Star Shot (4 page)

She looks up to find a man standing in front of her. He has a plump, earnest face and is holding an iPad.

Ah, hello, he says; softly American.

She looks just past him, to the left of his ear, disapprovingly.

I'm sorry to interrupt …

His embarrassment is terrible but Myra is not inclined to help. He takes a deep breath.

My name is Dr Luke Stringer, I work at the University, in the Department of Cultural Cartography. I'm leading a research project. On people. Who, ah, people who sit. On Benches.

For a fraction of a second she looks as if this might be funny, but then reverts to flickering disapproval.

Luke is in agonies. He told them he would be no good at this. He is an Ideas Man. She was the only one he had agreed to interview, the one who had appeared on paper the least threatening, the most normal, an office girl on a lunch-break with a fondness for a particular place. He summons his nerve, and the words come all in a rush.

Look, he says. I'm really sorry. Please just let me show you quickly and then I'll leave you in peace. I'm not trying to sell anything or get you involved in anything, it's just that we need a few stats for the mapping programme and it would be really helpful … just a few questions … nothing personal. May I show you? May I, ah, sit down?

His small deft fingers swish and tap the screen, pulling up an intricate logo with the words
BenchMarks/MeincNodiadau
wrapped dynamically around a stylised park bench. He taps on the image of the bench and reaches a series of questions, which he waves in front of her. Look, he says. It's not that much really, and of course you don't have to answer them all. Or, he adds helplessly, any of them. Of course. May I?

It is, thinks Myra, better than battling with an uncooperative building. She nods her head very slightly and moves up the bench to make room for him, holding her bag tightly on her lap.

Ok, here goes. Ah, name? Optional, of course. Miss?

Jones, says Myra, unexpectedly.

Marvellous, said Luke. That's marvellous. Miss Jones. Ah, OK, age range? He shows her the categories. Optional also, of course.

She glances sideways at the screen. 30-35, she said.

Marvellous. Thank you. Profession?

Copy-editor.

Interesting. And, ah, how often do you come to sit on this particular bench? More than three times a week; once-a-week; once-a-fortnight; once-a-month. Less; more?

Once a week, says Myra firmly. If that. Less.

OK, thank you, says Luke, who knows that is nonsense. She wouldn't have shown up on their Scoping Exercise if her visits were that infrequent. They were starting with the heavy-use subjects, after all. It occurs to him to wonder, with a slightly sinking heart, if she really is called Jones. But he soldiers on.

And ah, finally, if you don't mind me asking that is, Miss Jones, ah, why do you come to sit on this particular bench?

To eat my lunch, says Myra.

Marvellous, thank you. And, ah, do you have any other favourite benches in the city?

No, says Myra.

Well, thank you, Miss. I'll leave you in peace now, if you could just sign this form here to say that you don't mind us using your answers in our database and maps?

She thinks about this for a few seconds, then leans over and scribbles on the paper.

How does it become a map? she asks.

The data is geo-referenced, he says.

It becomes a map of benches?

Mm. And of the connections between them, the ah, pathways people take through the city to get to them. Oh yes: where is your office again?

He looks around vaguely.

Just over there, says Myra, gesturing towards town.

OK. Well the benches are like nodes, he says. I've got a prototype here, look, I'll show you.

It looks like a net or a web, but with no symmetry. Random thin black lines criss-crossing, heading in and out of the dark spots she assumes are the benches.

It doesn't look like anywhere, she says. How do you know where they are?

He taps, and there is a ghostly background, a map of the centre with the park and the river, the castle, all the civic buildings, her building.

You can change what happens in the background by playing with the data, he says. He makes it turn blue and green.

I quite like the pure one, the empty one, she says. Show me again.

The lines reach out in delicate curves between the nodes. Like molecules in a chemistry text book, she thinks. Or those maps you get of constellations, that look nothing like their names.

Why are some of them broken? she asks.

There were tiny hairline cracks in several threads, white lines, as if a child had taken one of those disappearing-ink pens and scribbled over the top. Luke flushes. It's a software problem, he says. They're not supposed to do that. We're working on it right now.

She fishes in her bag for her phone and checks the time. I have to go back to work, she says.

Of course, says Luke, getting up and dropping his piece of paper, getting flustered as he picks it up. Thanks again for your time.

Good luck with your project, she says. And then, as she was about to go, remembers the black guy with the plastic bags. Does anyone else use this bench regularly?

Ah, I'm not sure, says Luke, suddenly unable to remember what the policy is on sharing data directly with subjects. But I can let you know.

15.

The bus is packed. He has an aisle seat towards the back and has been obliged to fold his long legs into his body as the people standing force themselves further and further in. Mostly students; he can see no one who seems to need his seat more than he does, and sinks deep into his mind to escape. He thinks of his trees in bud. Then of the tiny fish he believes are circling deep in the centre of the pond, of the promise of the first flash of a sighting once this bitter March cold breaks. Of the heron he had surprised early one morning in the reed-bed, peering inscrutably into grey water. Probably stuffed with frogspawn, he thought; they have it coming every which way this year, poor frogs. The bus rolls and judders at the lights. People shoulder their way apologetically on and off. Of the brave damson newly planted, shocked, but gathering strength.

And then he looks up astonished into the pale face of the woman with the dark red hair, falling towards him in the surge. He gets to his feet entirely without thinking and, with a hand on her shoulder, pushes her gently down into his seat.

Thank you, says Myra, equally surprised.

Not at all, says Theo courteously, and moves backwards into a standing space, looking firmly out through the window on the other side, as if afraid she might feel his gaze on the back of her neck.

Mayhem at the university stop, but then the bus is transformed. There are spaces between the passengers. They breathe out and settle and relax. Except for her. He watches her from where he is now sat near the back, stretching his long legs down the aisle. She has shunted up to the window and sits pressed against the glass, her bag pulled hard into her body.

He isn't surprised when she gets to her feet just before the hospital stop; he does the same, shadowing her almost protectively as she gives a little half-nod of thanks to the driver and steps down onto the pavement. She glances up at him as if she wholly expects him to be there, as if she finds it a comfort to see him, and then she slings her bag onto her shoulder and sets off briskly for the main entrance. He slows his natural pace right down and lets her go.

16.

Teddy is enjoying the steps.
Un dau, un dau; un dau
. He goes up on all fours but comes down dangerously upright, delighted with himself, and hasn't fallen yet. Dan is sitting halfway up the first flight, not quite reading, with half an eye and half an ear on his son and any passers-by who might trip over him. It is just April, the sun is back, and this time it feels as though spring might actually happen.

After a while he notices a tall, pale-haired man further along the steps who appears to be behaving in much the same way as Teddy. He takes the shallow steps extremely slowly, one at time, and keeps stopping. He looks almost as though he is listening. He might, though Dan can't quite tell, also be humming. He goes up and down, up and down, but only the higher flight nearest the entrance. Yes, he is humming. His behaviour makes Dan suddenly highly alert for the child; though he can't tell if this is genuine eccentricity or some kind of performance art. Either way it is disturbing. He moves along to be closer to Teddy, and considers taking him down to the patch of park where he can run in circles around the gorsedd stones and the flowerbeds. But Teddy is so happy with the steps, and the man, who seems vaguely familiar, is so wholly absorbed in moving slowly up and down, listening, that Dan soon gets used to the idea of them both, such very different sizes, doing much the same thing. He picks up his book again, starts wondering about lunch.

And then the tall man is not going up and down, he is moving, just as slowly, along a single step three or four down from the top, still with that same listening expression. And it happens that he is the nearest person to Teddy when he finally topples forward,
un dau, un dau…

Tri
, says Theo seriously, holding out a big hand to catch and steady him. He sets him back on his feet and then offers a finger, which Teddy grabs, and leads him down a step at a time to Dan, who is running up to meet them.

Thank you, says Dan, scooping Teddy up. Thanks.

Not at all, says Theo, recognising them from the meteors.

I knew he'd fall over in the end; he's not that steady coming down.

He's doing a great job, says Theo, when you think how little he is.

I should have kept a closer eye; he sort of drifted away.

Hard at this age, says Theo, reassuring him.

Teddy is wriggling to be free again and holds out his arms to Theo, a potential accomplice. Theo grins and gives him a hand.

Un dau tri
, he says. And then, to Dan, do you want to see something very odd?

Dan shrugs noncommittally, he is still not sure. But he puts Teddy back down on the steps.

Look, says Theo, take his other hand and watch this. With the little boy between them they climb the top flight of shallow steps, one at a time, counting out loud in Welsh.

Un … dau … tri … ped…
Their voices cut out … and then return …
chwech, saith
. And they are standing at the top, under the portico, people pushing past them for the entrance, looking at each other over Teddy's head.

Down? says Theo. Dan nods.

Un … dau … tr-………….-war, pump, chwech, saith.

OK, says Dan. I see what you mean. I'm sorry, I thought you were, you know, a bit…

Of a nutter, agrees Theo comfortably. Well yes, but no more than most.

It's not just here, he adds. It happens in other places too.

Dan looks straight at him. I know, he says.

They sit down on the top step of the lower flight and Dan fishes a rice-cake out for Teddy. He tells Theo about the episode near the park gates, and Theo tells him of two other places he has come across in town. Though it shifts around a bit, he says, the silence doesn't always flow along quite the same lines.

And while they are talking a man comes and stands in front of them, holding an iPad, looking deeply concerned.

Dan! he says.

Dan looks at him blankly.

It is Dan James, isn't it? It's me, Luke. From the department. The seminars? Postgraduate seminars? Five … six years ago? We did that mapping literature project together.

Light dawns slowly. Dan stands up and shakes his hand.

I heard, ah, about Jane, says Luke. I am sorry. Is this…?

Teddy, yes, says Dan. Thank you.

Theo gets up to go with a friendly nod to them both. I'll see you around, he says. I'm just going inside.

Do you work here? says Luke, with sudden interest.

No, says Theo, I just visit.