Read Online Hemispheres by Stephen Baker - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephen Baker
Tags: Literature
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million?
Aye. A million. And you can only choose the one.
Raz leaned back on her chair, eyes twinkling, inwardly laughing.
It’s more than a million, she said. And that’s the beauty of it Danny boy. Any moment in time, there’s a zillion different
maybes, all hanging out there. Sometimes you never even see them brother. It’s mad as biscuits.
Are you sure it’s just a zillion like? Not a zillion and one, or nine hundred and ninety-nine trillion nine hundred and ninety-nine?
Actually, she said, very seriously, leaning back so far on her chair I thought she might tip over. It’s a zillion and twelve.
But I was rounding down for the simple-minded.
I wanted to kiss her. Instead I looked out of the window across the back garden. Over the saltmarsh a gull was levitating
on the wind, perched at the apex of a blustery crystal-clear morning, half a mile above Port Clarence. I thought about the
equations you need to fly – the hieroglyphic tangle of fluid dynamics, turbulence, chaos theory and the rest. The gull swayed,
tilted, blew over with a raucous cry.
Well they can fuck off, I said. All zillion and twelve of them.
Shh, don’t swear, Dad’s upstairs. Puckered up her brown face into that expression, half laughing and half admonishing. Mr
Shahid clattered down the stairs, on the way out for his shift on the minicabs.
Daniel, he said, by way of acknowledgement. His eyes glittered like Razia’s above the thin moustache. The door clicked shut
behind him and I heard his engine rev outside. We didn’t speak much, just a word or two when he was going out to the taxi,
or coming back in after a shift. He tolerated me in his house, at his kitchen table or on his sofa.
A ghost went through Gary Hagan, I said. Straight through him.
That means he’s going to die, said Raz. No bones about it.
Ghosts don’t have bones, I said. She wrinkled her nose at the lame joke. Seriously though, I asked her. Do you believe in
them?
Aye, I reckon. Saw this old biddy once in Dhaka, going out to the well in the morning. Only she’d died the night before.
What do you think they are?
I don’t reckon it’s the dead coming back, rattling a chain. Maybe it’s because time and space are all folded and wrinkled
and scrunched up, so one place can rub against another. Leave a mark like pressing on carbon paper.
So a ghost is like a bad photocopy?
She laughed. Aye, maybe. Have you had any dinner? I think there are frozen pizzas – I could heat some up.
Better get back to the pub Raz, I said, I’ve got stuff to do.
I shuffled into my overcoat. I had to squeeze close past her at the front door. She sparkled at me,
Take care Dan, she said.
I pulled her towards me, but she squirmed away expertly.
Don’t make things more complicated than you have to, she said.
Kate was in the living room with the TV blaring and the gas fire pumping out the heat on full whack and Trajan sprawled beside
her toasting his bollocks. He was Yan’s dog and I never worked out what breeds made him up but he was a big leathery bugger
whatever.
She grabbed my jumper as I went past, nostrils flared like a horse.
Don’t think, she said, her big brown eyes wandering aimlessly. Don’t think you can fucking swan back in here without a word.
After three years, you bastard.
Half drawl and half croak, with a blast of Coke and Jack Daniels on her breath. Sweet and sticky.
Mam, I said. It’s Danny.
Looked down at her hand. Pastel-pink nails flaring against mahogany skin.
Don’t think, she said. Gave my jumper a hard yank, almost overbalancing me. The heat was oppressive, sweat patches heavy
under my arms.
Mam.
Aye, she said. Tried to focus on me. Danny.
She reached over the arm of the sofa and found her glass and took a good hit. Then she rummaged in her bag for tablets and
shovelled a few down and chased them with more whisky and Coke.
It’s
Randall and Hopkirk
, she said. I love this. Come and sit next to us and watch it
Aye. A million. And you can only choose the one.
Raz leaned back on her chair, eyes twinkling, inwardly laughing.
It’s more than a million, she said. And that’s the beauty of it Danny boy. Any moment in time, there’s a zillion different
maybes, all hanging out there. Sometimes you never even see them brother. It’s mad as biscuits.
Are you sure it’s just a zillion like? Not a zillion and one, or nine hundred and ninety-nine trillion nine hundred and ninety-nine?
Actually, she said, very seriously, leaning back so far on her chair I thought she might tip over. It’s a zillion and twelve.
But I was rounding down for the simple-minded.
I wanted to kiss her. Instead I looked out of the window across the back garden. Over the saltmarsh a gull was levitating
on the wind, perched at the apex of a blustery crystal-clear morning, half a mile above Port Clarence. I thought about the
equations you need to fly – the hieroglyphic tangle of fluid dynamics, turbulence, chaos theory and the rest. The gull swayed,
tilted, blew over with a raucous cry.
Well they can fuck off, I said. All zillion and twelve of them.
Shh, don’t swear, Dad’s upstairs. Puckered up her brown face into that expression, half laughing and half admonishing. Mr
Shahid clattered down the stairs, on the way out for his shift on the minicabs.
Daniel, he said, by way of acknowledgement. His eyes glittered like Razia’s above the thin moustache. The door clicked shut
behind him and I heard his engine rev outside. We didn’t speak much, just a word or two when he was going out to the taxi,
or coming back in after a shift. He tolerated me in his house, at his kitchen table or on his sofa.
A ghost went through Gary Hagan, I said. Straight through him.
That means he’s going to die, said Raz. No bones about it.
Ghosts don’t have bones, I said. She wrinkled her nose at the lame joke. Seriously though, I asked her. Do you believe in
them?
Aye, I reckon. Saw this old biddy once in Dhaka, going out to the well in the morning. Only she’d died the night before.
What do you think they are?
I don’t reckon it’s the dead coming back, rattling a chain. Maybe it’s because time and space are all folded and wrinkled
and scrunched up, so one place can rub against another. Leave a mark like pressing on carbon paper.
So a ghost is like a bad photocopy?
She laughed. Aye, maybe. Have you had any dinner? I think there are frozen pizzas – I could heat some up.
Better get back to the pub Raz, I said, I’ve got stuff to do.
I shuffled into my overcoat. I had to squeeze close past her at the front door. She sparkled at me,
Take care Dan, she said.
I pulled her towards me, but she squirmed away expertly.
Don’t make things more complicated than you have to, she said.
Kate was in the living room with the TV blaring and the gas fire pumping out the heat on full whack and Trajan sprawled beside
her toasting his bollocks. He was Yan’s dog and I never worked out what breeds made him up but he was a big leathery bugger
whatever.
She grabbed my jumper as I went past, nostrils flared like a horse.
Don’t think, she said, her big brown eyes wandering aimlessly. Don’t think you can fucking swan back in here without a word.
After three years, you bastard.
Half drawl and half croak, with a blast of Coke and Jack Daniels on her breath. Sweet and sticky.
Mam, I said. It’s Danny.
Looked down at her hand. Pastel-pink nails flaring against mahogany skin.
Don’t think, she said. Gave my jumper a hard yank, almost overbalancing me. The heat was oppressive, sweat patches heavy
under my arms.
Mam.
Aye, she said. Tried to focus on me. Danny.
She reached over the arm of the sofa and found her glass and took a good hit. Then she rummaged in her bag for tablets and
shovelled a few down and chased them with more whisky and Coke.
It’s
Randall and Hopkirk
, she said. I love this. Come and sit next to us and watch it
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