Tom McCarthy - C

He pauses, and lets his gaze alight on individual people, impressing this possibility upon them, then adds:

“This procedure is, as you might appreciate, quite strenuous, demanding huge reserves on physical and mental energy on Miss Dobai’s part.”

“ ‘Procedure,’ ” Serge mumbles to Audrey. “Makes it sound like an operation.”

“Don’t be flippant,” she hisses back at him. The man on the stage continues:

“Once her vocal cords have been exhausted, Miss Dobai will request of the control that its communication be continued by means of the table-tilting method.”

“What’s that?” Serge asks Audrey.

“You’ll see,” she says.

“Miss Dobai,” the master of ceremonies tells them, “will join us presently, but she has let it be known that she’d like us to sing the first of the two hymns that you were handed on your way in, ‘Abide with Me.’ ”

There’s a general rustling of paper, and the audience launch into the hymn. The tightness of the singing falls off as the side-door opens once more and a woman glides through it, passes the master of ceremonies and assumes her seat behind the table. Miss Dobai is middle-aged; her blouse, red like the curtains on each side of her, is décolleté; her cheeks are rouged; her hair is got up in a bun. Serge stops singing and pictures train-yards, circus wagons and European palaces, flickering in the air around her. When the hymn ends, she clasps her hands together; the master of ceremonies makes the same gesture, holding his conjoined hands out towards the audience in instructive illustration; people around the room start shyly turning to their left and right, linking hands with their neighbours.

“It’s to form a circuit,” Audrey whispers to Serge.

Miss Dobai gestures to her master of ceremonies, who announces:

“Miss Dobai has let it be known that she’d like you to join in singing the second of the hymns you’ve all been given, ‘Now Thank We All Our God.’ ”

Easier said than done: the congregation’s hands are bound. Breaking the circuit briefly, they balance the hymn-sheets on their knees or the chair next to them, then reconnect their hands and launch into song once more. Halfway through the first verse, the master of ceremonies takes his own seat. Miss Dobai sits impassive at her table, staring vaguely in front of her. She remains impassive through the second verse; during the third, though, a strange metamorphosis overtakes her. It starts with a few light hiccups, which grow heavier, making her chest and shoulders heave until the hiccups have turned into sobs that rattle her whole upper body. Her eyes roll up in their sockets, red-veined balls of fish-white. One by one, the congregation break off singing, captivated by the medium’s contortions. In the silence, her rapid, gasping breathing can be clearly heard: the gasps are deep, and growing deeper. As they deepen they slow down and even out, until they sound more like the long, yawning groans of an awakening male slumberer.

“Is someone there?” the mousey secretary asks.

The voice groans once more in annoyed response. Then Miss Dobai’s jaws clank into action as the male speaker who’s inhabiting them pronounces a word:

“Morris.”

“Is that Morris?” asks the secretary. “Can you confirm that for us?”

“Yes,” growls the voice, breaking into coughs that shake Miss Dobai’s frame again. “Deeds aren’t right.”

The secretary scribbles in her notepad. “Which deeds, Morris?” she asks. “You weren’t clear about that last time.”

“Property deeds. Cam, Camber, Camley. I was going to transfer before I…”

“I heard ‘ Cam -something,’ ” the secretary says after a pause. “Is it a place?”

“Swindled me out of… affidavit…” Morris’s voice continues, ignoring her question. The words lapse back into groans, which shorten, rising in pitch until they’re more like Amazonian war-whoops. These whoops, having attained their plateau, mutate back into words again, contracting Miss Dobai’s cheeks as they hurtle from her mouth: “Woo yeh-yeh! Comanche Chief here! Yeh-yeh! Kill land-swindler good and proper. Get his scalp. Woo yeh-yeh!”

“Who’s this now?” the secretary calls out.

“Comanche Chief, yeh-yeh!” this new, excited voice informs her. “I scalp white man good and proper. In past; now, no enemies where we are. White and red all friends. Yeh-yeh!”

“Where are you, Chief?” the secretary asks.

“High prairies,” the Chief answers. “Not American but other place. Ancestors of all men here: white, red, yellow…”

Miss Dobai’s cheeks contract still further as a sound of rushing wind runs through her lips. The wind’s sound changes, growing lispy, then separates out into crackling stops and starts. These, too, rise in pitch, till it’s no longer a man’s but a woman’s voice that’s coming from her. The corners of her mouth curl upwards as the sound’s pitch rises higher still and childlike giggles burst into the room.

“Is this Miss Sunshine?” calls the secretary. “Tilda?”

A huge, grotesque smile contorts Miss Dobai’s face as a small child’s voice emerges:

“Not a little Indian girl. No. I’m not. I got long blond curls and big blue eyes, and Billy Parton says I got a snub nose.”

“Can you confirm your name?” the secretary asks.

“Firm… soft…” the little voice giggles again as it replies. “Miss Scarlet calls me Sunshine. Because my hair. My brothers called me Tilly, like the plough.”

“She’s often here,” Audrey whispers to Serge.

“The mother said,” the voice continues, “that she got to wear her bonnet and give answers, or she won’t. But if she does, then she’ll have sweets.”

Miss Dobai claps her hands together rapidly. The secretary scribbles more. The master of ceremonies opens his hands to the audience, inviting their participation. Someone near the front shouts out:

“Is there anyone else with you, Tilly?”

Miss Dobai, eyes still vacant, rotates her head slowly to first one side then another. Two-thirds of the way through its rightwards turn it stops, and Tilly’s voice gasps:

“Oh! The temper boy.”

“Was that ‘temper’?” asks the secretary.

“Temper, tempra, temper-ture,” says Tilly. “Mercury rising. He’s telling Tilly it’s a P.”

A woman to the hall’s left stands up; so do a couple to the right.

“Peter?” asks the solitary woman.

“Tilly hears him say it’s P, then A.”

The solitary woman sits down. Not the couple, though: they’re clasping one another more and more tightly as Tilly continues:

“P, then A; then there’s another one, then L…”

“Paul!” the wife says, her voice breaking. Her husband asks, in a more authoritative tone:

“Paul, is that you?”

Miss Dobai’s head turns a little more, trying to locate either the man who asked the question or the girl who’s answering it, or both. Tilly’s voice comes from it once more, saying:

“Died of influ-, influ-, influ-ence. Paul said it’s very hot. And wet. But now he’s happy again. Hello, Daddy; hello, Mummy. You were always good to me.”

The voice has altered halfway though this last speech: it’s still a child’s, but seems more serious than Tilly’s.

“If this is Paul,” the husband says, “then tell me: do you remember, in the playroom, the big object? The one with the tail?”

“Oh, toy,” Paul’s voice answers. “Yes, indeed. A rocking horse.”

“Well, that was at the nursery school,” the husband says. “But I meant at our house. The object pinned to the wall, with the tail…”

“A bird,” Paul says. There’s a pause, then he adds: “Not a real bird. One made of fabric. With a tail… and string… long string to fly.”