The Adjacent

  ‘So how do they do it?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘You said you were there. Didn’t you ask them?’

  ‘I heard many answers, none of which I understood, and anyway I think none of the stories was true. Ask yourself, Tomak: how did you get to Prachous? Where were you before we met?’

  Tallant felt a cold, familiar inner fear, something he habitually shied away from. He slid his hand away from her body, sat up. Someone outside in the yard was shouting, followed by several more yelling back. The music suddenly increased in volume. He heard laughter. The noises from the drinkers seemed remote from him, hidden behind a transparent screen. For the first time in weeks he felt chilled. The woman, Firentsa, did not sit up beside him, but she turned her face away so that she was gazing up at the ceiling. He saw the strong jaw, the high forehead. She was in repose, waiting for him to speak.

  ‘Why did you ask me that?’ he said.

  ‘Because you don’t know the answer and neither do I. You are here, I am here. We are much the same.’

  ‘I have always been here,’ he said.

  ‘So have I. How far back do your memories go?’

  ‘All the way.’

  ‘As a child?’

  ‘No. Not then.’

  ‘So it was later than that,’ she said. ‘How old were you when you arrived on Prachous?’

  He swung his legs around and sat upright on the side of the lumpy mattress. He felt rationality was being tested by memory. He knew he was not a Prachoit but he had always been here on Prachous Island. There were times in the past when he had not been here but his memories were textureless, uninterrupted, a smooth continuity. He felt an agony of uncertainty, memory being tested by rationality.

  He stood up.

  ‘You do not know where we are,’ she said. ‘You have never before been to Adjacent. You do not know Prachous City, because if you did you would not call it that. You are not even sure in which the direction the sea might be. All these would be familiar to islanders, which tells me you have recently arrived. I think I have too.’

  ‘But you were here last year, working in the shanty town.’

  ‘I was spreading the word in Adjacent. That is true. I am certain of that as you are certain of your own memories. You seek inner peace. I know how I could offer you that. I have words that I love to speak.’

  ‘I don’t want them.’

  ‘Then ask me the same as I asked you.’

  ‘How did you come to this island?’ he said. He was back beside the bed now, standing naked beside her, looking down at her. He could see his shadow thrown across her breasts by the single light-bulb in the ceiling. ‘You are not a Prachoit.’

  ‘I am a Spreader—’

  ‘Come on, that’s just an evasion. What are you really, Firentsa?’

  ‘You’re evading it too. We are both refusing to accept that our lives are not what we think they are. Come and lie down beside me again. We are here to do that together and my needs are still urgent.’

  ‘Say the words.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Then say again what you said about memory. That felt true.’

  ‘Do you remember how we met?’ Firentsa said.

  ‘We were walking together through the desert, heading south.’

  ‘But before that? Before the desert? Where were you and what were you doing?’ The weak, shadowed light from the bulb did not reveal much of her to him – now she further shaded herself by raising a knee. He could see all of her face, and some of the light from one of the floodlamps outside was reflecting back from the wall behind her. Her body interested him, but there was something about her he could not comprehend. ‘Before that, Tomak?’ she said again.

  ‘My wife. I was with my wife, at that place. The one in the desert you and I left together. If we were together then you must have been there too.’

  ‘No. I wasn’t there. It was an army post. Soldiers everywhere.’

  ‘You’re as unsure as I am. I think it was a hospital, a field hospital. My wife was a nurse. Is a nurse. Something happened to her. Do you remember my wife?’

  ‘There were no nurses when we left, or doctors. No one ill. Just soldiers.’

  ‘I don’t remember soldiers,’ Tallant said.

  ‘They were militiamen, I think. A bit of a rabble.’

  ‘But who were they? Prachous is a wealthy island, heavily regulated. There’s no need for private armies.’

  ‘Didn’t you take photographs while you were there?’

  ‘Yes. They’re still in my camera.’

  But all three of his cameras were in their cases, now inside his bag, lying against the wall on the far side of the room. To get them would mean turning away from this woman who wanted him, fiddling with the luggage and the closures and fasteners, checking through the three cameras to remember which one he had used, and when.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you tomorrow.’

  ‘Still evading, then. Come and lie beside me, Tomak.’

  Briefly, he glimpsed in her expression the same sort of uncertainty he himself was feeling. There was a gap in his memory, like a period of amnesia, but in fact it was the opposite of that. Not a gap but a presence, an infilling. He had too many memories, but none of them was precise, or more exactly his own. They weren’t real – they were just good enough narratives. All he knew for sure was the experience of the last three days he had spent with this intriguing woman, and more exactly still, the last several minutes.

  ‘Will you stay with me here tonight?’ he said to her.

  ‘I could.’

  ‘Will you? Do you want to?’

  ‘I no longer wish to be alone.’

  As he lay beside her she reached for him, stroked his belly, stroked the top of his legs. He did not need her to encourage him, but as he placed his arms around her and they both stretched across the old mattress, he felt her hands go behind him. For now, reality was the sensation of her strong hands on his backside, her fingernails pressing into him. He let the noises from outside drift away into the background, he ignored the squalid room in which they lay. One of his hands was lightly holding the back of her head, his fingers buried in Firentsa’s short, curly hair, while he pressed his lips to hers – the other hand held and caressed one of her breasts. He was lost in the moment. Ahead would be an arrival at the coast, perhaps tomorrow, somewhere by the sea, with a prospect of winds, the taste of salt on his lips and the sound of the waves, the famous reefs and lagoons that fenced this difficult island. He dreamed of finding a harbour, a ship that would carry him away, or a beach to lie on in idleness, or an apartment to rent in a harbourside village, or a reunion with his wife, who was somewhere here. He wished he could remember her name.

  6

  REVENGER

  The five leading families of Prachous are called Drennen, Galhand, Assentir, Mercier and Wentevor. The names are known to everyone living on the island, but few ordinary people are ever likely to meet any member of these families.

  Although by reputation the five families have always been involved in deep and vicious feuds with each other, in modern times they have come to an accommodation and have arranged matters to suit themselves. Some of the family members live permanently on other islands, many of them travel in pursuit of their extensive business interests, but most of them stay within their family Keeps: these are immense family estates situated in the more inaccessible parts of the island. The leading families have little contact between themselves, or so it is believed.

  The background of these families has to a large extent created the code of criminal justice for which Prachous is notorious throughout the archipelago.

  Because Prachous is a feudal society, private property does not exist. All land, infrastructure, services, businesses, homes and even individual objects are ultimately in the ownership of one or other of the ruling families. Use of them is paid for by tithes. These are collected annually under strict rules of enforcement, through a system of
collection agencies administered by professional specialists. The civilian policier force has wide and repressive powers of arrest, detention and prosecution, but few Prachous residents are foolhardy enough to break local laws, except inadvertently or in trivial matters. Prachous is an unquestioning, subservient, materialistic society, where acceptance is rewarded and authority is rarely challenged.

  Of course there are many small offences, most of which are committed because of personal disputes, bad behaviour when drunk, minor breakages or, most frequently of all, traffic or driving offences. These are inevitable in any society. On Prachous they are not dealt with under the criminal code. The traditional means of dealing with offenders is for the aggrieved to take revenge.

  In some cases the aggrieved is of course an individual, but more often the grievance is said to be felt by the community at large, when civic retribution is allowed. For example, there is no law prohibiting anyone driving around under the influence of alcohol or drugs, so if anyone is arrested for that the policier treat it as a civic matter. The driver is then handed over to his or her neighbours.

  All Prachoits know, understand and abide by the principle of proportionate revenge. Retaliation must be in proportion to the offence – if the revenge oversteps that proportion, then the right to revenge is passed back.

  Schoolchildren in Prachous are always taught that one of the patois names of the island means REVENGER.

  Prachous is therefore a conforming society regulated by apprehension. Prachoits enjoy their lives – few of them ever emigrate to other islands, or even try to. The tithe regulations discourage emigration, but the will is not there. Life on Prachous is benign. Most of the island is scenically beautiful, especially in the mountainous regions. Although the interior of the island is hot, the tropical climate is tempered in all the main areas of coastal settlement by cool sea currents and the prevailing winds. The cities are clean, safe and prosperous. There are sports and leisure facilities everywhere. Prachoits are free to travel anywhere on the island, except of course within those parts reserved for the leading families. They enjoy an uninhibited freedom of speech and expression, of assembly, of opinion. The internet is controlled and monitored by the family representatives, so it is not widely used. The day to day effect of the feudal system brings easy access to almost any material possession. Prachoits are comfortable, contented.

  Prachous is a secular island. Religious observation is tolerated but not encouraged.

  Culturally, Prachous is something of a backwater. Although sponsorship schemes for Prachoit artistes do exist, funded anonymously by the Galhand and Assentir clans, few artistes appear to take advantage of them. Most of the available funds are handed over to local amateur dramatics groups, evening classes and self-publishing ventures. Prachoit writers, musicians, painters, composers and so on are encouraged not to emigrate, but many of them do. Most Prachoit books or films, produced on other islands, depict Prachous in an unfortunate light, which because of the revenge laws makes returning to their home island a problem. The performing arts are well supported, although conventional in form. Experimental work is not encouraged.

  7

  THOM THE THAUMATURGE

  Thom the Thaumaturge was born in the Prachoit town of Waalanser, a dull and workaday place on the north coast. The main industries in Waalanser at the time of Thom’s birth were fishing and associated activities, such as the smoking, canning and freezing of fish, and a number of manufacturing and mining industries which grew up around the valuable mineral wealth buried in the surrounding hills. For Thom, it was a place to escape from and this he did at the age of seventeen. A touring group performed an evening of live dance, mime and magic, which fired Thom with the urge to become a performer. The show was closed down by the authorities after only one performance and the troupe left town, but they had done enough to change Thom’s life.

  As soon as he could Thom set off in pursuit of the travelling players, believing, wrongly as it turned out, that they were touring the coastal towns of Prachous. He headed west along the scenically dull northern shore of the island, turning south with the curving of the coast after Ryneck Point, seeking news of the band of players in every town he came to.

  It was not long before he came to realize that either he had set off in the wrong direction or the troupe had dispersed after their hostile reception in Waalanser. He never saw or heard of them again. By this time he was beyond disappointment. He had already developed a taste for the freedom of the road, for moving on and around, scraping a living doing whatever casual work he could find. Occasionally, he was able to find temporary or seasonal jobs with one of the theatres, music halls or cinemas he came across, but most of the odd jobs he landed during these early years were on construction sites or in kitchens. He learnt the rudiments of a dozen trades as he went along, but most of all he discovered that Prachous society had little interest, at best, in the entertainment arts.

  However, he was happy and contented, teaching himself theatrical skills as he went along. He learned to dance, to recite, to work marionettes, to play acceptably on half a dozen musical instruments. He learned mime, fire-eating and modest acrobatics – he could ride a unicycle and juggle wooden clubs, and for a while both at the same time. For a few blissful weeks he found work in a travelling circus, but the circus came from another part of the archipelago. The circus management’s visa forced their stay on Prachous to be short. Thom parted company with the other performers when they told him they had booked a steamship passage to the distant island of Salay.

  By the time Thom was in his mid-twenties he had become an accomplished magician, not so much through inclination as the gradual realization that the conservative burghers of these bourgeois Prachoit towns did still enjoy the sight of live magic.

  As the years went by he had become more skilful and adept at the art of conjuring, able to match the expectations of different audiences. What would thrill the members of a business seminar seeking diversion was not the same repertoire as he would perform for retired people in one of the seaside towns.

  His itinerant life gradually lost its appeal and after his twenty-fifth birthday he found an apartment in the east coast town of Beathurn, surrendered his least-used magical apparatus as a depositing tithe, and became permanently resident at an address for the first time since leaving his parents’ home.

  Living in Beathurn turned out to suit him. It came close to having what Thom considered to be civilized values, not the least of which was the presence of a working theatre – Il-Palazz Dukat Aviator, or ‘The Grand Aviator Palace’. This oddly named venue was a well-equipped theatre, which the management insisted on filling with an apparently endless stream of pop tribute bands, evangelists and celebrity chefs. Once or twice a year there was a general variety show, but the acts were unimaginative and repetitive. There was also a cinema, an extensive lending library, a music store and a bookshop.

  For a while Thom worked part-time as a licensed pavement performer: singing, playing, sometimes juggling and always performing street magic. He became well known in the town, but he was constantly frustrated in his attempts to be given a booking at the theatre. Every now and then he would earn a gig in one of the neighbouring towns: a party or an event, sometimes guesting in private drinking or gambling clubs, and once or twice even given the chance to perform on a stage, but Il-Palazz remained persistently out of reach.

  One day, though, when Thom the Thaumaturge was thinking at last that he might retire from performing, he saw a letter printed in the local newspaper. It gave him an idea.

  8

  The letter was from a man who had spent some time travelling around the Dream Archipelago, and during his journey had seen something he described as a true and baffling mystery.

  On the island of Paneron he and his family had witnessed what they considered to be a miracle. He had seen a shaman or a fakir, or some other kind of wild religious zealot, make a young boy disappear from sight in extraordinary circumstances. The letter writer wa
s imprecise with detail, but said it had taken place in the open air, on a patch of recently mown grass, with no assistants and with scores of spectators on all sides.

  The letter closed with an appeal to anyone who might have an explanation for what had happened to make contact with him care of the newspaper.

  Thom, sensing that this man had seen a skilled illusionist at work, knew that one of the invariable conditions of illusionism was that the audience only saw what they were intended to see, and that they would contentedly assume the rest. What was in fact going on was something else entirely. There was enough description in the letter to convince Thom that this was such an illusion, but annoyingly the details of the performance were lacking.

  Subsequent issues of the newspaper carried letters from other readers. Some were just as intrigued as Thom, but others had their own anecdotes to tell. Finally, someone sent in a letter saying that he too had watched this illusion on Paneron – he was also baffled by it, but unlike the first correspondent he included a description of the performance.

  With this extra detail Thom was able to make an intelligent guess about what the illusion might have been. All stage magic evolves gradually, tricks adapting as society changes or as new technology become available, but every illusion is based on a handful of principles that have not changed in centuries. What appear to be fresh concepts or innovations are in fact the result of showmanship, or novel ways of presenting old ideas.

  Thom immediately set about designing the apparatus he would need for the performance, and sent off to a mail order supplier in Glaund City, on the mainland, for the one crucial piece of equipment he could not make for himself. This was a specially manufactured industrial hawser, mainly used in undersea exploration, but which would be ideal for his purposes.

  Two or three weeks later he began his preparations. He rented a function room above a restaurant to use as a rehearsal room and workshop, and every day, working with the blinds drawn and the inner door locked, Thom went through the creation and rehearsal of his new stage act.