.

  “Mr. McKendrick did,” said Keiko, frowning herself, trying to remember. “I’m sure he said so. ‘Above the Pooles and they own it,’ he said. And I remember most particularly because I didn’t know it was a name at the time and ‘above the pools’ sounded so refreshing.”

  Murray laughed again then. “Yeah,” he said. “We own it.”

  “And I’m very grateful for it,” Keiko said.

  “You don’t need to be that grateful,” he said. “Better than having it sit there empty.”

  “But surely such a lovely flat can’t have been empty for long?” said Keiko. “In Tokyo—” She bit this off. Her mother had told her to be careful not to say too much about Japan. If they cared they could come and see for themselves, Keko-chan. Just as I could go to Sydney and take my own photographs of the opera house if I wanted them. My sister-in-law does not need to come home and share hers with me.

  “Well, it’s a place to stay,” said Murray. “But you don’t have to let yourself get sucked in.”

  Keiko shook her head at him, but before she could ask what he meant, the bell dinged above the door.

  “Afternoon, young man,” said a woman, hefting a shopping basket onto the counter and leaning against it. Murray had flitted round to his station behind the register when he saw her coming.

  “Mrs. Glendinning,” he said.

  “And how are you today, Keiko?” said the woman. Keiko bobbed her head and smiled. She couldn’t remember ever seeing this woman before but supposed that she might have been at the feast in peach ruffles or turquoise satin. And her name did seem familiar.

  “Right then,” Mrs. Glendinning said, peering into the display. “I’ll take a pound of your steak mince for tonight.” She gave Murray a sharp look. “That’s today’s mince, eh?”

  Murray nodded. He had pushed his hands into plastic gloves from the dispenser and had twitched a sheet of cellophane onto the bed of the scales.

  “And a pound—no make it two pounds—of pork links and they’ll do for his breakfasts too. Couple of gigot chops, maybe three, eh? They’re no size. Another pound of mince—beef just, for meatballs—and, em, Friday, Friday, Friday … Well I’ll take a good two pounds of Ayrshire back anyway and a wee tate of pudding slices for the weekend. Friday, Friday, Friday … Och, why not? That sirloin looks a bonny colour, two steaks’ll do us fine.”

  “Malc?” shouted Murray into the back of the shop.

  Keiko cocked her head. Almost immediately, along the corridor that led from the back, came the sound of Malcolm moving, a low pounding, rubber boots squeaking, the chafing of cloth and slow breaths, until he appeared in the mouth of the passage. He wore the same clothes as his brother, but his apron was dark from work, his coat sleeves pushed back as far as they would go up his wrists. But still they were edged with rust colour.

  Murray was weighing and wrapping, turning the waxed sheets into bags and sealing them, deft and precise, never touching their contents. He spoke without looking up. “Couple of sirloin for Mrs. Glendinning, pal.” Then he snapped open a carrier bag and began to stack the packages inside.

  Malcolm turned away to where a wedge of meat sat like a rock on a high cutting board and bent over it. Although his hands must be moving, all Keiko could see was his back, a wide block of white broken by apron strings. There were two muffled thumps that made Malcolm’s back judder, and then he turned around to face them, slapping the bricks of cut meat from his bare palms onto the scales.

  “I’ve left the fat on, Mrs. Glendinning,” he said, his soft voice booming a little as he strained to be heard over the width of the counter and the sound of Murray rustling the carrier bag. “You don’t have to eat it, but don’t go trimming it before you fry them, because—”

  “I’ll manage from here, son,” said the woman, winking at Keiko. “It’s like taking a chick from under a hen getting a steak out of Malcolm sometimes.”

  Malcolm smiled but was already moving away again.

  The shop bell sounded and a man strolled in. Fishing in his jacket pocket for his wallet, he joined the woman at the counter.

  “Well, what’s the damage, then?” he said. “What are you after from us today?” He looked at Keiko and chuckled. “Aye, they’re doing all right are the Pooles.”

  “We’re mana
ging, Mr. Glendinning,” said Murray, in a level voice. “The three of us.”

  “Och away, I’m just havin’ a laugh with you,” said the man. “Let’s just hope this one lasts, eh?”

  “Wheesht, Eric,” said his wife. She smiled tightly at Keiko. “Just ignore him, lovey.”

  “Ignore what?” said her husband. “I’m saying I hope she stays. I’m hoping the luck’s turned. Where the harm in that?” He grasped the bag that Murray held over the counter to him, groaned at the weight of it, and walked out. Mrs. Glendinning took the change with another tight smile and followed him.

  “Tosser,” Murray said when they had left.

  “What did he mean?” said Keiko.

  “Nothing, he’s just a stirrer,” Murray said.

  “Did he mean me? This one? Is that me?”

  “Now why would you think that?” Murray said, very still and staring at her.

  “I—” She gulped. There was no reason, except jet lag and dreams she could not quite remember and just the strangeness of everything. Except …

  “Girls leave,” she blurted out. The weird niece, Dina.

  Murray’s eyes widened.

  “Do you cook?” said Malcolm’s voice suddenly, making her jump. He had reappeared at the back of the shop, holding a tray. She composed herself and answered him gently.

  “A little. Easy things Soup, noodles.”

  “What about this?” Malcolm said, shuffling forward and showing her the tray. On it were three skewers threaded with pieces of chicken curved like little seashells, perfect white cubes of mushroom flesh, slices of garlic—sheer and glistening—and discs of baby sweet corn like the wheels of a toy car. The skewers were finished off at each end with tiny onions.

  “Five ingredients,” said Malcolm, “because four is unlucky.”

  “You made kebabs?” she said.

  “They were supposed to be yakitori,” said Malcolm, looking down at them. “Off the Internet.”

  “Well, you must come upstairs after work and help me eat them,” Keiko said, looking at Murray. “Both of you.”

  “These were meant for you,” said Malcolm. “But I could make some more, I suppose.”

  “Just a wee snack, eh?” said Murray. “From the king of portion control.”

  Mrs. Poole had appeared in the doorway to the back shop and looked intently at Keiko before she spoke. “There’s no need for you to be laying on catering up in the flat,” she said. Then with a visible effort she continued, “You should come to our house.”

  “Thank you,” said Keiko. She had no phrases in her repertoire to help with such a reluctant invitation. She waited to see if Mrs. Poole would say any more, and it seemed to her that both sons were watching their mother too. The woman said nothing. How, thought Keiko, do you leave in silence if you can’t bow? I must ask or look it up. Then with a flush of relief, she thought of something to say.

  “The Internet!” She turned to Malcolm. “You have it here in the shop?” He nodded. “Ah! I think I’m picking up your connection in the flat then.”

  All three of the Pooles looked up at the ceiling.

  “What?” said Mrs. Poole. “What are you picking up? What have you seen?”

  “Nothing,” said Keiko. “Goodness, no. Just a prompt. And I wouldn’t— I don’t know the password anyway. I’ll get my own service, naturally.”

  “No need for that,” Malcolm said. “Waste of money. I can set you up no problem with a password. It’ll be nice. Sharing.”

  “But—” said his mother.

  “It’s two different computers, Mum,” said Malcolm. “We’ll all be safe as long as we wear our foil hats when we’re emailing.”

  Keiko snorted with laughter and turned to Murray, but his face was without expression, and his mother’s might as well have been carved from stone.

  “Well, thank you, Malcolm—for the yakitori,” she said, taking the tray.

  She glanced at her watch as she left them. Almost time to go to the university, where she would be at home, among friends. Where she would know what people meant when they spoke. Where people would be like her. Her heart lifted and even returning to her flat up all those stone stairs couldn’t lower it again.

  eight

  Dr. Bryant read with his chin sunk on his chest, his lips pushed forwards and pressed together, making his ginger moustache bristle. From time to time he crunched his mouth up even more, working his glasses up his nose and scraping the moustache hairs against the undersides of his nostrils with a rasping sound.

  “That all seems in perfect order,” he said at last, signing the last page. “Your customary efficiency in full swing.”

  Keiko stared at him. He had never met her before. Japanese efficiency, did he mean? He stared back. Was she only imagining a bloom of colour on his cheeks?

  “Tell me a little about your proposal,” he said.

  Keiko nodded and cleared her throat. “The construction of knowledge in social groups,” she said.

  “A very well-researched area,” said Dr. Bryant.

  “In general,” Keiko said. “But I’ve chosen a focus that’s relatively—”

  Dr. Bryant’s eyes had strayed to his computer screen and he was reading something there.

  “Food as modern folklore,” said Keiko.

  Dr. Bryant touched his mouse and his screen scrolled upwards. “Yes … yes …” he said. He clicked his mouse again.

  “I’m thinking about q-methodology perhaps for the profiling, or a Likert line, created stimuli for the feedback into the networks.”

  “Good, good.” Click, click.

  “And there will be useful insights from anthropology and sociology. From the literature, I mean.” She took a deep breath. She could always claim language problems. “And embroidery and some snowboarding.”

  “Yes, I see,” said Dr. Bryant. “Well I’m very glad to hear someone giving proper consideration to a robust theoretical grounding right from the start.”

  “Yes, I see,” echoed Keiko and, thanking him in such a soft voice that his attention was not hooked away from his screen by the smallest fraction, she let herself out.

  _____

  Charismatic teachers are really for undergraduates, she told herself. Or high school English teachers who lend their personal copies of Faulkner; even grade school teachers who take seven-year-olds to their first ballet.

  Her studies, her time here—the early blossoming of her career as she would no doubt call it in years to come—would be made up of her own careful probing scholarship, bounced off the other young minds, fresh bright minds, just beginning, like her own.

  What she should be doing was meeting her office mates. She checked the floor plan on the wall of the entrance atrium and set off into the dark halls and stairways. Already she could see the three of them sitting in armchairs, or maybe the two of them sitting in armchairs, listening, while Keiko stood on the rug by the fireplace and read a draft of a paper to them, and how they would put down their sherry glasses and stare at her as she finished, how one would whistle and one would clap and they would toast her and tell her to send it straight to the journal. And she would say she couldn’t have done it without their help, and someone would knock at the door and it would be Dr. Bryant, asking her if she wanted to see him and she would say, ‘No, I don’t think so,’ and he would close the door again.

  She was in the right corridor now and she shook her head, dispersing the daydreams and told herself to pay attention. She walked slowly, trying to fix the moment, so that later, in the years to come, when she ran along this corridor every day, she would still remember the first time.

  And there it was. She paused outside to read the names on the door: Grete Marr, A.L. Ebberwood, Keiko Nishisato. She raised her hand to knock but then instead, tracing her fingers over her own name, she turned the handle and walked in.


  It was a smallish room although high-ceilinged. Rather awkward actually, with once-white walls and once-blue carpet, worn dark and shiny over years. There were three desks. The one under the dusty window and the one on the long bare wall were occupied, two students hunched over laptops, both wearing ear buds and typing furiously. Neither of them looked up at her. The third desk, the smallest, was in the darkest corner by the door, half-covered in bales of yellowing paper and clusters of smoked-glass coffee mugs with cold, cloudy dregs in the bottom. On the bookshelf above, a spider plant had died, and dried-up nodules of it had fallen on the bales of paper and the coffee mugs, like little brown squid.

  Before picture, Keiko told herself. She stepped into the room. One of the others—the female one (Grete?)—hit the save button twice, plucked out an ear bud and turned to Keiko.

  “Okay,” she said. “Here’s the deal. I’ve been working on my thesis for five years”—she turned back to her keyboard and hit the save button again—“I’m nearly finished and I can’t have any disruption. I asked Lynne—the secretary—not to put anyone in here, but there’s no space anywhere else.” She put her ear bud back in, hit the save button yet again, and started typing.

  “You’re talking,” said the other student, without turning. His voice was a flat drone. “It’s happening already. She’s here and you’re talking to her.” He turned up the volume on his own ear buds and put his head down.

  Keiko stood in the doorway for a moment listening to the midget tsk-tsk of the two iPods, then stepped back into the hallway and let the door close quietly behind her.

  _____

  Those people with the sherry, she told herself, are literature scholars, not psychologists. Work like mine demands solitude and sobriety. She found the secretary’s office, knocked, and went in. A woman was standing with her coat on reading pieces of paper and throwing them into her waste basket.