Blue Shifting (18 page)

~

Miller finished the second draft of the novel, taking time to hone it to his satisfaction before sending it off to Selwyn. A week after dining with his agent, he parcelled up the manuscript and posted it as he made his way to the heath.

It was a perfect summer's afternoon, the sky clear and blue and the heat of the day tempered by a cooling breeze. Miller sat on a bench, first ensuring that it was unoccupied, and stared across the eerily deserted heath. There was evidence that the citizens of London were taking the opportunity to enjoy the clement weather: kites dipped and jinked through the air at the command of invisible controllers; ubiquitous dogs trotted, as if pushed along, at the end of straightened leads; a fleet of empty push-chairs careered crazily across the heath like remote-controlled toys.

The murmured conversation of the unseeable citizens eddied around him, rising and falling as they approached, came alongside him, and passed away.

The girl appeared, suddenly, on the crest of a small hill about fifty yards before Miller. There could be no denying, now, the reality of her existence. The fact of her physical presence, in all the emptiness around her, struck Miller with breathtaking force. She wore a simple, short white dress and a pair of soiled pink leggings. Her long black hair whipped around her face in the wind. She was staring, with disconcerting concentration, straight at him.

Something moved within Miller, some long-repressed longing. At the same time he told himself that he wished she had never appeared, that he could do without the complications that her arrival entailed.

She swept a tress of hair from her face in a deliberate gesture, then walked from the hillock, into the dip and up the other side towards him.

She collided with something – someone – and the effect was almost comical. The impact stopped her briefly in her tracks, rocking her on her bare feet, before she gained equilibrium and continued forwards. Instead of walking with care, she seemed to take a satisfaction in moving at speed, ignoring the cries that followed her progress up the hill.

She paused before Miller, staring at him with a kind of resolved belligerence. She was older than he had first thought: perhaps in her twenties. Her face was small and weathered, not at all pretty but possessing a certain aggressive charm. Miller was aware of his heartbeat. He was amazed at the fact of her face, the sheer humanness of it: the small nose and long lips and the high, domed brow. It was the first flesh-and-blood face he had looked upon for a long time, and in its singularity it stood as a paradigm for all that was human.

He saw then that her hands were soiled, her hair matted, that her eyes glinted with a light of desperation.

She was shaking her head as if in disbelief. "I can see you," she said in an amazed whisper. "I really can see you." She had a northern accent, the harsh vowel sounds accentuating her naive disbelief.

Milled removed his dark glasses, stared at her. "And I can see you, too."

His throat was dry. There were so many questions he wanted to ask that he did not know where to start.

"I saw you in London last week, in the restaurant. Couldn't believe my eyes. Thought I was seeing things."

Miller laughed suddenly: an uncontrollable burst of hilarity that spoke of his disbelief, his inability to handle what was happening.

The girl stared at him as if he were mad. "What's up?"

He dabbed his wet eyes with a handkerchief. "I'm sorry, it's just... Look, you're the first person I've seen in six months-"

"Me too. I mean, you're the first person I've seen for ages. Thought I was going loopy. But everything else seemed... I don't know... everything seemed normal, apart from me. They had me in a psychiatric ward, you know. When it happened, I just flipped. I was living rough, around King's Cross. Then I woke up and the world was empty. I ran around, crashing into things... people. So they locked me away." She shrugged, smiled at him. "But I got away, been on the move ever since."

She hesitated, thought about it, then joined him on the bench, drawing her legs up to her chest and hugging her nylon leggings. "Do you know what's happening to us?" There was more desperation in her tone than she wanted to admit.

He shook his head. "I honestly don't know."

She nodded, regarding him. "You seem to be doing okay for yourself, though. I've been following you – after I saw you in the restaurant. I nicked a car and followed you to Hampstead, except I lost you there. Had to wait around for days, then the other morning..."

"I..." he began. "I've adapted to the circumstances as well as can be expected."

"You've got a big house..."

He resented the implication in the statement, and then hated himself for feeling such mean-spirited resentment. Here he was, taking part in an encounter unique in human experience, and all he could think about was how he had to keep his distance from this strange and alien creature.

"I'm Lucy, by the way."

"Miller," he said, and forced himself to say, "Pleased to meet you, Lucy."

Staring at the twin peaks of her knees, from time to time darting a quick glance at him, she told him the story of her short and horrible life to date.

She was from Leeds, and her father had died when she was ten, and her step-father had raped her when she was twelve. At fifteen she ran away from home, came to London and lived rough for five years, begging from commuters and occasionally stealing from shops and supermarkets.

As Miller listened, he realised that the tragedy of her personal life-story was that it was a succession of clichés all too common in today's society, a series of misfortunes he, in his privileged position, had no hope of understanding. He was reduced to a series of stock responses and phrases of commiseration, which might have appeared appropriate as lines of dialogue in fiction, but which in real life sounded empty and meaningless.

She trailed off. A silence came between them.

Miller wondered how he might make his excuses and leave. It crossed his mind that he should offer her a room, at least some food. But he wanted nothing more than to be away from her, back in the familiar territory of his own company.

"It's good to talk to someone again, Miller," she said. "What are you doing tomorrow? I know you come here most days."

He nodded, relieved at the possible way out she had given him. "I'll be here tomorrow," he said, "at the same time."

She smiled. "Good. I'll see you then, okay?" She hesitated, then pointed at his glasses and cane. "I like that. Very clever."

"You could do it too, Lucy. People avoid me, and it's an excuse if I do bump into people."

Lucy palmed a hank of hair from her high forehead, staring at him with her hand still in position like a visor. "It'd be no good for me now, Miller. You see, people can't see me anymore. Two weeks ago I disappeared, just like they've disappeared." She smiled. "I just go around bumping into people, freaking them out. They must think I'm a ghost."

Miller stared at her, alarmed. "How long have you been like this – I mean, when did people first disappear?"

She shrugged. "Oh... more than six months ago."

He wondered if what had happened to Lucy two weeks ago, the fact that she was no longer visible to others, was yet another stage in this phenomenon, this gradual disenfranchisement of the soul? Would he, in turn, disappear in the eyes of others? The thought was appalling. How might he function, if this happened? How might he find work?

"Also," she went on, as if twisting the knife, "I can't hear people now. I'm blind and deaf to the human race. What do you think of that?"

He shook his head. Blind and deaf to the human race... "How terrible..." But he was thinking more of himself than of Lucy.

She said, "Look, I've got to be going."

He reached out – surprising himself with the gesture – and took her callused palm in his hand. "Do you have somewhere? I mean-"

She shook her head. "I'm fine, okay?" She smiled, her features showing compassion. "See you tomorrow, right?"

She jumped from the bench, hurried off in the direction of Highgate. Miller watched her as she skipped away, just once colliding with someone, the impact sending her spinning to the ground. She picked herself up, laughing out loud, and ran off into the trees.

~

The following day he began outlining a proposal for his next book. As he worked, he found his attention wandering. He could not erase the image of Lucy from his mind. Her face kept swimming before his vision, and her coarse northern accent filled his head. He hated himself for being unable to forget her, resented her for her intrusion into his hitherto orderly existence.

At five he cooked himself dinner and ate alone, as he had done for the past six years. He imagined Lucy sitting on the bench on the heath, waiting for him. He remained in his armchair, staring at his empty plate. He could not bring himself to move. He knew how to handle his present circumstances, was in full command of his day to day regime; to become emotionally involved with someone with whom he had nothing in common – other than the shared experience of the strange phenomenon – would only lead to mutual hurt. He told himself that she had survived very well without him until now, and would continue to do so in the future. It would be kinder to both himself and to Lucy if he left well alone.

The next day he lost himself in the novel proposal. He was pleased to find that, come five, he had outlined half a dozen chapters with hardly a thought for the girl.

He worked hard for the next few days, managing to banish Lucy from his thoughts and in so doing keeping a reign on the complex emotions of resentment and self-loathing. He expected to see her on the odd occasions when he ventured out for food, and experienced relief when he arrived home without having had the expected encounter. He avoided his customary evening strolls, a small price to pay for the reinstatement of the emotional status quo he had enjoyed for the past few years.

He completed the outline one week after his meeting with Lucy, printed out the manuscript and posted it off to Selwyn. For the rest of the day he sat in his study and read through his note-books, looking for something that might spur his imagination. All the ideas seemed half-baked and unimaginative. He considered what Selwyn had suggested, that he concentrate on larger projects, topics closer to his heart.

He decided to ring Selwyn. He would talk an idea over with him, a literary novel about a man who wakes up one morning to find that the entire human race is invisible... Perhaps if he could not confront himself honestly through the medium of a relationship with another person, then he might come to some catharsis of his soul through the one medium of communication that he did understand: that of the novel.

Or he could always ask Selwyn to find him more hackwork.

He tapped Selwyn's number into his phone and waited. He heard the amplified click of the receiver being lifted at the other end – and then silence. He spoke, saying his name. "Hello? Hello – Selwyn? Can you hear me?"

Silence. He tried to get through again, and again the same response. He wondered if there was something wrong with his phone. He tried getting through to BT complaints, with no luck.

He decided to use the phone at the newsagents on the corner. He gathered his stick, his dark glasses, and left the house. He turned left down the street, heading towards the row of shops.

He moved slowly, sweeping his stick in a swift arc before him. Someone collided with him, almost knocking him off his feet. "I'm sorry," he began. "Please excuse me."

He expected some response, either an apology or a curse. He heard nothing, and set off again. He was approaching the newsagents when he collided with someone for the second time. "I'm awfully sorry," he said. Again his apology was greeted with silence. Sweating, hardly daring to dwell on what might be happening, he pushed into the shop. He saw, before the counter, a floating, rolled newspaper and a packet of crisps. He cocked his head to catch the sound of voices, but there was no sound whatsoever. The paper and the crisps levitated, and before Miller could move the invisible customer turned and stepped into him. The crisps and the paper fell to the floor. The door whipped open. Miller imagined the customer fleeing in fright at the experience of bumping into something invisible... He opened the door and hurried home, keeping to the gutter to lessen his chances of bumping into people who could no longer see him.

He arrived home without mishap, seated himself in the chair before the window, and wept.

~

During the long hours of the afternoon he tried to work out where this latest development left him in the scheme of things. He could hear and see no-one, and no-one could hear or see him. He could no longer carry out the simplest transaction with his fellow human beings. If he wished to feed himself, then he would be reduced to stealing food. If he continued to write for a living, then he could only contact Selwyn through written communication.

He wondered how long he would be able to exist like this.

At six, Miller left the house and made his way to the heath. He collided with perhaps a dozen people on the way, and slowed his walk so that he would lessen the chance of injury to himself and others.

There was no sign of Lucy on the heath. He examined the grass before the bench on the hill, looking for the tell-tale sign of trampling that would indicate that the seat was occupied.

He sat down, wondering whether he really wanted the girl to show herself.

As the sun set and a cooling wind eddied around him, Miller considered the possibility of ending his life. It was a solution he had considered from time to time before – but his life had never seemed
worth
taking, had never been that terrible to warrant bringing it to a sudden and irrevocable end. And now? That which had sustained him over the years, the unvarying and reassuring routine, was shattered. He was pitched into the traumatic territory of the unknown, and he did not know if he would be able to cope.

"Hello," a voice said behind him. "Thought you might turn up, if I waited long enough."