The Paper Eater

THE CUSTOMER IS NOT ALWAYS RIGHT

It was like a small medium-priced hotel-room, where they’d put me, except I was locked in. A bathroom with the usual accoutrements, wafer-thin square soaps and fluffy white towels. A main room with a double bed and a pale-green quilt. Little rectangular packets of tea and instant coffee, to make you feel at home, if that was the kind of home you had.

I lay on my bed and uncrumpled the brochure from my pocket and tried not to think about Hannah Park and the way she kept scrambling my feelings. I wondered what kind of life she must have had, and what she thought about, and whether she was lonely, and what it would be like to have her lie next to me while I stroked her hair and kissed her face. I’d probably have to take her glasses off.

Stupid. She’d never be interested in a bloke like me.

Our cherished tradition of dedication to our customers… global recognition as a centre of excellence… we promise all our customers that we will ensure your security, peace of mind and happiness during your stay with us… enshrined in our charter and honoured by our customer-care manifesto… Created on the highest principles of consumer rights…

There were headings dotted about – familiar brochure slogans; I remembered them from the early days of Libertycare, and from the Festival of Choice. YOUR CHOICE, OUR COMMITMENT. THE FREEDOM’S YOURS. Words like provide and pledge. But nothing hung together. The words butterflied before my eyes. There was probably meaning in there somewhere, but just looking at it made me feel knackered and dumb.

Ever since I left the Junior Welcome Centre at seventeen, I’d felt in charge of things. All my adult life I’d found my own way, run my own little world – and the family’s too. An island on an island, we’d been. Not any more.

The best thing, I’ve found, when you’re shit-scared, is to stick your head in the sand. To lull yourself into a sense of security. Doesn’t matter if it’s false. Sleep was what I needed. Engulfment.

It came, but not in the way I’d hoped.

I thought I was awake when I saw him. Wide awake. It was my brother Cameron, and his knitting-pattern face was all purled with fury.

– You fucking bastard! His voice was a grown man’s, angry and husky as though he’d swallowed gravel. But the rest of him was stuck in teenagerhood. – I’m going to kill you!

– But I haven’t done anything! I said. It came out as a horrible whine that grated on my ears. High-pitched and childish. – They stole you! I insisted. I couldn’t stop them! It wasn’t my fault! Tiffany did it! Blame her!

Then Lola joined Cameron, putting her arm around his shoulders. Her beautiful face was mottled with anger. For the first time in my life, I was scared of them.

– How could you, Harvey! she hissed. How could you do this to us? You’ve destroyed our family!

– I’m sorry, I moaned, I’m sorry, Lola, please forgive me, I love you, I’ll always love you, I didn’t mean to –

Then Uncle Sid and Dad turned up, together. They each put an arm round Cameron and Lola, so they were standing like a threatening family portrait, scrummed against me.

– It’s bad enough that you do this to us, says Sid.

– But to do it to your mother – says Dad reproachfully, and looks sideways. And there she is.

– Mum!

I’d never seen her like this before. She looked terrible. Normally she wore her magic salamander dress, but now she was in an ugly grey sweatshirt with a smear of something on it – beetroot juice, or dried blood: a million miles from her usual get-up. A terrible anguish distorted her face, dragging down the corners of her mouth, haggarding her eyes.

– Oh Harvey, she sobbed. The tears which slid down her puffy cheeks were bulging and metallic, like Christmas-tree decorations. – You’ve let us all down!

– Please, Mum, let me explain, I begged. Please! I can! I want to!

But she put up her hand to stop me. She was wearing fluorescent orange driving gloves.

– I’m sorry, Harvey, she said. Her voice was flat and weary with disappointment. – You just can’t be my son any more. You were my favourite. But Cameron and Lola are my only children now.

And then they all vanished.

Hannah must’ve had a bad night too, because when we got to the interview room she was sitting further away than usual.

– Ready? she said.

She was on her rails again. I wondered if she sort of psyched herself up for these meetings. There was something creepily intimate about the questions this time. After a while, I began to wonder what Gwynneth might have told them, if they’d questioned her. What Tiffany might have said in her statement.

What was the nature of my sexual feelings towards my sister Lola? Had I favoured Lola over Cameron in certain financial transactions? Which ones, and why? And so on. After Lola – the questions were extra nosy about Lola, it seemed to me – it was the turn of Uncle Sid. What were my anxieties about him? Why? Why had I chosen that face? Why the naked torso and the youthful, muscular physique? If he were to commit a crime, what would it be?

I kept breaking off from writing the answers down to explain to Hannah Park some of what had gone on, over those years. I wanted her to appreciate them in the same way I did. It was important, if we were going to get to know each other better, if we were ever going to have a chance of –

Even if we weren’t.

– We all watched Far From the Madding Crowd together once, I told her. With Julie Christie and Alan Bates. Dad and Uncle Sid, they loved all those old films.

Her eyes met mine again, and something frazzled the air between us.

– Cameron and I were more into adventure, I went on, hoping it would strike a chord with her. Remind her of her own family, perhaps. – But Mum and Lola, they liked the romantic stuff. Romantic comedy, you know. Oh, and Lola, I said, laughing as I remembered, she loved a horror movie. She’d really go for those films with the music that goes bong, bong, bong, and there’s a tingly sound in the background, and it’s dark, and you just know a hand’s going to come out and grab the girl. Lola really went for the idea of being scared shitless.

She laughed then, and clapped her hand over her mouth.

I liked that. Perhaps in other circumstances we could have a proper talk, I thought. And I could ask about her family.

But then she seemed to remember something and she went cold on me again.

– Could we address the questionnaire, again now, please? she asked. It’s just, we need the data in that format. It’s more structured.

I sort of snapped then. I felt betrayed, to be honest. Just when we’d had the beginnings of a normal discussion, she’d had to go and put the dampers on it.

– I’m on strike, I told her. As of now.

She looked shocked, but I didn’t care. In fact, I was quite glad. I was sick of her behaving like an automaton.

– No more questions, I said. Forget it. I’m having a break.

– But Mr Pike says –

– Fuck Mr Pike. Fuck Mr Pike, and fuck Libertycare.

She winced, and there was a long silence. She looked at her nails; I saw they were all chewed, with bleedy bits round the cuticles. I felt sorry for her. Then she shoved her hands in her pockets and a curious muffled popping sound emerged from under the desk.

– What’s that noise? I asked. That popping.

– Nothing, she said, blushing.

The popping stopped as suddenly as it had begun.

– Look. I’m – I mean. See, no one’s told me anything, I said. Misery was ballooning inside me; it made my voice all forced and savage. – I’m a customer, aren’t I? Isn’t the customer always right?

She flinched again when I spoke to her like that.

– It’s just a slogan, she said, her voice flattening itself even more. It’s just something we use for motivation. Anyway, you aren’t on the outside any more. You’re here.

– Look, I said, I just want some answers. I thought, she probably isn’t used to people raising their voices. It isn’t that sort of place. – I can report you, I threatened.

But it sounded feeble even to me. I was still clinging to the idea that I had human rights, I guess. Still wanting answers, still believing I could get them. Silence had dropped on us. It lasted a long time. She was looking out of the window. I caught myself clocking her profile. The chaotic pale hair, the big glasses, the little chin, the cleverness and the breakableness of her.

– I’ve got a question for you, I said at last.

She looked up, surprised. Like it was a trap.

– Do you ever go out? Like, to a movie, or dinner and stuff?

I hadn’t meant it to sound aggressive, but she must have taken it for cruelty, because she pulled quickly back into her cardigan like an alarmed snail. The smile faded. I’m a clumsy idiot, I thought.

– I mean, how long since anyone invited you out for –

– I’ve never been invited to dinner, she blurted. Nobody has ever invited me out to dinner.

She looked so small, and so pathetic.

– Or a movie, she added.

It suddenly made me feel bad, like I was a bull-in-a-china-shop kind of bloke. Or maybe there was simply something wrong with Hannah Park. An abnormality. She was clearly very clever at her job, I thought, whatever that was, or she wouldn’t be working at Head Office. Everyone knows about the IQ level required to get in. But she was – well, I’m afraid freakish is the word.

Suddenly, in spite of all the anger and the misery churning around inside me, I needed to clear the air between us, and see her smile. We were both humans at the end of the day, weren’t we? I tried to imagine her having a good time. I tried to imagine how I might tell her a funny story – perhaps the story of Keith going to live with Mrs Dragon-lady but coming home to be sick – and how she might laugh at that. I wanted to see her face light up because of me.

– Well, I’d like to invite you out to dinner, I said, and smiled at her winningly. – When all this is over.

I was feeling gallant, old-fashioned, protective. Charity for the socially handicapped. But she looked at me as though I was offering her dogshit.

– Impossible, I’m afraid, she said, wincing.

I didn’t like the way she recoiled like that. I felt rejected. It crossed my mind that maybe she’d had a bad experience. Gwynneth’s magazines were full of stories of women who’d survived terrible man-related indignities – botched cosmetic surgery, cowboy gigolo scams, multi-generational incest, serial rejection – perhaps she was one of those. But I pushed it further anyway.

– Have you got a boyfriend? I said, like a twat.

Hannah hugged herself again, and I regretted saying it.

– No, she said, it’s not that.

As she turned to face me her glasses flashed and those watery-blue eyes seemed bigger than ever, distorted by the lenses. She cleared her throat.

– I suffer from Crabbe’s Block.

– What?

– Crabbe’s Block. It’s an irreversible condition. It means I–

The wind seemed to drop from her sails, and she stopped as suddenly as she’d begun. After a moment, she began fumbling about for a handkerchief, and then blowing her nose loudly. So leaving isn’t practical, she said finally, sniffing. Again, her face went into a kind of wincing spasm.

– Crabbe’s Block? I asked. I was completely baffled. – I’ve never heard of it.

Hannah Park looked at me, and then turned her eyes pleadingly to the clock.

– Ah, it’s lunchtime, she said, her voice flooding with relief. And the guard knocked.