Pat Barker - Double Vision

‘A couple of stories in New Writing . I did an MA in creative writing.’ He winced fastidiously, forestalling Stephen’s reaction. ‘And the Writer in Residence sent them off to the editors and…’ He shrugged. ‘They accepted them.’

‘You don’t sound very pleased.’

‘To be honest, I wish I’d had the guts to say no.’

The bar had suddenly become less crowded as a group of people left together. Stephen waved Peter across to a table. It was a relief not to have to shout and, tucked away in a corner like this, Peter seemed to relax. ‘Why’s that?’ he asked, as they settled at a table. ‘I thought it was quite prestigious. A showcase.’

‘Yes, but unless you’re Damien Hirst, you don’t want to put a dead sheep in it.’

Stephen took this to be mock modesty, and it made him impatient. ‘C’mon, they can’t be that bad.’

‘You know that poem, I can’t remember the words, something about using the snaffle and the curb, but where’s the bloody horse?’ He looked charming, modest, vulnerable. Self-mocking. ‘They’re a bit like that. Equine deficiency syndrome?’

‘Do you think there’s a cure?’

‘Oh, no, I shouldn’t think so.’ His voice had gone flat, as if he’d stumbled into talking more seriously than he’d intended. ‘Terminal.’

‘I’d like to read them.’ As if to explain this unusual desire to himself, Stephen went on, ‘Too much control. It’s an unusual fault in a young writer.’

‘Yes, I suppose it is. If you give me your address, I’ll let you have them. If you really mean it?’

‘Of course I do,’ Stephen said, already regretting it. ‘How are you finding the job with Kate?’

‘Fascinating.’

‘Have you found out how it turns into bronze?’

‘More or less. I’m still not sure I understand it. Nothing you actually touch appears in the finished product, I know that much.’

‘Does she talk about what she’s doing?’

‘Not really — sometimes when we’re having coffee she’ll say something, but mainly it’s just, “Where’s the chisel?” “I need more plaster.”’ He was smiling, but his eyes were alert. Perhaps he’d detected more interest from Stephen than he could account for. ‘You knew her husband?’

‘Yes, we were in Bosnia together. And various other places. Round and about.’

‘Rwanda?’

‘For a while.’

‘Afghanistan?’

‘Briefly.’

‘I’ve seen some of his photographs.’

He didn’t say any of the things people normally say, and Stephen was grateful for that. It was the last thing he wanted to talk about. ‘Have you tried your hand at a novel yet?’

‘Ye-es, but I don’t know… I’m quite attracted to writing screenplays.’

‘More money?’

‘Less publicity. You can be quite successful and still not be well known.’

‘That’s an advantage?’

‘For me it is.’

‘You’d be quite good at it, though. Publicity.’

Peter shrugged.

‘You don’t like the idea?’

‘It’s a perversion. It should be the work.’

‘Isn’t that a bit ivory tower? They’ve got to sell the stuff somehow. It’s the marketing people who matter these days. USPs.’

Peter looked puzzled.

‘Unique Selling Points. What’s your Unique Selling Point, Peter?’

‘I’m not sure I’ve got one.’ He reached into his pocket for a packet of cigarettes. ‘I suppose this is all right?’ he asked, looking round.

‘I think so. There’s somebody smoking over there.’

He coughed as he inhaled.

‘Have you ever been in the army?’

‘No. Why do you ask?’

‘I just wondered. I’ve got a theory you can tell if somebody’s lived in an institution.’

‘And you think I have?’

Stephen shrugged. ‘I think it’s probably true of me. Boarding school, in my case.’

‘Yeah, well, snap.’

‘Which one?’

‘You wouldn’t have heard of it.’

He was tightening up. Why the fear of publicity? He had youth, good-looks, charm. Given a modicum of talent, or preferably a great big chunk of talent, he was there.

‘Anyway,’ Stephen said, ‘I look forward to reading the stories.’

‘Do you have an agent?’

‘Yes, but I don’t think he’d handle short stories.’

‘I’ve got half a novel.’

This was becoming a predictable conversation. ‘I think with a first novel you more or less have to finish it.’ He decided to change the subject. ‘Do you like Kate’s work?’

‘Yes.’ He looked up, the cold grey eyes thoughtful. ‘I like the way she uses the male nude. She gets a lot of flak. Some people think she ought to sculpt women more, but the fact is she couldn’t explore the ideas she wants to explore using the female body. I mean, look at the way painters display martyrdom. You almost never see a woman saint being martyred, because it just wouldn’t have the same… A naked man being tortured is a martyr. A naked woman being tortured is a sadist’s wet dream.’

Stephen thought for a moment. ‘Suppose you’re gay?’

‘Ye-es?’

‘A tortured male nude might be a bit of a turn-on.’

‘Only if you were a sadist as well.’

‘Be a real challenge, though, if you were a Christian, wouldn’t it? Crucifixions, beheadings, floggings, breaking on the wheel, burning at the stake, roasting on spits —’

Peter said sharply, ‘I don’t know how many Christian sadists there are.’

‘Oh, I reckon they make it into double figures.’ He drained his glass. ‘I wonder what Kate would say?’

‘Nothing. She doesn’t find abstractions helpful.’ He got up to go to the bar. ‘Will you have another?’

Watching him talk to the barman, Stephen wondered how old he was. There were lines round his mouth and eyes, he couldn’t be much under thirty, even allowing for the weathering effect of an outdoor life. And if, at times, he seemed unformed, Stephen suspected it was less a matter of immaturity than of some basic confusion in the ground plan. He was like a cold bright star circling in chaos.

Stephen glanced round the room. A young girl with dark hair and enormous eyes was talking animatedly into a phone, her face veiled in cigarette smoke. Why is that movement so erotic? he thought, staring at the inside of her wrist. She looked up, caught him watching her and glanced quickly away. He turned back to catch a slight smile on Peter’s lips. Hey, Stephen thought, I’m the one with the teenage girlfriend. And then immediately he felt ashamed of thinking of Justine like that, as a high score in a competitive game. This evening was nonsense. He’d somehow got out of step with himself.

He finished his drink quickly after that. As he stood up to go, he remembered he hadn’t given Peter his address, and felt in his pockets for paper and pen.

‘It’s all right, I’ve got some somewhere.’ Peter was groping about inside his crammed rucksack. Books, tissues, bread rolls, milk, photocopies of newspaper articles, a pair of white socks were piled on to the bench between them. ‘Here we are.’

He handed over a notebook and pen, and Stephen printed his address, slowly and carefully, in block capitals, because he wanted time to check something out. Some of the photocopies — perhaps all of them — were about Kate. There was no mistaking the white wings of her hair.

‘Right,’ he said, handing the pen back. ‘I look forward to reading them.’

For once this was not entirely insincere. The stories might be dreadful, but Peter was interesting.

Outside, in the street, Stephen felt the tingle of sweat evaporating from his face. It had been raining. All along the greasy pavement reflections of street lamps blurred into supernovae.

They said goodnight and set off in opposite directions. After a while, Stephen looked back to see Peter moving rapidly along, threading his way between groups of young people out on the town, a dark bead on a brightly coloured string.