It is a disparate crowd, comprising, he guesses, shy foreign students, the sorts of girls who would join cults, an oldish man in a tweed suit and rakish hat, people dancing with their shoes off, and others sitting in a row on the sofa. In the corner is a two-bar electric fire and a fish tank. Baxter has forgotten what exactly he is wearing and when he glimpses himself in a mirror and realises that no one minds, he is thankful.
His neighbour is drunk but oddly watchful. She puts her arms around his neck, which discomfits him, as if there is some need in him that she has noticed, though he can’t see what it is.
‘We didn’t think you’d come. Your wife barely speaks to any of us.’
‘Doesn’t she?’
‘Well, she’s charming to some people. How is the flat?’
‘It’s fine … Not too bad.’
Becoming aware of an itching on his forehead, he slaughters a fly between finger and thumb.
She says, ‘Sure?’
‘Why not?’
He feels another fly creeping across his cheek. She is looking at him curiously.
‘I’d like it if you would dance with me,’ she says.
He dislikes dancing but suspects that movement is preferable to stasis. And tonight – why not? – he will celebrate. She points out her husband, a tall man standing in the doorway, talking to a woman. Warm and fleshy, she shakes her arse, and he does what he can.
Then she takes the index finger of his right hand and leads him into a conservatory at the back. It is cold; there is no music. She shoves down her clothes, bends forward over the arm of a chair and he slides the finger she’s taken possession of, and two others, into her. It is a luxurious and well-deserved oblivion. Surely happiness is forgetting who you are! But too soon he notices a familiar caustic smell. He looks about and sees bowls of white powder placed on the floor; another contains a greenish-blue sticky substance. Injured specks move drowsily in the buckets.
He extracts his hand and holds it out. Up at the wrist it is alive with flies.
She looks round, ‘Oh dear, the little babies are hungry tonight.’ She flaps at them unconcernedly.
‘Isn’t there a remedy?’ he asks.
‘People live with it.’
‘They do?’
‘That is the best thing. It is also the worst. They work incessantly Or drink. People all over the world endure different kinds of bacteria.’
‘But surely, surely there is a poison, brew or … blue light that will deter them for ever?’
‘There is,’ she says.’ Of a kind.’
‘What is it?’
She smiles at his desperation. ‘The potions do work, for a period. But you have to replace them with different makes. Imported is best, but expensive. Try the Argentinian. Then the South African, in that order. I’m not sure what they put in that stuff, but … Course, the flies get used to it, and it only maddens and incites them. You might need to go on to the Madagascan.’ Baxter must be looking disheartened because she says, ‘In this street this is how we keep them away – passion!’
‘Passion?’
‘Where there is passion you don’t notice anything.’
He lies over her from behind. He says he can’t believe that these things are just inevitable; that there isn’t, somewhere, a solution.
‘We’ll see to it – later,’ she grunts.
After, in the living room, she whispers, ‘Most of them have got flies round here. Except the newly-weds and adulterers.’ She laughs. ‘They got other things. Eighteen months, it takes. If you’re lucky you get eighteen months and then you get the flies.’ She explains that the flies are the only secret that everyone keeps. Other problems can be paraded and boasted of, but this is an unacceptable shame. ‘We are poisoned by ourselves.’ She looks at him. ‘Do you hate her?’
‘What?’
‘Do you, yet? You can tell me.’
He whispers that it is dawning on him, as love dawns on people, that at times he does hate her; hates the way she cuts up an apple; hates her hands. He hates her tone of voice and the words he knows she’ll use; he hates her clothes, her eyelids, and everyone she knows; her perfume makes him nauseous. He hates the things he’s loved about her; hates the way he has put himself in thrall to her; hates the kindnesses she shows him, as if she is asking for something. He sees, too, that it doesn’t matter that you don’t love someone, until you have a child with them. And he understands, too, how important hatred is, what a strong sustaining feeling it is; a screen perhaps, to stop him pitying her, and himself, and falling into a pit of misery.
His neighbour nods as he shivers with shame at what she has provoked him into saying. She says, ‘My husband and I are starting a microbe business ourselves.’
‘Is there that much call for it?’
‘You can’t sing to them, can you?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘We’ve put a down payment on our first van. You will use only us, won’t you?’
‘We’re broke, I’m afraid. Can’t use anyone.’
‘You can’t let yourself be invaded. You’ll have to work. You haven’t been using the Microbe Consultants, have you?’
‘They have passed by, yes.’
‘They didn’t sell you a pack?’
‘Only two.’
‘Useless, useless. Those men are on commission. Never let them in the house.’
She holds him. Dancing in the middle of the night, while he is still conscious, she puts her mouth to his ear and murmurs, ‘You might need Gerard Quinn.’
‘Who?’
‘Quinn has been hanging around. He’ll be in touch. Meanwhile, behind that door’ – she points at a wooden door with a steel frame, with a padlock hanging from it – ‘we are working on a combination potion, a deadly solution. It’s not yet ready, but when we have a sample, I’ll bring it.’ He looks at her sceptically. ‘Yes, everyone would be doing it. But the snag is, what prevents a definitive remedy is that husbands and wives give the stuff to their partners.’ Baxter feels as if he will fall over. ‘Have you actually mixed it in with her cereal yet, or are you still considering it?’
‘One time I did do that, but I put it down the drain.’
‘People use it to commit suicide too. One can’t be too careful, you see.’
She leaves him. He notices that the bearded man has arrived, and is laughing and sprinkling himself with alcohol beside the fish tank. He raises his hand in acknowledgement of Baxter. Later, before Baxter passes out, he sees the bearded man and the female neighbour go into the conservatory together.
Early in the morning his neighbour’s husband carries Baxter home.
Baxter is still asleep beside the bed, where he has collapsed, when the landlord visits. Fortunately he has forewarned them, and Baxter’s wife has stuffed the blue pole, potions and any devoured items into a cupboard. The man is susceptible to her; when necessary she can be both charming and forceful. Even though a fly lands on his lapel as they are talking, she convinces him that the problem is ‘in remission’.
After lunch, Baxter empties the full saucers once more, and sets out new ones. Once more the flies begin to die. But it is no longer something he can bear to look at. He stands in the bedroom and tells his wife that he will be out for the afternoon, and will take the kid with him. No, she says, he has always been irresponsible. He has to insist, as if it is his last wish, until she gives in.
It has made her sullen, but it is an important victory. He has never been alone with his son. In its sling, weighted against his body, he carries this novelty about the city. He sits in cafés, puts it on his knee and admires its hands and ears; he flings it in the air and kisses it. He strolls in the park and on the grass gives it a bottle. People speak to him; women, particularly, seem to assume he is not a bad character. The child makes him more attractive. He likes having this new companion, or friend, with him.
He thinks of what else they might do. His lover’s phone number comes into his mind. He calls her. They cross the river on
the bus. At her door he wants to turn back but she is there immediately: He holds up the child like a trophy, though Baxter is fearful that she will be unnerved by the softened features of the other woman alive between them.
She invites them in. She is wearing the ear-rings he gave her; she must have put them on for him. They find themselves sighing at the sight of one another. How pleased she is to see them both; more pleased than he has allowed himself to imagine. She can’t stop herself slipping her hands inside his coat, as she used to. He wraps her up and kisses her neck. She belongs in this position, she tells him. How dispirited she has been since he left last time, and hasn’t been in touch. Sometimes she hasn’t wanted to go out. At times she has thought she would go mad. Why did he push her away when he knew that with her everything seemed right? She has had to find another lover.
He doesn’t know how to say he couldn’t believe she loved him, and that he lacked the courage to follow her.
She holds the baby, yet is unsure about kissing him. But the boy is irresistible. She hasn’t changed a nappy before. He shows her. She wipes the boy down, and rubs her cheeks against his skin. His soother stops twitching and hangs from his lips.
They take off their clothes and slip into bed with him. She caresses Baxter from his fingertips to his feet, to make him hers again. She asks him to circle her stomach with kisses. He asks her to sit on her knees, touching herself, showing herself to him, her thumbs touching her pubic bone, making a butterfly of her hands. They are careful not to rock the bed or cry out suddenly, but he has forgotten how fierce their desire can become, and how much they can laugh together, and he has to stuff his fingers in her mouth.
As she sleeps he lies looking at her face, whispering words he has never said to anyone. This makes him more than peaceful. If he is away from his wife for a few hours he feels a curious warmth. He has been frozen, and now his love of things is returning, like a forgotten heat, and he can fall against any nearby wall and slide down it, so soft does he feel. He wants to go home and say to his wife, why can’t we cover each other in affection forever?
Something is brushing his face. He sits up to see a fly emerging from his lover’s ear. Another hangs in his son’s hair. His leg itches; his hand, too, and his back. A fly creeps from the child’s nose. Baxter is carrying the contagion with him, giving it to everyone!
He picks up the sleeping child and wakes the dismayed woman. She attempts to reason with him, but he is hurrying down the street as if pursued by lunatics, and with the desire to yell heartless words at strangers.
He passes the child to his wife, fearing he is looking at her a little wildly. It has all rushed back, what he owes her: kindness, succour, and something else, the details elude him; and how one can’t let people down merely because one happens, one day, to feel differently.
Not that she notices his agitation, as she checks the baby over.
He take a bath, the only place in the flat they can feel at peace. Drinking wine and listening to the radio, he will swat away all thoughts. But the vows he made her aren’t affection, just as a signature isn’t a kiss, and no amount of promises can guarantee love. Without thinking, he gave her his life. He valued it less then, and now he wants it back. But he knows that retrieving a life takes a different courage, and is crueller.
At that moment his heart swells. He can hear her singing in the kitchen. She claps too. He calls her name several times.
She comes in irritably. ‘What do you want?’
‘You.’
‘What for? Not now.’ She looks down at him. ‘What a surprise.’
‘Come on.’
‘Baxter –’
He reaches out to stroke her.
‘Your hands are hot,’ she says. ‘You’re sweating.’
‘Please.’
She sighs, removes her skirt and pants, gets in the bath and pulls him onto her.
‘What brought that on?’ she says after, a little cheered.
‘I heard you singing and clapping.’
‘Yes, that’s how I catch the flies.’ She gets out of the bath. ‘Look, there are flies floating on the water.’
A few days later, when the blue pole has flickered and died – and been smashed against the wall by Baxter – and the bowls of powder have been devoured, leaving a crust of frothing corpses, the Operative is at the door He doesn’t seem surprised by the failure of his medicaments, nor by Baxter’s fierce complaints about the hopeless cures.
‘It’s a course,’ he insists. ‘You can’t abandon it now, unless you want to throw away the advances and go back to the beginning.’
‘What advances?’
‘This is a critical case. What world are you living in, thinking it’ll be a simple cure?’
‘Why didn’t you say that last time?’
‘Didn’t I? I’d say you’re the sort who doesn’t listen.’
‘The blue pole doesn’t work.’
He speaks as if to a dolt. ‘It draws them. The vibration makes them voracious. Then they eat. And perish forever. But not if you kick it to pieces like a child. I passed your wife on the doorstep. She’s changed since the last time. Her eyes –’
‘All right!’
‘I’ve seen it before. She is discouraged. Don’t think she doesn’t know what’s going on!’
‘What is going on?’
‘You know.’
Baxter puts his head in his hands.
The Operative sweeps up the remains of the blue pole and offers Baxter a bag of grey crystals. ‘Watch.’ He pours them into a bowl – the sound is a whoosh of hope – and rests it on the floor. The flies land on it and, after a taste, hop a few inches, then drop dead.
The Operative kisses his fingers.
‘This is incomparable.’
‘Argentinian?’ asks Baxter. ‘Or South African?’
The Operative gives him a mocking look.
‘We never disclose formulas. We have heard that there are people who are mixing their own poisons at home. This will make your skin bubble like leprosy, and your bones soften like rubber. It could be fatal. Leave these things to the experts.’
Baxter writes a cheque for five packs. At the end of the afternoon, he sees the Operative has parked his unmarked van outside the bearded man’s house and is going in with plastic bags. The man glances at Baxter and give a little shrug. Several of the local inhabitants are making slow journeys past the house; as Baxter moves away he notices faces at nearby windows.
Baxter discovers his wife examining the chequebook.
‘Another cheque!’ she cries. ‘For what?’
‘Three packs!’
‘It doesn’t work.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Just look!’
‘It might be worse without the poison.’
‘How could it be worse? You’re throwing money away!’
‘I’m trying to help us!’
‘You don’t know where to start!’
She blinks and nods with anger. The baby cries. Baxter refuses to recount what the Operative said. She doesn’t deserve an explanation. It does occur to him, though, to smash her in the mouth, and at that instant she flinches and draws back. Oh, how we understand one another, without meaning to!
What suggestions does she have, he enquires, trying to keep down self-disgust. She doesn’t have to consider this; she has intentions. Tired of the secrecy, she will discuss the contagion with a friend, when she has the energy. She wants to go out into the world. She has been lonely.
‘Yes, yes,’ he agrees. ‘That would be good. We must try something new.’
A few days later, as soon as his wife has left for the park, there are several urgent taps on the window. Baxter ducks down. However, it is too late. At the door, with a triumphant twirl, his female neighbour presents a paint pot. She wrenches off the lid. It contains a sticky brown substance like treacle. Her head is thrown back by the reek.
Holding the paint pot at arm’s length, she takes in the room. By now they have
, piece by piece, removed a good deal of the furniture, though a few items, the curtains and cushions, have been replaced by spares, since it is imperative to uphold belief. Baxter and his wife can’t encourage visitors, of course. If old friends ring they arrange to see them outside. The only person who visits regularly is his mother-in-law, from whom his wife strives to conceal all signs of decay. This loyalty and protectiveness surprises and moves Baxter. When he asks his wife about it, she says, ‘I don’t want her to blame you.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you’re my husband, stupid.’
The neighbour says, ‘Put this out.’
Baxter looks dubiously at the substance and grimaces. ‘You’re not an expert.’
‘Not an expert? Me?’
‘No.’
‘Who told you to say that?’
‘No one.’
‘Yes they did. Because who is, may I ask? You don’t know, do you?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘Experts steal our power and sell it back to us, at a profit. You’re not falling for that, are you?’
‘I see what you mean.’
‘Look.’
She sticks her finger in the stuff, puts it on her tongue, waggles it at him, tastes it, and spits it into a napkin.
‘Your wife’s not going to eat that, even if you smother it in honey,’ she says, gagging. ‘But it’ll draw the little devils from all over the room.’ She gets on her knees and makes a cooing sound. ‘You might notice a dungy smell.’
‘Yes.’
‘In that case – open the window. This is an early prototype.’
She puts out the treacle in his saucers. There is no doubt that the flies are drawn by it, and they do keel over. But they are not diminishing; the treacle seems to entice more and more of them.
She turns to him. ‘Excellent! The ingredients were expensive, you see.’
‘I can’t pay!’ he says forcibly. ‘Not anything!’
‘Everybody wants something for nothing. This then, for now.’ She kisses his mouth. ‘Remember,’ she says, as she goes. ‘Passion. Passion!’
He is staring into the overrun saucers when his wife comes in, holding her nose.