The Black Corridor

CHAPTER TWELVE

Although he is alone on board, he faithfully follows all the rituals as if there were a full crew in attendance.

As a boy I used to swim through cold water in the streams that ran between the pines, he thinks.

At the time set for the daily conferences, he sits at the head of the table and reviews the few events and projected tasks with which he is involved.

He eats at the formal meal times, uses formal language in all his dealings with the ship, makes formal checks and radios formal log entries back to Earth. His only break with formal routine is the red log-book he keeps in the desk.

He makes the formal tours to the Hibernation Section (nicknamed 'crew storage' by the personnel when they first came aboard).

As a young man I stood on hills in the wind and stared at moody skies, he thinks and I wrote awful, sentimental, self-pitying verse until the other lads found it and took the piss out of me so much I gave it up. I went into business instead. Just as well.

He touches the button and the spin screws automatically retract.

I wonder what would have happened to me. Art thrives in chaos.

What's good for art isn't good for business...

He pauses by the first container and looks into the patient face of his wife.

*

Mrs Ryan cleaned down the walls of her apartment. She was using the appropriate fluid. All the time she cleaned she kept her face averted from the long window forming the far wall of the apartment.

When she had finished cleaning she took the can of fluid back to the kitchen and put it on the right shelf.

Frowning uncertainly, she stood in the middle of the kitchen.

Then she drew a deep breath and she reached towards the shelf again, touching another can. The can was labelled Plantfood.

She grasped the can.

She lifted it from the shelf.

She coughed and covered her mouth with her free hand.

She drew another breath.

She walked into the lobby and sprayed the orange tree that stood in its shining metallic tub. She went back to the living room, with its coloured walls, expensive, cushiony plastic chairs, the wall to wall TV.

She turned on the TV.

The wall opposite the window was instantly alive with whirling, dancing figures.

Watching them gyrate, Mrs Ryan relaxed a trifle. She looked at the can in her hand and put it down on the table. She watched the dancers. Her eyes were drawn back to the can, still lying on the table. She began to sit down. Then she stood up again.

Mrs Ryan's fresh forty-year-old face crumpled slightly. Her lips moved. She had the expression of a resolute but frightened child, half-ready to cry if the expected accident occurred.

She picked up the can and walked to the wall-long window.

With her eyes half-closed she located the button which controlled the raising and lowering of the blinds. With the room in darkness she sprayed the plants on the windowsill.

She took the can back to the kitchen and placed it on the shelf.

She stood in the kitchen doorway for a while, staring into the darkness of the living room, lit only by the flicker of the TV. Then she crossed the room to the window and placed her hand on the button controlling the blind.

She turned her back to the window and found the button with her left hand.

There was a big production number on TV. She stared at it, unmoving.

Then she pressed the button and sprang away from the window as the blinds rushed up and the room was flooded with daylight again.

She hurried into the kitchen, turning off the TV as she went past.

She made some coffee and sat down to drink it.

The room was silent.

The empty window looked out on to the apartment block opposite. Their empty windows stared back.

Few cars ran in the street between the blocks.

Inside the apartment, in the kitchen, Mrs Ryan sat with her coffee cup raised like a puppet whose motor had cut out in midaction.

The telephone buzzed.

Mrs Ryan sat still.

The telephone went on buzzing.

Mrs Ryan sighed and approached the instrument, set at head height on the kitchen wall. She ducked down against the wall and reached up to remove the mouthpiece.

'It's me. Uncle Sidney,' said the voice from the screen above her head.

'Oh, it's you, Uncle Sidney,' said Mrs Ryan. She backed away from the wall, still holding the mouthpiece and sat down near the kitchen table.

'Don't come too close,' said Uncle Sidney.

'Uncle Sidney,' said Mrs Ryan pitifully. 'I've asked you not to call during the day, when no one's at home. After all, I don't know who you are. It might be anyone.'

'I'm sorry I'm sure. I just wanted to ask if you'd like to come over tonight.'

"The car's being repaired,' said Mrs Ryan. 'He had to go by bus this morning. I told him not to, but he insisted. I don't know...'

Mrs Ryan broke off, a sadly bewildered look on her face.

There was silence.

Then she and Uncle Sidney spoke together: 'I've got to clean—' Mrs Ryan said.

'Can't you come—' said Uncle Sidney.

'Uncle Sidney. I've got to clean the front door today. And I know—I know that as soon as I open the door the woman from the next apartment will come out and pretend she's going to use the garbage disposal. Do you realise what it's like living next to a woman like that?'

Uncle Sidney's lined face dropped. 'Well, if you won't visit your uncle you won't,' he said. 'Do you know how long it's been since I saw you and him and the kids? Three months.'

'I'm sorry, Uncle Sidney.' Mrs Ryan looked at the floor, noticing a smear on one of the tiles. 'You wouldn't come to see us, I suppose...?'

'On my own?' Uncle Sidney said contemptuously.

He cut the connection. Mrs Ryan sat by the kitchen table holding the mouthpiece in her hand. She stood up slowly and replaced it.

It seemed to her that she could not get the cleaner and the spray from the cupboard. She could not cross the kitchen and go through the living room into the lobby. She could not, alone, open the front door.

She could not open the front door.

She might...

Mrs Ryan's mind became dark, fearful, confused.

She was swept around the whirlpool of her brain, helpless and still, in spite of herself, struggling.

She could not open the door.

She could not.

Mrs Ryan uttered a low moan and went into the bedroom.

Even in daylight the walls shimmered with many colours. The bed was neatly covered with the white bedspread. The shining dressing table was clear. Mrs Ryan picked up the only sign of occupancy, a pair of Mr Ryan's outdoor shoes. She opened a concealed cupboard and threw them in violently. She ran to the window, pressed the button on the sill.

The blinds came down quickly.

The walls of the room glowed and flickered.

Mrs Ryan paced to and fro. Past the bed to the darkened window.

Back from the window to the bed. Back and forth.

She stopped and turned on soft, soothing music.

She ran out of the room and locked the front door.

She came back into the bedroom, shut that door, lay down on the bed, listening to the music.

Even the music seemed slightly harsh today.

She closed her eyes and the faces came. She opened her eyes and reached towards the bedside cupboard, took out her sleeping pills, swallowed a pill and lay down again.

The music was almost raucous. She turned it off.

She lay in silence, waiting for sleep.

It was 11.23 a.m.