Rupert Thomson - The Insult

We ate in a cheap restaurant on the main road. It, too, was deserted, apart from four drunk men in hunting-caps who were sitting in the corner singing songs. I didn’t have much appetite; I could only eat half the chicken dish I’d ordered. I wasn’t sure what I was doing there.

Loots thought we should stay the night, though. ‘It was only two days ago that he was seen. I’ve got the feeling he’s still here somewhere.’

I agreed, but without much enthusiasm.

As we left the restaurant, turning our collars up against the rain, something unexpected happened. Two men approached out of the darkness and introduced themselves. A reporter and a cameraman from a local TV station, they wanted to do a report on The Invisible Man for a regional news programme. They’d already talked to the farmer who’d actually seen The Invisible Man. Now they wanted to talk to me.

‘You’d be better off with Mr Loots,’ I said. ‘He’s the one who organised it all.’

‘No, no,’ they said. ‘You don’t understand. It’s you we want.’

They explained that a blind man was a more potent image, a more poignant symbol of the quest. It would be good television, too. I’d just have to take their word for it.

Loots pulled me aside. ‘It’s OK, Martin. You do it. But listen. Talk to him directly. It’ll work better than answering questions. And use his real name. I think that’s the mistake we’ve been making — not using it.’

I thought Loots had a point. One thing worried me, though. If I was on TV, people would see me. Maybe even the people I’d left behind would see me. Claudia. My parents. Dr Visser. Then I remembered that we’d be broadcasting from an obscure town near the eastern border, at least two hours’ drive from the capital. A programme like that might actually work in my favour, as disinformation: it would throw everybody off the scent. I suddenly became amused by the idea: someone who didn’t want to be found looking for someone who didn’t want to be found. It was like a lift with mirror walls: if you stand in the right position you can replicate yourself, there are hundreds of you, nobody can tell which one of you is real. I patted Loots on the back and walked over to the reporter.

‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’m ready.’

Towards eleven that night we checked into a small family hotel on the road that led out of the town. We took a room with two single beds. While Loots showered, I watched an old black-and-white movie on TV. Aliens were taking over the planet. I thought of Nina, who loved science fiction. I sat on a chair by the window with the phone on my lap. The receiver smelled of cleaning fluid. Lemon flavour.

Loots emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel.

‘Did I do OK tonight?’ I asked him.

‘You were great,’ he said. ‘Specially that bit you said — what was it? “We’re not trying to put any pressure on you. We just want to be sure that you’re all right.’”

‘You think that was good?’

‘Great. And at the end, when they pulled back and showed you standing all alone on that empty street. Even I felt sorry for you.’

I smiled.

‘I’m going to get some sleep,’ Loots said. ‘I’m really tired.’

‘Does the TV bother you?’

He said it didn’t. Springs winced as he climbed into bed and drew the blankets over him. He was asleep in minutes.

I sat on my chair by the window. The aliens were going to lose. They always lost. There was always something on earth which they just happened to be allergic to, something ridiculous like toothpaste or concrete. I dialled Nina’s number, expecting her machine. I didn’t mind if I got the machine; at least I’d hear her voice before I went to sleep — or maybe there’d be another sound-effect intended specifically for me. But she answered and, for a moment, I couldn’t think of anything to say. Then I remembered how she liked to start conversations in the middle.

‘Do you think he saw us?’ I whispered.

‘Who?’

‘The man with the tattoo on his neck.’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Maybe.’

‘Do you think he liked it?’

She laughed softly, but didn’t answer.

‘I liked it,’ I whispered. ‘All of it.’

‘Why are you whispering?’

‘Loots is asleep.’

I told her where we were. She didn’t ask what we were doing. She didn’t even sound surprised. Sometimes it bewildered me, this utter lack of curiosity. It made me feel irrelevant, disposable. I didn’t think it was intentional. She had her own world, that was all. But still. I changed the subject. I talked about the house that Loots had mentioned earlier, the house by the lake. I said she was invited, too.

‘You should see the clouds tonight,’ she said. ‘Orange and grey, and swirling round and round, like someone’s stirring them …’

‘It’s raining here.’

‘Do you remember clouds? From before you were blind?’

‘I’ve got memories,’ I said. ‘You go blind, you don’t lose everything.’

There was a moment’s silence.

‘I was with Greersen,’ she said.

I didn’t follow.

‘The night I didn’t show up. I was at Greersen’s place.’

‘Oh.’

Greersen ran the Elite. That was all I knew about him. ‘I was there all night,’ she said.

I walked to the window. The phone was in my hand. For a few seconds it had the feeling of a weapon.

‘Quick,’ said someone on TV. ‘Get down.’

‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘but I never promised —’

‘I know.’

‘Does it matter?’

I parted the brown curtains. The rain was still falling. In the building opposite, there was a man sitting on a chair. The room was pale-green. He was alone.

‘Martin?’

‘Yes.’

‘It doesn’t mean —’

‘It doesn’t mean what?’

There was another silence, then she sighed.

‘I think I’d better go,’ I said.

I waited.

As I took the receiver from my ear, she said something. I only caught a fraction of it, her tone of voice rather than the words themselves; I thought she sounded anxious. I tried to call her back, but the line was busy. I stood by the window with the phone in my hand, watching the rain fall on a town I didn’t know.

By late afternoon I was in a multi-storey car-park, waiting for Loots. It had been a wasted day. We’d got nowhere. That farmer in his kitchen, the empty shopping precinct, Nina’s confession on the phone. I felt tired and desolate. I didn’t like standing in car-parks either, no matter how many storeys there were. I started imagining men with T-shirts on. I started imagining tomatoes.

At last I heard footsteps approaching. I didn’t hear any keys, though. Loots had this habit of bouncing keys on his hand as he walked towards his car. A lot of people do it. It’s slightly irritating, actually. It’s like people who shake the ice-cubes in a drink just before they finish it. I listened to the sounds surrounding the footsteps. I listened hard. No keys.

‘Loots?’ I called out. ‘Is that you?’

The footsteps stopped. A voice said, ‘Mr Blom?’

‘Yes?’

‘You were on TV last night.’

‘That’s right,’ I said.

‘It seems you’ve been looking for me.’

I turned to face the voice. ‘The Invisible Man!’

‘Used to be.’

It was still daylight and I had no vision, so I did the only thing I could think of: I held out my hand.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said.

And I shook hands with The Invisible Man. It was the most curious feeling. The hand was there — but, at the same time, it was not. It was recognisable as a hand and yet it was absent, somehow. Recognisable by its absence. Maybe that was the best way of describing it. Absence of hand — or, maybe, hand-shaped air. In any case, an unforgettable sensation.