Joe Dunthorne - Wild Abandon

“Did he?”

“He is a proper assho’ . Tell him I want my Glock back.”

They heard the phone ringing in the entrance hall. The phone was always ringing. Albert’s mouth twitched. He was the only person in the community who actively wanted to answer. He was much admired for his phone manner. Good afternoon, you are through to Albert Riley, whom can I help you reach? He was always willing to brave wind and rain to track down a volunteer, even if they were waist deep in water trying to clear the filter on the hydroelectric pump.

“It must be someone important,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “Only important people call in the mid-afternoon.”

He rubbed the end of his nose with his palm, then said: “Marina says the things you learn in college will be of no use in the next world.”

“It’s for you-hoo,” she said, dropping her bike down in the barn and starting back to the big house.

“Tell me what you learned today,” he said, glancing over toward the front door, the phone now on its eighth ring.

“People with prizes to give away often ring around siesta time.”

“Did you learn about self-defense, survival, or weaponry?”

“Actually, there was a little on bombs.”

“Tell me.”

Albert was hopping from foot to foot now. The phone was his domain, his contact with the outside, and he defended it fiercely. He could often be seen sprinting across the yard in his socks, skidding into the hallway, grabbing the newel post to alter his trajectory — skating the tiles — then plucking the handset from its cradle, hardly out of breath as he delivered one of his lines: Good morning, Blaen-y-Llyn, if you speak to one of us, you speak to us all . Or sometimes just breathing heavily down the line.

“It could be an international call,” she said. “It’s morning in Montreal.”

He swallowed.

“Oh well, looks like nobody’s in,” Kate said, holding her phone-shaped hand to her ear. “Guess I’ll give this free helicopter to somebody else.”

He started to jog backward. “This is not over.”

Albert turned to run, kicking up gravel. He disappeared inside and grabbed the receiver halfway through its sixteenth ring.

“Hello please!”

Kate came in and sat halfway up the stairs to watch him at work. He trapped the handset between his ear and shoulder.

“I’m afraid he’s busy. Maybe I can help. I’m his eleven-year-old son.”

He was known for taking word-perfect phone messages and his intimate knowledge of guests past and present. He knew who was back living with Granny, who had fallen in love and gone to Suriname, who was studying pediatrics. It was his responsibility.

“There’re around twenty of us usually: seven big, three small, and ten wwoofers — which stands for World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms — and they sleep in the attic dorm.”

He was very adept at deflecting TV researchers and journalists. Part of the reason they received so many calls was that Blaen-y-Llyn was first, alphabetically, on a website listing communities of Wales. Pinned to the corkboard above the phone was a printout of answers to Frequently Asked Questions. Albert had learned that most people could be discouraged with a few uninspiring details. He listened, then leaned forward to read off the sheet, speaking with the singsong voice that people get when they have said something many times.

“Blaen-y-Llyn is a community and farm where we grow our own food and run a small-scale veg-box scheme for North Gower. The money from the boxes helps pay for luxury items like”— he looked at his sister —“body armor. We keep hens, goats, and did have plow-horses until they were replaced by machines. We sometimes kill animals and eat them. My mother is a one-woman abattoir.”

Albert looked at his sister and licked his lips. Their mother, Freya, a self-taught but industrious butcher, was in charge of all slaughter on the farm. She could wring a chicken’s neck with the coolness of someone opening a jam jar. She kept up to date on the latest fashions in humane abattage. When Kate became a vegetarian, her mother, perhaps out of guilt, confided in her that she had never chosen her role as executioner in chief. Don had pushed her into it, she said. He had invented the phrase: “one-woman abattoir.”

“Fifty acres in total, divided among fruit, vegetables, crops, livestock, pasture, and our famous orchard.”

The orchard was one apple tree, planted on the day of their parents’ marriage. Kate looked behind her and saw Patrick coming slowly downstairs, looking unsteady. She smiled at him.

“The community was formed during the early nineties recession. More details on our website.”

Patrick went to the bathroom under the stairs. She smelt smoke on him as he passed. She saw, beneath her, in the cracks between boards, the light click on. This toilet had a low ceiling, so boys had to sit down to wee.

“Yes, we have broadband Internet, advert-free television, and some really bad DVDs that my dad likes. The TV is small and in a corner and all the furniture is arranged so that it does not dominate the room.”

Patrick came back out. There was no roar. The community only flushed for solids.

“My favorite film?” Albert said, looking worried.

Patrick took the notepad next to the phone, wrote something down, and held it up.

“ Eat Drink Man Woman . Anything else you’d like to ask?”

Kate noticed there were little damp spots down Patrick’s inside trouser leg. Part of her relationship with Patrick involved him telling her about the terrible ways in which his body was changing, and that it was coming for her, and soon.

“You alright, Pat?” Kate said.

“There is a membership application form, available to download. The final decision is made by the entire community based on”—again Albert squinted at the FAQ—“entirely subjective criteria.”

Pat nodded, then grabbed the communal Volvo’s car keys that hung above the phone.

“My tutors graduated from high-ranking universities.”

As the one-man switchboard, Albert was given special allowances, like being allowed to get up from dinner without excusing himself.

“My favorite subject is home economics.”

One of Janet’s old boyfriends, an allergist, once told Albert that in the modern world it was important to have an elegant phone manner, and he clung to this belief and sometimes could be heard repeating it back to the people who phoned: “It’s important to have an elegant phone manner in the modern world.”

“Our policy is no access for video cameras. Photos are not well liked either.”

Albert twirled the cord round his finger in the manner of a girlfriend talking to another girlfriend. Patrick nodded to Kate and slipped out through the front door.

“It sounds like a very interesting project, but my father says your industry is inherently evil.”

There was a long wait.

“Really? He is one of my favorite presenters. In that case, you can have Dad’s mobile telephone number.”

It was useful for Albert, when fending off aggressive producers, to be able to give out one of the two community pay-as-you-go numbers. These mobile phones were for emergency-only use and, as such, were almost never switched on.

“Awesome!” he said. Then he read out the community’s address.

Over the years, he had received a number of autographed photo portraits.

Patrick drove the communal Volvo through light rain. He had the heater on full; a biscuity smell came from the vents. He put on his favorite swing jazz mix tape, 90 percent Benny Goodman, but even that seemed shallow and toneless. He had not been stoned for five and a half days.

In Parkmill, he stopped in the bus bay outside Shepherd’s Ice Cream. It was late afternoon. He looked up and down the road but couldn’t see anyone. His skin tightened as the air recycled. Ejecting the tape, he flicked between radio stations. Classic rock, popular, classical, choral, local unsigned. All music is bullshit , he thought, though he didn’t mean it. Patrick knew only one person who did not like music: Don, who said he found it manipulative. Among the sorts of people who frequented the community, not liking music was up there with not liking foreigners or homosexuals. It had always pleased Patrick to know Don’s secret shame.