Michel Faber - The Book of Strange New Things

My pastoral role here in the USIC base has been pretty limited, I must admit. I’ve done one funeral service, as you know, and afterwards I had a good discussion with a few of the mourners who stayed behind, particularly a woman called Maneely who said she’d felt the presence of God and seemed keen to take it further. But I haven’t seen her since except for once in the corridor coming out of the mess hall where she said ‘Hi’ in a nice-to-see-you-but-don’t-stop-me-I’m-busy sort of tone. Everyone is busy here. Not in a frantic way, just getting on with what they do. They’re not as low-key as the Oasans, but there’s definitely less stress than you’d expect.

In fact, I’d have to say that the USIC personnel are an amazingly well-behaved and tolerant lot. They don’t quarrel much at all. Just a bit of teasing and low-level bickering sometimes, as you’d expect in any context where a bunch of very different people are trying to get along. As far as I’m aware — and I’ve only just realised this, talking to you now — there’s no police force here. And the strange thing is, it doesn’t seem strange, if you know what I mean. All my life, when I’ve walked around the streets or been in workplaces or at school, I’ve immediately sensed how instinctively, how INTENSELY people resent other people. Everyone’s continually at the limit of their patience, on the brink of losing their cool. You sense the potential for violence. And so the concept of a police force seems logical and necessary. But in a context where everyone’s a grown-up and they’re just getting on with their appointed tasks, who needs a bunch of guys in uniform circling around? It seems absurd.

Of course, part of the credit has to go to the booze-free environment. In theory, alcohol is available here — it costs a preposterous amount, a substantial chunk of the USIC staff’s weekly wage — but nobody buys it. They occasionally make jokes about intending to buy it, they josh each other about procuring booze the way people josh about having sex with people they’d never truly have sex with. But when it comes down to it, they don’t seem to need it. Some of the men make references to taking drugs, too. I’ve learned that this is just male bravado, or maybe an affirmation of who they used to be, once upon a time. I can sniff drugs a mile off (so to speak) and I’m willing to bet there aren’t any here. It’s not that the USIC staff are fitness freaks or health nuts — they’re quite a mixed bag of physical specimens, with some borderline obese ones, some runty ones, and quite a few who look like they used to inflict a lot of punishment on themselves. But they’re in another phase now. (Like Joshua soon will be, God willing!)

What else did you raise? Oh yes, gambling, I’ve seen no evidence of that, either. I’ve asked plenty of people how they fill their time. ‘We work,’ they say. And when I specify ‘But what do you do in your leisure hours?’, they cite harmless activities — they read books about their area of expertise, they flip through old magazines, they go to the gym, they swim, they play cards (not for money), they wash their clothes, they knit fancy covers for pillows, they hang out in the mess hall and talk about work with their colleagues. I’ve listened in on the most extraordinary discussions. A pitch-black Nigerian and a pale, blond Swede will be sitting shoulder to shoulder, drinking coffee and swapping ideas about thermodynamics non-stop for an hour, in vocabulary of which I understand about three words in every ten. (Mostly ‘and’, ‘if’ and ‘so’!) At the end of the hour, the Swede will say, ‘So, my idea’s dead in the water, eh?’ and the other guy will just shrug and flash him a big grin. That’s normal for a Tuesday evening here! (I use ‘Tuesday’as a figure of speech, of course. I haven’t the foggiest notion what day it is anymore.)

Oh, and another leisure activity. A bunch of them also sing in a choir — a glee club, they call it. Easy, popular old songs. (No Frank Sinatra, I’ve been assured by a lady who urged me to join, but nothing gloomy or difficult either.) I haven’t seen any evidence that any of them write stories or paint or sculpt. They’re average people, not in the least arty. Well, when I say average, I don’t mean of average intellect, because they’re obviously highly skilled and smart. I mean they’re interested only in practicalities.

As for sexual harassment

There was a knock on the door. He saved what he’d written as a draft and went to meet the visitor. It was Grainger. Her eyes were bloodshot and swollen from weeping, and the sight of him standing there in a gown, pullover and socks was not sufficiently comical to bring a smile to her lips. She looked in desperate need of a hug.

‘I need to talk to you,’ she said.

On Peter’s bed lay a pile of things Grainger could not quite identify. Or at least, she was obviously having trouble imagining what the hell they were doing there.

‘Let me help you out,’ said Peter with a smile. ‘They’re balls of wool.’

She didn’t comment or even say ‘Uh-huh’, just stood motionless, staring at the bed. There were only three possible places for a visitor to sit in Peter’s quarters — two chairs and the bed. One chair was positioned in front of the Shoot, whose screen displayed his private correspondence with his wife, the other chair was occupied by a large stack of papers, and the bed was covered with a mound of multicoloured balls of wool. Purple, yellow, white, baby blue, scarlet, grey, lime green and many more. Each had a large sewing needle stuck in it, trailing furry thread.

‘I’m making booklets,’ he explained, motioning to the stack of papers. He fetched up a finished one and splayed it open against his chest, showing her the woollen binding sewn through the folded middle.

She blinked in bemusement. ‘We could have given you a stapler,’ she said.

‘I tried that,’ he said. ‘And discovered that the Oasans are worried about pricking themselves on staples. “Needle-needle hiding from finger”, as they put it.’

‘Glue?’

‘Glue would just dissolve in the watery atmosphere.’

She continued to stare. He guessed she was thinking there were too many colours, too much wool, for the purpose.

‘This way, each Jesus Lover can have their own personal copy of Scripture,’ he said. ‘The different coloured thread makes each one unique. That, and my… er… haphazard sewing technique.’

Grainger raked a hand through her hair, in a this-is-all-too-weird gesture.

Peter tossed the booklet onto the wool-pile, and hastened to remove the stack of Scripture printouts from the chair. He motioned to Grainger to sit. She sat. She rested her elbows on her knees, clasped her hands, stared at the floor. Thirty seconds of silence followed, which, in the circumstances, felt quite long. When she finally spoke, it was in a dull, uninflected tone, as if she were musing to herself.

‘I’m sorry Austin showed you that dead body. I didn’t know he was going to do that.’

‘I’ve seen bodies before,’ he said gently.

‘It’s horrible the way they still look like the person but the person is gone.’

‘The person is never gone,’ he said. ‘But yes, it’s sad.’

Grainger raised a hand to her mouth and, with abrupt vehemence, like a cat, chewed at the nail of her pinkie. Just as abruptly, she desisted. ‘Where did you get the wool from?’

‘One of the USIC personnel gave it to me.’

‘Springer?’

‘Of course.’

‘Gay as pink ink, that guy.’

‘That’s not a problem here, surely?’

Grainger sighed and let her head sag low. ‘Nothing is a problem here. Haven’t you noticed?’