Pat Barker - Double Vision

Stephen was beginning to enjoy himself. Even the muddy ground, the sparse, trampled grass, purple under the revolving lights, tugged up memories from way back.

‘We’ve got to go on something,’ Justine shouted.

‘Yes,’ he shouted back, looking around for some innocuous ride, one that didn’t involve being pinned to the walls of a spinning globe by centrifugal force while your cheeks were dragged back to your ears. He pointed at the Ferris wheel, not because it looked safe — it didn’t, it looked like a great spinning Catherine wheel that might at any moment be torn off its base and go hurtling and fizzing all over the sky — but because it was familiar from his childhood. ‘What about that?’

‘OK,’ she shouted, through a mango-yellow mouth.

Stephen had no head for heights. His stomach knotted as the bar clanged shut across their legs. Adam insinuated a small, sticky hand into his and he smiled reassuringly, and hoped he wasn’t going to be sick. Portrait of the intrepid war correspondent at play, he thought. They were whirled aloft, jerkily at first, then more smoothly as the carriages filled up. Finally, the wheel began to spin.

He risked one look down. By the ticket booth was a group of people, disappointed this time, waiting for the next ride. Their faces, upturned to watch the spinning lights, looked like small pale flowers on long stalks. He shut his eyes as the chair swung beneath him, braced his already rigid arms and felt a rush of warmer air as they neared the ground.

The third time round he felt Justine’s hand on his sleeve and turned to look at her. Her mouth was wide open but no sound came out, or none that he could hear above the blare of music. At first he thought she was screaming, then realized she was laughing. He tried to speak, but the words were torn out of his mouth by the wind. They swooped down, down towards the flashing lights, and a strand of Justine’s hair came loose and whipped across her mouth. Adam, squashed in between them, shrieked, but seemed to be enjoying it. He was warm all along Stephen’s side, like a puppy, and had the grey wool, gym shoes and custard smell of little boys everywhere. Incredibly, Stephen was starting to enjoy the ride. He actually looked forward to that moment when he would see the whole fairground spread out between his feet, Adam’s fingers clutching his arm, Justine’s involuntary cry, and then the gasping headlong descent.

When he got out he seemed to have rubber thigh bones, and wobbled about, not immediately sure where the ground was. ‘Would you like a beer?’ he shouted.

‘I’ll get it. I think Adam needs the loo.’

‘Do you, Adam?’

‘Yes.’

He looked a bit white. Stephen put a hand on his shoulder and steered him off to the Portaloos at the other end of the field. ‘Did you feel sick?’

‘A bit.’

‘So did I.’

He waited outside, but Adam seemed to take an enormously long time. He was worried until he remembered something Justine had said about Adam’s toilet rituals — one of them involved lining the bowl and seat with paper before he could bring himself to perform.

Stephen didn’t mind waiting. He was thinking about Goya, about his love of visiting circuses, fiestas, fairs, freak shows, street markets, acrobatic displays, lunatic asylums, bear fights, public executions, any spectacle strong enough to still the shouting of the demons in his ears. Portrait of a man who’d come through. Looking round, it was clear why Goya’s self-medication had worked. Stephen felt dazed by the colours and shapes around him, by the way his bombarded senses began to assume each other’s functions, so that colour became noise and noise colour. All these mouths shouting, laughing, screaming, eating, drinking; mouths everywhere. You saw the mouths first, as you saw the mouths first in Goya’s paintings, combining to produce that roar that even in the Prado, off season, early in the morning, almost deafens you. But he didn’t want to think about Goya now. He was looking forward to the beer, hoping it would be cold, picturing the sweat of condensation on the can.

When Adam came out, they looked round for Justine, but at first they couldn’t see her. He felt a tweak of anxiety as he stared along the queue, willing her to be in it. Passing faces now looked merely grotesque; he was aware of the dark open spaces outside the fairground, of the stars, pale in the lights, wheeling and turning in the chaos of space.

Then he saw her standing under one of the huge lamps that lit the entrance to the car park. Moths attracted to the light fluttered all around her, so that she stood in a haze of white wings. Adam ran up to her, she handed Stephen a can of beer, and they walked through the car park, talking about where they should go.

They set off down the road to a pizza bar, Adam trotting along between them and discussing Ferris wheels in his usual professorial manner. God knows what they made of him at school. Justine said he had tummy ache on Monday mornings, which suggested something was wrong. He’d be bullied, of course, had to be, and he’d be defenceless against it, unable to do anything except go on being his unacceptable self.

Most of the outdoor tables were taken, but they found one close to the entrance, and sat looking out over the river with its floodlit bridges. Small candles flickered on every table, casting a warm glow over the circles of faces, finding answering points of light in raised glasses.

Glancing round, Stephen noticed Peter Wingrave was sitting at a table in the far corner, with a man and a woman, both older than him, the woman heavily pregnant. He was facing away from the entrance and hadn’t noticed them come in. Deciding not to mention it to Justine, Stephen drummed his fingers on the cloth, while Adam read the entire menu through carefully three or four times before deciding to have what he always had — vegetarian lasagne.

‘Who’s driving?’ Stephen asked.

‘All right,’ Justine said. ‘But I want a drink when we get back.’

He got up to get the drinks and coincided at the bar with Peter. Stephen was content to wait at the back of the crowd, giving Peter the opportunity of approaching him if he wanted or avoiding him if he didn’t. It was a bit awkward that he hadn’t yet responded to the stories. The rest — his antics in Kate’s studio, even his previous relationship with Justine — was not, strictly speaking, Stephen’s business.

‘Hi,’ Peter said, coming straight up to him.

Peter looked well, Stephen thought, even slightly tanned, and then wondered why he was surprised. He’d expected somebody more obviously unbalanced. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine. Apart from the usual aches and pains.’ He smiled that fleeting and extremely charming smile. Not overused. In fact, rather carefully rationed. Stephen felt cynical and yet aware that cynicism was perhaps a shallow response to the capacities he sensed in Peter. ‘I’m gardening again. The first few weeks are always a bit tough.’

‘Oh. So you’re not working for Kate now?’

‘No, she’s virtually finished. And she’s a lot better — that manipulation under anaesthetic thing really worked. Apparently the improvement was dramatic. She said it might be. I can’t wait to see it.’

This was all said smoothly, and perhaps he believed it. Perhaps Kate, not wanting the relationship to end unpleasantly, had given her improved mobility as the sole reason for ending the arrangement. ‘You must have plenty of gardening in this weather?’

‘God, yes. The phone never stops ringing.’

‘Good.’

A pause. They looked around them.

‘I liked the stories.’ Liked was definitely not the right word, but then a crowded bar on a warm spring evening isn’t the place for precision. ‘I thought what I might do is photocopy them and send them to my agent with your address and then he can get in touch with you directly if he wants to pursue it.’