The first time she went to the fairground it was a frantic blur—grasping his hand, eyes wide, confused by all the coloured flashing lights and sudden screeching sirens. Everything around her seemed to be moving. She was giddy with it.
Her hand tightened in his as a rush of brightly painted clowns ran by, their arms waving but lost in their multicoloured and oversized coats. His hand folded around hers, to reassure her—so much bigger, so strong, so safe. But something else came through with that strong grasp, something tender, something gentle, and something caring—something more than protection. She didn’t know it but as she gripped her hand in his, and sought the safety of it, she was feeling his love—pouring between their fingers, their touching skin. In some strange way, as if driven by an electric charge, his love flowed through the membranes of flesh that separated one from another. She felt a jolt as it hit her. She shivered and thought she was cold. Another jolt and she thought the clowns had barged into her. She screwed up her eyes then opened them again, as if that would somehow stabilize her confusion.
“Come on!” he shouted above the din. “I want to take you on this. It’ll scare the bones out of you!”
He towed her behind him. She screeched for joy but it was lost in the clatter and colour of the heaving, frantic fairground.
When she closed her eyes that night all she could see were dazzling flashes of light, all she could feel was jostling, all she could hear were random screeches and sirens, all she could sense were the electric shocks that had hit her time and again as she had been pulled from one frantic ride to the next.
“I’ll take you again,” he’d said as she had made her way up to bed. “Soon.”
She couldn’t sleep. She had to open her eyes—the flickering lights dazzled her too much. She stared across the room. For a moment she thought she saw the clowns waving their arms inside their oversized coats. She was mistaken; it was just a leftover from the flashing images behind her eyelids. Then she shivered. She felt very cold. She saw her breath; even in the darkness, she saw a misty plume coming from her mouth as she breathed out. Her lips felt cold. Her hands felt cold. She remembered thinking that she wanted him to be holding them again when suddenly everything was light. She was standing in a queue of people; it was orderly and no one spoke.
A young man was standing in front of her—not too good looking but with a broad mouth and a kindly smile.
“It’s a long queue,” she said, simply to break the silence. After she’d done this she wondered why she wanted to break the silence.
“But everyone is very well mannered. There’s no pushing.”
“Then no one can be in a hurry.”
“Are you?”
“Well, we all get older.”
“And what then?”
“We die, I suppose.”
“Look, we’re moving up. Will they give us the glasses right away, do you think? Or will we have to show we need them?”
“Glasses?”
“Yes, you know, so that we don’t get confused by the lights.”
“Lights?”
“You’re all questions! Look, we’re moving forward again.”
“What’s your name?”
“Peter.”
Neither of them knew at that time that Peter would die before the day was finished, still wearing the glasses that had been given to him.
“That’s a nice name. I like it. You can hold my hand if you want.”
Peter took hold of her hand. He imagined a whole future with her—a future longer than any natural lifespan, a future that could stretch out into some strange infinity, a world where mortal lives could somehow exist under the appearance of eternity, swathed in some convincing way by a false impression of everlastingness.
“The queue seems to have ground to a halt. Do you mind me holding your hand even though we’re just standing here, not moving anywhere?”
“No. I like it. You can squeeze it if you want.”
“And will you squeeze back.”
“Try, and you’ll see.”
When she woke up she felt hungry. She sat eating a biscuit. He asked her if she wanted to go to the fair again.
“I’m a bit too tired today,” she said smiling and unsure whether or not she was telling the truth. “Ask me again later.”
“But I keep asking you.”
“Do you?”
“Yes, and you always say the same thing.”
“Do we ever go?”
“Only the once.”
She wasn’t sure he was telling the truth.
The queue moved again. She squeezed the fingers of her hand together, just to see if Peter was still holding it. He squeezed back. Yes, he was. She didn’t turn to him but sighed with relief.
“Did you say something?”
“No,” she said flushing slightly at the thought that he could hear even her quiet sigh..
At the head of the queue was a tall man in a grey uniform and a peaked cap with a red band. He was talking to everyone as they eventually reached him. She couldn’t make out what he was saying to them or what they were saying back—he was still too far away—but it was obvious that he was questioning them. What about she wondered? What could he be asking them? How was she going to deal with his questions?
“Peter, have we been here before?”
“I haven’t.”
“It seems familiar in a strange way. You know, that feeling that we’ve done something or been somewhere before, and yet we feel convinced that it can’t be true.”
“Perhaps you came with someone else. If you did, did you have to queue?”
“No. I’ve never been in this queue. I’m sure of that. But there’s something about it that seems to remind me of something. Something I don’t know.”
“You can’t be reminded of things you don’t know, can you?”
“I suppose not, but that’s what it feels like.”
She stared around. Yes, things did seem familiar. She even thought she recognised a man in front of them in the queue. He turned and looked at her. Yes, surely she knew him. She smiled and he smiled back. She felt a tingle pass through her. She wasn’t sure whether it was anxiety of excitement. When she thought about it she didn’t know if there was a difference. She tingled again as he lifted his hand and gave a small wave. She wanted to move up and talk to him but when she tried Peter held her back and a woman in front of them scowled.
“I don’t think we should jump the queue,” said Peter admonishingly. “That wouldn’t be right. We have to act according to the rules.”
“The rules of queuing?”
“Yes.”
“And who makes those?”
“I don’t know, but I think everybody sticks to them and so should we.”
“Because everybody else does?”
“Yes.”
She looked away from him and threw her eyes up. She hoped the man further up the queue would see her and realise what she was thinking. She felt annoyed with Peter. She didn’t see why she should play everybody else’s game. She scowled to herself but when she looked up again at the man ahead he dropped his head as though he too had been reminded of the rules of the queue. She scowled again and something flashed into her mind, something coherent, not just a half remembered, half imagined and muddled image. It was of the man further up the queue. Yes, she was sure of it. It was certainly him.
Images flooded in. They were sitting somewhere together. It was outdoors. Yes, a park, on a bench. She could see it clearly. They were sitting side by side. They weren’t saying anything—just looking at each other. She wondered if they were in love. She wondered if he was in love with her. She could smell flowers—the scent filled her up. He bent his face to hers. He was going to kiss her. She wanted to kiss him. She reached her mouth close to his. She was tingling all over. She pulled her hand around the back of his neck, to bring him closer, more quickly. She felt urgent—filled with the need of the moment. She felt the heat of his mouth close to hers. And his breath—she was breathing it in. They were so close. There was no barrier between them.
Suddenly the queue moved forward again and as it did, and with a jolt, she sat back on a chair in the kitchen.
“So, is it worth me asking you again?”
She didn’t know where she was for a moment. She shivered.
“What? Ask me what?”
“You know. Don’t act as though you don’t.”
“I don’t. Honestly. Ask me what.”
“I wish you wouldn’t play these silly games.”
“It’s not a game, honestly. Ask me what?”
“Well, if you’re forcing me to say it; sometimes I wonder if you get some sort of pleasure from doing this. Do you want to go to the fairground again tomorrow or not?”
“No. I’m too tired and I feel cold.”
“There, you see. I knew it wasn’t worth asking.”
She couldn’t sleep. Images of the man in the queue filled her mind. But she wasn’t seeing him in the queue, though she knew in the back of her mind it was him—the man just ahead, looking down when she had looked at him. No, what she was seeing, what she was feeling deep inside herself, was her experience of him in the park. No matter how hard she tried though, she couldn’t focus on him, couldn’t locate that direct experience of elation. She was besieged by it but as a theory, as something that could be understood but not experienced.
“Do you want me to bring you a drink?” the voice from downstairs called.
“No.”
She felt violated by his rough tone, his coarseness, his concern about the practicality of a drink, refreshment, something to nourish. She was not worried about those things—she wasn’t concerned with things of the body, of survival, of maintaining her life. She was occupied only with the perceptions in her mind, of the ethereal, the non-physical.
“I’m having one. I’ll bring you one anyway.”
She didn’t reply. She squeezed up her eyelids and suddenly Peter was squeezing her hand.
It felt different than before, his skin was a little rougher, the bones of his fingers more exposed, his touch somehow cooler, more habitual, less eager.
“Sometimes I wonder if we’ll ever get to the front,” he said, looking down and kicking at his heels. “Sometimes it even seems as if we’re slipping back. I’m sure some people ahead of us have pushed in. Look at that man. I saw him before and he was almost at the inspector, now there’s hardly anyone between us.”
Did he mean him, she wondered, as her whole body trembled. She looked for the man. Peter was correct; he was only two places ahead. A thrill ran through her—she couldn’t stop it. He was so close! Could she dare try and catch his eye like before? Even if he looked down again it would still be contact, something between them, a shared confidence, an intimacy that only they knew. The thrill did not sustain and it melted straight away to disappointment. If she did catch his eye what would that gain, she thought—more excitement but more frustration? Any possible action had stalled. She felt suddenly aware of writing off her future, damning anything that she could anticipate before it could ever happen. The sensation came from nowhere—unheralded except by her own inadequacies—but it hit her like a sudden blast of ice-cold air. She snarled at herself, angry at the temptation to hide away from opportunities because of the fear of what they might bring; annoyed by the fear to challenge the thrill of the future because of her weakness and diffidence. She snarled again, but this time in an effort to break her reticence, in an effort to cause herself to act. Yes, they were slipping back in the queue. She could tell that even before Peter mentioned it. It was obvious. And now she was playing her part in their slipping position. She was allowing them to fall back even further just because of her weakness.
Peter squeezed her hand again, but it was a weak squeeze. It didn’t thrill her, didn’t make her feel safe, didn’t bring her closer to him as it once had. She squeezed back but felt the weakness on her own hand. A surge of apprehension coursed through her, as if she’d been injected with a foreign substance—something that freezes the blood.
Suddenly the queue moved forward. This time she pulled at Peter’s hand, dragging him forward as once he had dragged her. She looked up, she couldn’t help it, and the man ahead was right there, staring at her, unflinching, his eyes wide open, inviting her to come behind them. She felt weak, faint even, her heart was pounding, her hand trembling even inside Peter’s. She felt her cheeks reddening, her lips drying. She tried to lick them but her tongue was dry too. She realised she hadn’t blinked since she’d looked at him. She forced her eyelids to close and open again. But she couldn’t control them. They gaped at him and she could do nothing to make herself look away.
The man bent forward and spoke. She couldn’t move. It was as if an abyss had opened beneath her feet. She was with him again—breathing him in, kissing the passion from him, sucking him up and drawing him into her soul. Yes, he was inside her very being, he infused what she was, saw her at the same time from beyond and yet within. She wanted to pull away, just for a second, just to see that they were separate, that they were two individuals, but she couldn’t break the spell of his kiss, their intimacy, the way they were as one.
Something crashed in her head. A tree branch falling perhaps, an explosion, a swirling of water, she couldn’t tell but suddenly she gasped for air, she had to breathe herself, she had been released, he had released her. She felt empty, hollow, shattered as the spell that held her was broken. The crash again. Her head churned.
“I’m sorry I didn’t bring your drink last night. I felt tired, too weary to bother, then I forgot.”
She said something in reply, maybe she said she didn’t mind, or it didn’t matter anyway, but whatever she said she didn’t even hear, she was sick of his apologies. She stared out into space, licking her lips in case they dried again, in case she was hurled back unexpectedly into the queue and behind the eyes of the man who had been standing so close. But nothing happened. She was filled with an overbearing feeling of misery. His apology made her feel sick. She tried to wish him away, tried to make something happen to change things. She screwed up her eyes—to blot out the pity-filled apology and transport her away from the grimness that it had spawned. Tighter. Her eyes hurt with the pressure. Pressure. She wanted to shriek out, to explode. Explode. She wanted to shout at the top of her voice. Shout. She wanted to pick him up and hurl him into the sky, into the stratosphere, beyond all reach, into the stars where he would die of oxygen starvation and his own fear of being too far away. Die. She inwardly giggled at the thought, the ridiculous thought. She giggled again and this time she knew he heard her.
“What’s funny?” He sounded even more grim, more pathetic, more ‘hurlable’. “Did I say something to amuse you?”
Beneath her screwed up eyelids she threw up her eyes. “As if!” she thought to herself.
“You’ve never amused me. You’re too stupid to be amusing. Amused me? As if!”
She pictured him floating amongst the stars, wallowing like a beached whale, skirting Bellatrix, floating beyond the red flames of Betelgeuse, then Rigel, lifting on some strange interstellar wind above the taut belt of Orion then reddening—flushed with the grime of the apology and the glow from the exploding supernova—and moving quickly away before fading into the depths of the unknowable dark matter beyond.
“Did you say something?” he asked as he slowly disappeared behind the Crab Nebula, itself barely visible to the naked eye. “I’m sure you said something. Shall I bring you a drink?”
But she could scarcely hear him now. He was passing into what was unknown.
“Now I can—” She stopped. She didn’t know how to finish the wish. “Now I can?”
“Quickly, we’re moving again. Look the inspector is waving to us. Quickly.”
Peter dragged her forward. Now his hand felt rough. He was no longer squeezing hers, just holding onto it, just pulling at her. For a moment she resisted. She looked around for the man who had been in front of them. She needed to see him again. She needed to see his eyes. She needed to see him seeing her. Yes, to see him seeing her. That’s all she could think about. Where was he? Had he too disappeared amongst the stars? She felt a rising panic. She refused to move. She yanked back hard on Peter’s hand but he wouldn’t let go. He was still trying to pull her forward.
A gap opened up in the queue ahead of them.
“Come on!” shouted Peter pulling at her even harder. “We’ll lose our place. Look, the inspector is getting annoyed. He’s waving his fist. We can’t let this happen. We’ve waited so long. It seems like we’ve been here a lifetime. Look, he’s mouthing something at us now. I can’t tell what he’s saying. I’m sure he’s saying we’ll lose our place if we don’t keep up. Come on! Come on! We can’t afford to get on his wrong side. Come on!”
Peter’s grip on her hand hurt, but she would not move.
Then she saw him. He was there—the object of her wishes. He was behind them now. Had he lost his place? Had he waited for her and so lost his place? Had he sacrificed his chances just to see her again? She stared right into his eyes. This time he didn’t look down. This time he fixed her gaze with his own. At last they’d met.
She moved her mouth as if to speak but nothing came out—the air congealed in her throat. She didn’t know what she would say anyway. There was no thought that made sense and no words could convey that. Her mind felt detached from her body. She fought to bring them together, to form an attachment that allowed them to combine, to unite and service her wishes. But where were these wishes? Surely they were part of her mind. What was she thinking? Nothing was making sense. She panicked. Had the attachment to her mind gone altogether, gone forever? Was it possible to have lost touch with herself? Was she now just a husk, the shell her perceiving self had left behind when it abandoned her? And where could it have gone? Wouldn’t she know? If only she could move her lips. Surely something would come out. She thought of the park bench again. Had she chosen to do this? She couldn’t tell. She thought of kissing him, of her passion, of her breath mixing with his. Perhaps that would ignite her spirit and force it back. Perhaps the passion in her head would drag her mind back because it wanted to experience the physical delight of her kissing, her needing, her wanting, of her surrendering self. But still she was thinking who or what was doing the thinking? Who or what was conjuring up the images that somehow she was aware of?
Her confusion ran riot. Home, the queue, the park and the man were smashed together in a collision of sparking pictures. The apology, the grasping hand, the deep penetrating look behind the eyes were amalgamated like elements in an overheated furnace. She reeled back, or forward, or up into the stars—she couldn’t tell. Her head was filled with it all—jingling, clattering, rushing like unstoppable water from a broken dam.
“You’re lucky you didn’t lose your place,” said the inspector tersely. He eased his cap from his forehead and wiped it with the back of his hand. “I’ve no time for people like you—not paying attention, hanging back, flirting with men. I’ve seen it all before. There’s nothing I’ve not witnessed in this queue. You’re very lucky I’m prepared to deal with you at all after the way you’ve been behaving: holding hands with one man, taking up space that others more deserving could occupy, staring at that other man, making him desire you. Yes, I’ve seen everything here. There’s nothing in human life that I’ve not seen in this queue, and beyond it. And don’t think I only know about things I see, I understand what’s going on behind the scenes as well. I know there’s someone else for you, someone at home. I know how you feel about him. And this one you’re holding hands with, and that one who you were flirting with. If you care to look back—if you can take the time—you’ll see he has been moved to the back of the queue. That’s your fault, of course. I was just about to question him, and he looked so pleased to be at the front at last, but then I decided he must be moved back because of the way you had acted.”
She looked up at his red face. She wanted to say she was sorry but just as she was about to speak Peter squeezed her hand hard, telling her to keep quiet. The skin of his hand was leathery and coarse. She bit her lip.
“There’s no point in saying you’re sorry. It’s a normal human reaction, of course, but pointless here. You have reached the front of the queue and there is no longer any point in apologies. By the time you get here, there are only answers to questions.”
There was an open cardboard box on a small rickety table between her and the inspector. In the box were lots of pairs of glasses. All the lenses had different colours. The inspector moved a few of the pairs of glasses about in the box, stirring them up like a soup.
She turned quickly and looked to the back of the queue; she could barely see the man, he was so far away. In fact the back of the queue seemed to be getting further away as she looked at it. She blinked and it had receded even more. Where was the man? Could she see him at all, even just his outline, or was it someone else she was mistaking for him? She tried to think of the park, of kissing him, of inhaling his breath, of feeling inside him, but she couldn’t focus on anything. She looked for his eyes in hers, but what she saw wasn’t even a blur; there were no shapes at all. She gripped onto Peter’s hand hoping to find some safety in the touch of his fingers, his skin against hers, the firmness of his grip, hoping to gain a sense of protection flowing from the tightness that he exerted. But none of those things were there. All she could feel was his rough skin, his fixed grip, something unyielding. He was no longer responding to her, no longer thinking of her safety, no longer there to reassure her, he was just holding on, as if it was for his sake not hers. Yes, it was for him. She could feel the flow going from her, what strength she had leeching out through her own fingers and into his. He was drawing her life out, sucking it away through his horny fingers, keeping himself alive with it, nourishing himself on her.
“First question. What is you name?”
She stared up into the inspector’s ruddy face. “Your name! Don’t waste any more of my time. There are others to see you know. You’re not the only one.”
“Mary,” she said weakly.
“Is that Mary as in Mother of Christ or Mary Magdelene—cured of demons or reformed whore—whichever you want?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Second question. Who do you think is this man who is holding onto you. I have seen him before, of course, but not with you.”
“His name is Peter. We have been queuing together since we arrived and joined the back of the queue.”
“There is no one else in your life then?”
“Well…”
“Be clear with your answers. It troubles me to have to repeat myself—yes, even I am troubled by such minor things—is there no one else in your life?”
“Well, yes.”
She glanced back quickly, hoping for a moment that the man in the queue would be visible, but all she achieved was to alert the inspector.
“Who are you looking for?”
“Just someone I saw earlier.”
“Is he important to you.”
She felt a shiver pass through her. An image of the park came into her mind. She tried to suppress it. Now, instead of wanting to conjure up the images, she feared that if she did somehow the inspector would be able to tell what she was thinking about, and she didn’t want that.
“I’m not sure—“
“Not sure? How can you be not sure if someone is important to you?”
“Well, I mean…”
“Yes, I’m waiting?”
Suddenly she saw him. He was waving, right from the back of the queue. He was leaning out and someone was pushing him because they were thinking he was trying to get ahead of them. She tried to pull her hand away from Peter’s. He held her back, gripping his horny fingers even more tightly around hers.
“Try these,” said the inspector holding up a pair of glasses. She turned back and he thrust them into her free hand. “Well? Put them on. Put them on. Don’t waste everybody’s time. There are still a lot of people to be seen. Put them on.”
She held them up in front of her. One of the lenses was green, the other red.
“Why? Why these?”
“They are the ones I have selected for you, on the basis of your answers.”
“But I’ve said hardly anything.”
“Well, I gave you plenty of opportunity. What you didn’t say I have to infer. Just try them on. I need to deal with the people behind you. They’re pressing to get to the front.”
He removed his cap and wiped sweat from his forehead again.
“But there are many things you haven’t asked me about.”
“Just try the glasses on. The people behind you are getting angry.”
He put the cap back and straightened it.
“What about home. You haven’t asked me about home.”
“Very well. What about home?”
“What do you want to know about it?”
“I ask the questions. The inspector asks the questions. People in the queue do not ask questions they answer them. What about home?”
“He apologises to me.”
“Why?”
“Because he thinks it makes things alright again. He thinks saying sorry makes things right again.”
“Does it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it makes me sick.”
“Of him?”
“Yes.”
“Is that why you’re here?”
“Yes,”
“Did he ever bring you to the fairground?”
“Yes, just the once.”
“Did he ask you if you wanted to go again?”
“Yes, but I never did, not with him.”
“Were you ever in the queue with him?”
“No, we never saw it. We had to leave early.”
“Try the glasses. I’m sure they are correct for you.”
She lifted her hand but needed the other to manipulate them. Her other hand was free. Peter was no longer holding it. She turned in surprise. He wasn’t there.
“Where’s Peter gone? Where is he?”
She felt overcome with anxiety. She spun around, and around again. She felt giddy, disoriented.
“More questions? He’s gone to the back of the queue. He’s gone to escort someone else. His work with you is finished. He has brought you here, to me. That is his function.”
“But we’ve been together for so long. It seems as though half my life has been spent with him.”
“He has accompanied you on that part of your journey, but it is ended now. You are here, at the front of the queue, and you must be alone.”
“I think I should go home. I feel so exposed without Peter, so unsafe.”
“Will you be safer if you go home?”
“No, but I will feel it.”
“Is that enough?”
She paused. She hadn’t thought about it before. Was it enough just to feel safer? Was that a reason for going back for more apologies, more pathetic offers, more promises, more separation from the man in the queue, mores separation from what she desired?
There was a disturbance in the queue—raised voices, pushing, some squabbling. Something was being passed forward. A woman snatched it then lost it to a man in front of her. He had hardly got hold of it when someone else took it from him and tried to open it, but before he could do anything it was taken by someone else who thrust it forward.
“It’s a message, someone shouted out. “It’s a message for that woman at the front.”
“Pass it forward!” another shouted.
“Yes, quickly! Look how desperate she is to get it!”
She reached her arms as far as she could. The glasses dangled from her hand. She almost dropped them. Should she be wearing them? Was it time? Had the inspector told her to put them on? She wasn’t sure. Several people pushed around her, all excited by the message that was now getting closer. The glasses were knocked from her hands. She dropped to her knees, struggling to grab them as people stamped around her, shoving, agitated and unthinking. She felt blinded by the frantic movement, paralysed by the claustrophobia of everyone above her, the churning of feet, the jostling—the sheer horror of it all. She saw a piece of paper fluttering down amongst the forest of legs that surrounded her. She made a grab for it, her hands glanced the glasses and suddenly everything was quiet.
She was home, the place of safety, the place she had told the inspector she would feel safer, not be safer but at least feel it. She looked around, still confused, still remembering the chaos of the queue, still frantic, still trembling and wondering what was happening.
Her head cleared—suddenly, like the sun breaking out from behind the clouds. Everything looked as it should be, no fuzzy edges, no blurring, nothing out of focus.
“Where have you been?”
“I’ve been to the fairground.”
“I didn’t know where you were.”
“I was at the fairground. Do you mind?”
“I was worried.”
“About me?”
“No, about myself. You weren’t here for me, so I was worried. You shouldn’t have gone. I don’t want you to go there anymore.”
“That’s not fair. I should be able to go if I want.”
“Are you seeing someone else there?” “I have seen someone else, yes.”
“I’m very tired. I’m hungry too.”
“I want to know why I can’t go to the fair when I want?”
“I’ve said you can’t and that’s all there is to it. Your opinions don’t count. You should have been here for me. I told you, I was worried and you shouldn’t let that happen.”
“You make me sick. You are so selfish.”
“I’m going to rest. I’m very tired. I’m tired because I’ve been worrying.”
She let him go. She felt even sicker of him than before. She imagined him spinning amongst the stars. It was too good a place for him.
Suddenly the lights went out. She crawled across the floor to a drawer and found a torch. He was calling to her from upstairs—frightened, caught in the dark with his fears. Her first thought was to shout back to him, to tell him she was coming, that she had a torch and that he shouldn’t be frightened. But se stopped herself. She turned the torch off, sat cross-legged on the floor and remained silent while, like an abandoned child, he continued to call out with increasing panic and fear.
The next morning she fed him as usual. She didn’t mention the darkness, or his panic, or her failure to come to his aid. He threw the tray she carried across the room. The food spilt everywhere.
“You’re a bitch! You knew I needed you. You should have come to help me.”
He made her sick. She imagined him being incinerated by the gigantic Eta Carinae, four hundred times broader than the Sun and capable of burning him to nothing in the smallest instant. She imagined his evaporation, the suddenness of it, the completeness, the finality of it.
Later in the day he came to her and smiled. She waited for him to apologise so that she could feel even sicker of him, so that then she could consign him to an even more instantaneous evaporation.
“Look what I have. A ticket to the fairground.”
“Is that for me?”
“It could be.”
“Then take me.”
“I’ll need to bring a few things.”
“What things?”
“Just things—to be sure. It’s quite far from home and there’s always something I need.”
They joined the back of the queue. He was already miserable. He had forgotten something and kept repeating its name as though the incantation would make it magically appear. He had already said he wanted to go back.
She looked around. Things were as she had left them. She could just make out the inspector at the head of the queue. Two young women were just walking away from him wearing their coloured glasses. They pushed at each other playfully and laughed and giggled as they broke into a jog and ran towards a carousel of spinning horses and pumping bell-like music.
As she looked back along the queue she saw Peter. He was holding a young woman’s hand. She laughed and pushed her face close to his. She was bright and filled with future-thinking. Their hands were tightly entwined—her fingers entangled with his as her yearning thighs might squirm and writhe with the novelty and excitement of a new and thrilling lover. She noticed how soft his fingers were and how much the young woman enjoyed their delicate touch.
She twisted her fingers in an attempt to feel the sensations that were passing between Peter and the young woman. Peter looked so young, so keen, so devoted to his charge. The young woman looked so in love, so committed to the excitement that she felt was guaranteed to follow every exciting moment of her life.
Suddenly, she felt the glasses in her hand. They were still there. The glasses the inspector had given her were still on her hand. She pulled them up towards her eyes and slipped the narrow temple tips over her ears.
Again she was jostled. She fell sideways, clumsily scrambling to get up as the glasses fell to the ground amongst the trampling feet that surrounded her. She looked up. It was like staring up from the depths of a water filled chasm—trying to see the light from the bottom of a submarine sinkhole. The legs were like flashing translucent fish swimming in circles above her head; the light above, her only safety and yet so far away, as if unobtainable. Her head swirled with the shining shoals of fish. Her mind focussed on the light but it was broken and in disarray—she didn’t know what was up or down, what was above or beneath her, what drew her on or what drove her away.
She made a desperate effort to grab the glasses. A piece of paper fluttered by their side. She grabbed them both, snatched them from the eddying fish, pulled them both close to her chest and rolled sideways, crashing against the people’s legs, at last liberating herself from their confusing spell. As soon as she was free her ears filled with commotion. It was as if the world had suddenly come alive again, was suddenly welcoming her back, receiving her with open arms and was now greeting her with its deafening applause.
She sat up on her knees and looked to each side. This wasn’t the only queue. There were hundreds of them. They ranged into the distance on either side, each one packed tightly with people—some escorted, some not—all waiting to be received by an inspector with a cap, standing behind a small table on which was placed an open box of multicoloured spectacles. She felt as if the whole world was here, all queuing, all waiting to be questioned, all patiently moving forward. And she didn’t feel lost amongst them; it was as though the sheer volume of them caused her to see more clearly her individuality. Yes, she was struck by a realisation of herself she had never felt before, and her own self flooded out from the clattering melee. She felt her own name, felt it inside herself, like a limb, an organ—she was aware of her own existence and she had a name: ‘Mary’. Yes, she was ‘Mary’.
The noise lessened, the people who had been so anxious about the message felt easier now that the ones close by saw she had got it in her hand. Their whispering chatter passed the news along the queue in both directions.
“I’ve waited long enough. I’m going to see what’s going on.”
“We have to wait. It’s a queue.”
“They might have to wait. You might want to wait, but I’m not waiting any longer. Who do they think they are?”
She didn’t know ‘who’ he meant. She wanted to say her name. She wanted to say that he could push through those ahead if he wanted but she, Mary, was going to wait her turn. She wanted to say she was sick of him and all she could think about were ways of having him incinerated. She said nothing. He barged forward. She imagined him going up in flames, touched by a flaming burst of heat from an exploding star.
“Out of my way,” he shouted to everyone. “Who do you think you are? Out of my way.”
Those ahead fell back—they were shocked by his bad manners, his ignorance of the rules, his abruptness, his lack of empathy, his rudeness. She sensed their contempt of him. He thought their non-responsiveness and giving way was in deference to his power, his superiority over them, but she could see that it was out of pity.
She watched him as he pushed his way to the front. By the time he reached the inspector he was too far away for her to see clearly, or hear what was said, but those ahead of her were relating what was going on by reporting the conversation and observations of those at the front as they were passes down the queue.
“The inspector said ‘Why have you pushed ahead of everyone else?’ He said ‘Because I saw no reason why I should wait.’ The inspector asked him why he thought that. He said that he didn’t think the rules for everyone else applied to him.”
“And the inspector said he was very ill-mannered.”
“Yes, and that he had been acting that way for too long.”
“The inspector said he was going to have to go away.”
“A long way away.”
She listened to the whispering messages as she realised that she was still holding the spectacles and message close to he chest. She wasn’t sure whether or not she should look at either of them—whether she should try the spectacles because she was so far back in the queue and that may not be fair to the others, or whether reading the message would somehow contravene the etiquette of the now reformed and orderly queue.
“Far, far away,” someone said.
“Yes, to the stars.”
“Beyond any of the stars we can see, the inspector said.”
She wondered what exactly that meant. She had imagined him floating away into the stars herself. She was happy that he should go there. Not for him because he made her sick, and his apologies were pathetic, but because he would be out of her way and she could keep her place in the queue.
The inspector placed a pair of green and grey spectacles on him. He shrunk back as the inspector adjusted them, but he already knew his destiny was unavoidable. At first, as he rose up beyond the earth he felt worried—worried for himself, frightened. He imagined calling out to her but he knew it was hopeless now. He couldn’t think of his name. All he saw was abandonment. The earth soon passed away, quickly becoming a speck then disappearing. The stars absorbed him— he fell into them—and his fears passed as he realised he was totally, irrevocably, and rightly alone. He no longer needed to call out to her and for a moment wished that he had realised that before, but it was too late.
Peter delivered his charge to the inspector. She was overjoyed as she received her spectacles. She bounced up and down like a spring. Peter waved goodbye to her and walked slowly to the back of the queue. As he passed Mary he smiled and she saw for a second that youthful twinkle that she had first seen when he took her own hand. He nodded towards the message that she still clasped in her hand. Of course! The message!
Slowly, and keeping hold of the spectacles, she opened up the crumpled piece of paper. A knot of people broke from the ranks of the queue and gathered around her. As it opened a few onlookers raised up on their tiptoes as they tried to be the first to read the contents of the message.
“Read it out,” urged one.
“Yes, read it out,” chimed another.
When she had it undone she held it up to show the people.
“Yes! Yes! Read it! Read it!”
Her heart was racing. She glanced around, suddenly hoping to see the man who had sent it to her, the man in the park, the man who filled her with desire, the man whose kiss she had breathed in, the man whose loving passion had infused her.
“Read it!”
“Read it!”
“Read it out loud!”
“We need to know what it says!”
She opened her hands and smoothed the paper out. It had something on both sides. She bit her lips, held her breath for a moment, then breathed in deeply and slowly read out the first side.
“Are you Mary Mother of Christ? Are you Mary Magdalene, filled with demons to be cast out? Are you Mary Magdalene, prostitute and ready to be saved?”
No one spoke. One by one the group around her looked at each other. Some frowned, some pursed their lips, some screwed up their brows in puzzlement. One went to say something but realised she didn’t know what to say, another nudged the person next to them as if to say they understood even though in fact they didn’t.
Holding the spectacles in her left hand and the open piece of paper in the other she stared into the queue ahead. She felt surrounded by silence, by unknowing. It was as if the world had become quiet, had lost its clatter, its confusion, but had not revealed itself, not provided her with a solution to its identity. The cryptic question showed her nothing, gave no direction, offered no support or foundation for action. She imagined herself in the vacuum of space with nothing to bear against, nothing against which to purchase. Then, as if caught in a gravitational eddy, she thought, ‘for action’. Was that what it was about? Action?
She looked down and read it out again, “Mother of Christ.” Mother of Christ? How could she be such a thing? Mary Mother of Christ? It seemed ridiculous but there was some sort of rationale. Mary Mother of Christ brought into the world a new destiny for herself and everyone. She bore the facility for all people to decide their own destiny. Of course! That’s what she’s being asked! Is she prepared to choose where her own life goes, to choose her own future, her own destiny? Is she prepared to bring forth change, change for herself? She smiled with a sense of realisation.
The people around her picked up her mood and raised their eyebrows and nodded to each other as of they too had been given an insight.
And the rest, “Mary Magdalene filled with demons to be cast out?” But she did not have to think about this. She knew straight away that this was also her. She was consumed by internal conflict: her life at home, waiting in the queue, Peter’s aging hand as he escorted her forward, her fear of the inspector’s questions and apprehension about her own inadequacy to respond to them. Yes, she was Mary Magdalene filled with demons, and she knew without question that she needed them casting out.
She nodded to herself and all those around did the same. A few of them muttered an affirmation as though they knew exactly what she was thinking, what she was realising, what she was discovering about herself.
And as she spoke it out, “Mary Magdalene, prostitute and ready to be saved”, she knew instantly that this was her as well.
Everyone around her started mumbling to each other, and nodding, and smiling, and pushing forward to get closer. It was as if her epiphany was uncontainable and was radiating out from her. And they clamoured to be even nearer to its source, as though being closer to Mary’s realisation brought some added speciality into each of their own already enhanced worlds.
“I have given up my life for the use of others,” she announced. “I can see it now. I have prostituted my time, my effort, my capacity to live. I have been bought and used. I have been abused by those I thought cared. I have deceived myself into believing that those who bought me loved me. I see it all now. My life has been subject to unending deceit.”
“She realises.”
“She understands, at last.”
Mary nodded as they all spoke out around her.
“Yes, I realise what has been happening to me. I understand what has brought me here—confusion, misuse and a need to claim my own destiny, my own freedom to act, my own right to be. I am all three Marys. My conflicts have been spawned by my misuse and in realising that I can now give birth to my own destiny. The inspector has helped me. He has sent my abuser to the stars, to the heat of the stars. He has been sent where there is no way back. I am relieved of his reign of terror. And, as I sense my own freedom, I already feel the conflicts inside me growing weaker. I already feel their grip slackening, their power ebbing away. But I am unused to this freedom. I do not know how to act. I have been responsive for so long I am afraid of acting because I wish it. I am unsure how to claim this fresh sense of meaning that is overtaking my life. What do I need to claim my destiny? How do I use what I have been given? How do I go forward now with the gift of understanding and the freedom from my abuser? How do I use the clear sight that I have now my demons have been vanquished? How? How?”
“Put on the glasses.”
“Yes, put on the glasses.”
“Put on the glasses and read the other side of your message.”
“Yes! Yes! Read the other side! Read the other side!”
She had no hesitation—hesitation had passed from her. She was standing on the edge of the most glorious precipice and below her all her life was spread out and waiting to be claimed. And she could see how beautiful it was, how much she could treasure it and take part in it. She could see its intricacy, its delicacy, its delectability, its sensuality. She was ready to cast herself into it.
She brought the glasses up to her face and put them on. There was a moment's confusion as her eyes accustomed themselves to the different grades of colour the world was now painted, but it passed almost straight away. She looked into the fields and forests of her life that were spread out below her. Her stomach filled with the thrill of it all. She inhaled its delightful scents—she breathed it in as though she were kissing it. Her heart was beating fast. She licked her lips in case she saw him, in case he wanted to kiss her as much as she wanted to kiss him. She looked down the queue. Everything flashed green and red. He was there! He was there! And he was approaching her. Others on the queue were standing aside, making way for him. He reached his hands out towards her.
“I love you!” she yelled as he hovered above the cliff edge. “I love you!”
Her voice rang out over the pastures and meadows that she knew would be the foundation for her life ahead. She peered beyond the trees and hedges, she breathed in the rising scents and followed the fluttering butterflies as they ascended on the columns of heat that rose from the verdant and luxurious ground.
She turned over the message and read the other side. There was just one word and she accomplished its command as she reached out to him, felt his hands in hers, and felt the love they had flowing between them.
‘WISH’
