The Paper Eater

BLAME

After the documentary was over, we were assigned cabins, and the engines roared to life. I was alone at first. Then put with a Greek, Kogevinas, who spoke no English. But at mealtimes, in the mess, I’d strain to overhear the conversations of the other cons. They were a revelation. Many of the Atlanticans – about 70 per cent, I reckoned, actually were criminals. Another 10 per cent borderline. But they all knew whose fault it was that they were there. The Hoggs’.

The psychology’s pretty simple, when you think about it. No one likes to admit they’ve done wrong. I listened to grown men close to tears, telling how they’d been manipulated by followers of the Sect. To intelligent fraudsters and extortionists claiming they’d been brainwashed into committing crime. To sex offenders explaining how they felt vindicated, in little huddles by the poop.

– But how d’you know they even exist? I ventured once over breakfast, after a burly bloke had been holding forth about what he called Hogg filth. He rounded on me then, and a couple of other blokes shot me angry glances.

– Oh they exist all right, he said. Only I didn’t know that was who I was working for, did I. Others were murmuring in agreement. – I thought it was an ordinary delivery job, didn’t I, he said. Taking stuff from A to B, I’d done it a thousand times, I never asked what was in the consignment, just drove the van. Well, now I know for sure it was them Hoggs. If I’d known it was stuff to sabotage a crater, well, fuck, I’d never’ve – well.

– Doesn’t stop you feeling like a mug though, does it, said another guy. I should’ve known it was them pushed me into doing it. They got me drunk and the next thing I knew there was blood everywhere. All along I said I was innocent, it wasn’t me, but when I saw those faces –

– Yeah, said another guy. I recognised them too.

– Where from? I said.

– Dunno. Around. I’ve seen them around. On the streets. And posters and stuff. You know.

– Me too, said another one. That Sid bloke. You can tell just from his face that he’s a porn merchant, I’ve seen him hundreds of times. He’s everywhere!

There were more noises of agreement. The other prisoners seemed to be putting the same pieces of their private jigsaw together. As they did, stuff began to fall into place for me too. As I listened to them, it dawned on me what was going on. Whatever it was they felt guilty about – and who can put their hand on their heart, and say there isn’t something? Whatever it was, they wanted to blame someone else for it. I can relate to that, I thought. To err is human. And so’s wanting to pass the buck. Even scapegoats need scapegoats. Even the blamed need to blame.

And people are more stupid than you think.

It was after the first couple of months that I learned about the geologists, soil physicists, structural engineers and crater workers who were in solitary. They’d all been aboard about a year which meant that our Mass Readjustment wasn’t the first. Something must be going wrong with the craters, I began thinking – perhaps with the whole industry. But why drag my family into it? Why the Hoggs? I couldn’t work it out. Why hadn’t they just invented their own scapegoats? And left me alone? Fuck it, I thought. WHY PICK ON ME?

We’d been sailing a long time – a month, maybe – before it began to dawn on me. It wasn’t personal. Machines don’t have any imagination, do they. What they’d stolen were my dreams. And those are the best things to steal, aren’t they? Since the Hoggs didn’t exist in the flesh, they’d never be caught. They were immortal. They could take the blame for everything. From whoever wanted to throw it.

For ever.

On we sailed, through the waters of the northern hemisphere. It didn’t take genius to work out that all the Atlanticans on board would turn on me if I gave them my version of the truth. The best policy for me was to stay clammed up. So I did. It was a hard thing to do, knowing what I knew. So many times – too many to count – I was on the verge of telling someone. But I developed a technique for nipping the impulse in the bud.

I stuffed paper into my mouth.

And it evolved into the fruitful hobby it is today. Result, a year on: a chess set. Mine.

– Fishook and Hooley and Mrs Dragon-lady and Mr Stress, they’re the knights and the bishops, I tell John briskly, laying out the pieces on the craft table.

Outside the porthole, there’s a dazzling sky that makes the waves shudder and tinsel with light. Still no call from Fishook, and my cell-mate’s feeling buoyant. (He ate four helpings of aubergine lasagne at dinner last night, and even played badminton with the Portuguese sex offenders.) I see it as my job to keep his spirits up.

– And these are rooks, look. Gwynneth’s the one I’ve finished, and Tiffany’s nearly done, you put her on this square here. This is the queen, she’s the Liberty Machine. She goes here, look. And this is Pike. He goes next to her, because it’s his job to protect her.

– And the little ones? he goes, as I finish laying out the black pawns.

– They’re customers. You put them all on the row in front of the others. You can sacrifice them to save the more important ones. Now white always plays first, I tell him, setting out the pieces. These two rooks here, they’re Mr and Mrs Najima from the Snak Attak. This knight, he’s Keith the cat, and this bishop’s Dr Pappadakis.

– And the other one?

– That’s you.

Another silence.

– Me?

– The man himself.

John looks suspicious.

– But he’s a good guy, right?

I nod.

– Why not?

He’s looking pleased now; flattered.

– It’s a game of strategy, I tell him. Clever people and computers usually win because they think ahead better and they make fewer mistakes and they’re good at mind-reading.

He looks downcast at that.

– But stupid people sometimes triumph, I add hopefully. Sort of by accident.

That idea seems to go down OK.

– And you’re the king, right? he goes.

– Correct. Now where do I go, d’you reckon?

– Here?

– And next to me, you put the queen.

I put Hannah down gently. She feels more fragile than the others.

– And your job, it’s protecting her, right?

Suddenly there’s this ball in my throat, and there’s silence for a while. Outside, a gull with an empty yoghurt carton in its beak flaps at the porthole and then disappears, sucked into a vortex.

Week after week I wrote to Hannah. Long letters, telling her everything – stuff I didn’t know was inside me until I saw it there on paper. Love letters.

She never replied. So I got desperate. Started to panic. I began to guess things, and my guesses got wilder and madder and scarier. I wrote to Personnel. Could they tell me the whereabouts of their associate, Hannah Park? Had she been posted somewhere else?

You never said what happened to her, says John. I mean did you ever – But he breaks off. – Oh fuck, he says. He’s squinting out of the porthole.

I look up. Follow his eyes. A distant hump on the horizon.

Oh fuck indeed.

Atlantica.

As if on cue, there’s a sudden clangy din, followed by a buzz of static from the tannoy. The volume’s right up. A blast of music: the Liberty anthem – Independent and Free. And then Fishook.

– Voyager 1-0-0-8-7, comes Fishook’s voice, you are cordially invited to join your Captain on the bridge today at 1500 hours GMT.

The tannoy clicks off, leaving just an eerie echo before the anthem kicks in again.

That didn’t happen, I’m thinking. He didn’t say that.

But he did. I look at John, and John looks back at me. He’s gone completely white. I guess I have too. Time chokes to a halt.

– 1-0-0-8-7, says John finally. That’s not my number, mate. It’s yours.