The Day is Full of Birds

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

Also by Huckleberry Hax: AFK Be right back Just so that you know My Avatars and I

https://sites.google.com/site/huckleberryhax http://stores.lulu.com/store.php?fAcctID=1606163

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

by HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

Copyright Š 2008 by Huckleberry Hax All rights reserved This paperback edition published in 2010 (Version 1.2) Huckleberry H. Hax is hereby identified as author of this work in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 Published by www.lulu.com Cover design by Huckleberry H. Hax 'The day is full of birds' is a lyric from 'Prelude' by Kate Bush; from the album 'Aerial', to which this novel was written.

My thanks to Scarlett.

This novel was written using Open Office, the free office suite.

Download your copy from www.openoffice.org

https://sites.google.com/site/huckleberryhax

For Colleen.

pulling out the papers from the drawers that slide smooth tugging at the darkness, word upon word confessing all the secret things in the warm velvet box to the priest - he's the doctor he can handle the shocks dreaming of the tenderness - the tremble in the hips of kissing Mary's lips Mercy Street – Peter Gabriel

Prologue

It was the little details he remembered most of all. The little details of her hair and its colour, and the way she pushed it back off her face. The little details of her mouth and eyes, and their synchronization. The little details of her little movements.

He remembered the small noises she would put between her words when she was trying to think of what she meant and how best to word it. How her head would dip and her right hand rise, and how her eyes would open.

He remembered the laugh she used when she knew exactly what you were about to say; and how she would time it just so, so that you knew that she knew and you no longer had to say it.

Most of all he remembered the movements they had shared, those brief, fleeting moments inside each other's bubble of personal space. That time when they had bumped into each other quite by accident and she'd had to hold on to his elbow to catch her balance. The pub in Mount Edgecombe, when they'd been squeezed up the six

11

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

of them on a picnic table for four. The time when they'd kissed each other on the cheek at a New Year party, and she'd reached up and touched his other cheek quite spontaneously, quite by accident... and it had been like being touched by lightening. He remembered every tiny detail there was to recall about those occasions. Not consciously, not on demand; that would have been too good. They came to him mostly in his dreams.

Which always started at the same point.

Tuesday, October 11, 1988; outside the university library. One day after he met her.

12

One

You have no friends online at this time. Add someone today!

The sky was pink and purple and orange, and beneath it butterflies danced and crickets sang from hidden places.

And nearby water flowed softly over perfect stones, and exotic plants swayed to a breeze that would have caressed were it possible to feel it. It was not. But things that hovered hovered. And things that sparkled sparkled.

Three boxes of almost emptiness were lined up neatly across the bottom of Henry's interface; he fiddled with each of them minutely, making his adjustments to their size and position as though it was a matter of great and immediate importance. Each one he'd popped open with a hopeful entrĂŠe, hand picked from the collection he'd managed to acquire over the many months. Polite enquiries of all sorts and vagaries of each and every flavour; he knew them well, and the sorts of reply he could expect from them, and the approximate likelihoods that a reply might convert to a conversation that got large 13

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

enough to force a scroll bar, and that a scroller might itself convert to a friendship. And so on. A box for each of the best of the beauties standing near him; Henry was choosy in who he opened his conversations with, although he would never close down a message unsolicited without at least a few words of reply.

Three boxes. Three possibilities, but one already looking like it was going to max out at three lines. Not that Henry cared in the slightest; plate spinning had long ago ceased to interest him. Opening up private message boxes with a couple of the locals, however, was like standing in the middle of the mall in real life and making a phone call to your neighbour about the new postal guy; it just looked better than standing there by yourself, doing nothing. (True, the fatal flaw to this analogy was that noone actually knew that you were messaging, but somehow it just felt better all the same.) And it used up a bit of time whilst you waited for the call you actually wanted to receive.

He checked his friends list again, just in case.

Sometimes it got broken and people sneaked on without him noticing. In truth that hardly ever happened these days, but during the 'frontier period' it had been commonplace enough (so he understood). Reminding himself of this was Henry's own way of distracting himself from the fact of his own compulsiveness, except that it seemed to be working less and less.

Just out of interest, do you treat your men the same way you treat your apostrophes? There was a certain 14

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

type of avatar that this comment nearly always got a positive response from, and he was reasonably certain that the black-haired female with the monocle fell squarely within that category. She had a pretty face. He recognised the naturalistic shape as one of those made by Harlot. And, as it happened, he did get a reply from her, and it was one he could have worked with too; but just then was the moment that Amanda came online, and by the time he returned to Monocle's box a few minutes later she was long gone.

Standard opening, etc. The reply came eventually; each day the wait seemed to be longer. Pleasantries, and so on. Henry tried to keep it going, tried not to blab excessively, tried not to make his enquiries too hot on the heels of replies received; tried not to appear desperate for her attention. In a way, he guessed he was; but in so many other ways he really, really wasn't. This had been a friendship earned through nothing other than conversation; there was no shared work place or family or football team or drinking place at the bottom of this; no ongoing reason to keep things ticking over in the cause of making unavoidable social periods pass more agreeably.

As were all his friendships in the metaverse. Which was why he valued them so.

Amanda made nice comments, as invariably she always did. He knew in his heart already it was destined to become the usual broken conversation, vague suggestions of a meeting interspersed by long and lonely silences. Until it was time to log out. Sometimes, Henry 15

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

would long for log-out time to be upon him so that he could just go without it looking queer, without the need for funniness. Most of all he would want to be gone before that final flurry of text aspiring to regret and making next time promises and so on. It was all so awkward to respond to honestly. I need to leave this place, he thought suddenly. It's not as though I do anything of any purpose or value in here any more. If all that I've become is a social burden to others, am I not grown up enough to swallow this whole and bow out with dignity? Wouldn't it be best for all if I just quietly slipped away?

It was hardly like it never happened. People did leave the metaverse. People who were bored. People who were worn out, emotionally. The deletion of your account wasn't taken quite as seriously by one's virtual friends as real life suicide, but in some respects the comparison wasn't totally invalid. Henry had known someone who had left once. She had not been all that close a friend. Dimly, he recalled an anonymous dance one evening, leading to details being exchanged. He'd attended her wedding. He'd taken her out once or twice following her divorce. Probably, they had messaged each other a handful of times in addition to that, and that was about it. He'd attended her farewell do all the same, more out of curiosity than anything else. Her reasons for leaving were heartbreak (nothing to do with the failed marriage, but the affair which had followed the affair which had followed). Henry had heard that long, drawn 16

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

out parties with emotional farewells were often followed a week later by the dearly departed having a miraculous change of heart and returning to the metaverse in revitalised form. This particular gathering had not been such an affair. The departing had turned up, said a swift goodbye and left, cutting several tearful responses off mid-sentence. Henry approved. If you were going to leave, leave. If it came to it, that was how he would do it too. Not that he really believed any more that anyone would turn up to any farewell event he held.

But wasn't return in the end inevitable? Didn't those who were part of the growing revolution know that leaving was only a short-term option? Wasn't it as well to learn how to survive here now, whilst the storm was still quiet? Every day, the numbers online were greater than the day before. Every day, the virtual world established its presence in the real world in a new way.

Novelty avatars on cheap key drives to be found in breakfast cereal packets (movie tie-ins, naturally).

Serious outfits and accessories by real life designers, given away on disks in the Sunday broadsheets (not yet the tabloids, who had yet to find a single thing good to say about the metaverse – or, at least, a rich enough metaversian advertiser).

A weekly TV broadcast dedicated to virtual news events. And so on. The metaverse was just beginning to get big.

What else was there to do for interaction which didn't involve having to leave the house (and who knew how much longer that would be possible, in any case)? Where 17

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

else was there to turn to for information except the web and its dry, impersonal 'pages'? What else was there for escapism, other than literature and video, and the lack of interaction in both of those dusty old places was frankly intolerable. To those who knew, at least.

Henry made a suggestion and waited. It was more of a hint. It got missed. In fact, for three minutes and fortytwo seconds it didn't get any sort of a reply whatsoever.

Did she spend that time thinking up a reply that made it look like she missed what I was really asking? he thought. Jesus, Henry, will you listen to yourself? Can you hear how paranoid you’re becoming?

I can't bear this, Henry thought. These people don't know what to do with me. I will not burden them like this. It embarrasses us all.

And yet, what a mystery. The point at which things had slipped was nowhere to be seen, however hard he looked.

Henry thought, I am so alone. Perhaps there is a reason that I deserve it. He decided that the next day would be his last in the metaverse. He didn't know why it was important he had that extra time, since he intended to leave quietly. Except there was one thing to do remaining, and it had to be done tomorrow.

Henry told his wife, "I'm going to quit the metaverse."

"Good," she replied, without hesitation. "You spend too much time in that place."

18

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

"It's just not the same in there any more."

"If you say so." She bit a huge chunk out of an apple.

"Perhaps now you'll spend some time with that son of yours."

Henry often wondered why she said the things she said. She knew as well as he did he only entered the metaverse after Tom had gone to bed. Mostly.

"I told you about my friends in there, right?"

She scowled. "Can you see I'm trying to watch something here?"

"Can you hear I'm trying to tell something here?"

"Fine. Tell." Her eyes remained on the screen.

As it always did, the desire to tell departed. Henry slumped on the bed beside her and picked up a magazine.

"What's the latest on the talks?"

"I thought you wanted to talk about your metafriends."

"I guess it's not going to interest you."

"Whatever, Henry. Just don't you go with that I never listen bullshit."

"I suppose I don't fit in there quite as well as I thought I did."

"You don't fit in anywhere, Henry. You don't make the effort. Did you turn the heat off?"

"I did that just now."

"You did remember you've got to take Tom swimming tomorrow night, right?"

"I told you before, it'll depend on what time I get away from briefing."

"You want him to miss his first lesson in the new 19

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

band?" she spat, venom instantly in her voice. Henry sometimes wondered what would happen if he said yes to that sort of question one day. He looked at her and she looked right back at him, their noses just a few small centimetres apart. In another world, he thought, we might kiss now. But not this one.

"I can't control-" "Of course you can; you get up, you make your apologies and you leave. It's a shop, for Christ's sake; it's not like you're some sort of hostage negotiator."

Henry took a deep breath.

"Actually, there’s something I've been meaning to tell you,” he started.

“Redmond says he needs to talk to me about my figures.

That's partly what the meeting's about, I gather. I'm not hitting my targets. It would seem."

She did the whole stunned-stupified thing. He had known she would. "What? What? Now you're telling me this? Are you about to get fired - is that what you're trying to say?"

"I'm not about to get fired. It's just it's an important meeting.”

She actually pointed the remote at the television set and muted it. All drama, he thought; if she was actually that shocked she'd turn it off. "You see, this is the problem that you and I have, Henry. You never tell me a fucking thing until you absolutely have to."

"I didn't want you to worry."

"No, Henry, you just couldn't be arsed." And part of Henry thought to himself, she's right; she's absolutely 20

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

right. And meanwhile the other part thought, so what if she is? What positive thing could possibly come from telling her this sort of stuff? What would be the purpose?

What would be the consequence other than things just getting always a hundred times worse? Was honesty worth that sort of hassle?

The TV screen flashed.

Henry welcomed the opportunity to look at it, the moon with a bright smudge over the Sea of Shadows, a ripple moving outwards. He took the remote control from her - she relinquished it without a fight - and turned on the sound. "Those Goddamned Soviets," he said. "They promised they'd put a hold on all of that."

"It's a recording," she snapped, knowing he was trying to change the subject. "Look at the date."

"Right." The voiceover mentioned hightened tensions and an analyst speculated on Johnson's intentions. "I sure hope that guy knows what he's doing," Henry said when a picture came up of the President - the one they usually used, the one with the watery smile and the gaze full of numbers.

"I sure hope you know what you're doing, Henry," she snapped back. "Never mind the fucking television, why don't you try thinking about something important, for a change? Your family, Henry." She snapped off her bedside light and turned over, giving him her back to look at.

All the world's a backdrop to your own personal drama, he thought, and wondered what she'd be like 21

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

when/if the moment came. She would most probably cry like a baby; he hoped that Thomas wouldn't have to see it.

Henry woke in the night when his son called out. He found Thomas sitting up in bed, red cheeked, confused, his pyjamas soaked through with sweat. "It's not what I want!" he wimpered. Henry poured pink medicine into the little plastic spoon and asked his boy to elaborate. He always asked for dream details, they made such good ammunition in the morning. Tom swallowed down the pink and held out his arms so Henry could pull the wet top off. He gazed out of the window at the moon and asked suddenly, "Daddy, what does 'nuclear' mean?"

Henry felt his throat tighten. He slid the dry top over the seven-year-old's head. The boy was just at the age where you could start glimpsing the future adult in him, the demise of the innocent child. "It means powerful, Bubs," he replied.

"Is our car nuclear?"

Henry laughed. "Not all powerful things are nuclear things. Not all cars are powerful."

Thomas rubbed his eyes and settled back down in bed.

He watched his father in the glow of the bed lamp. Henry saw consciousness depart well before the eyelids shut; it was like watching the flame going out at the end of a wick.

22

Two

Henry turned up early at the Cornwall Street store the next day, hoping to make a good impression. He got the urn switched on within the first minute, left a copy of the Herald on the staffroom table in the spot where Redmond liked to sit. He turned on all the sets, tuning them to three; the 'offer of the week set' got left on the analogue signal because the one second time delay made it stand out more. He decided to sweep up out front, and when he'd finished that and it didn't look like any work had been done he left the broom standing against the door so he could retrieve it when Redmond arrived and asked what it was doing there. He turned on that dreadful karaoke machine and tested the microphone with a few lines from Finnegans Wake. He decided not to dust; it would be as noticeable as the sweeping. With minutes to go, he remembered the sale sign that had caused such consternation yesterday when a particularly tall customer had walked into it. Its re-hanging, he decided, would be the activity his boss walked in on and he ran to the 23

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

cleaning cupboard for the step ladder. Whilst he was moving the Multivac out to make space, Redmond entered. He was carrying the broom and muttering about company property being left just lying around for people to help themselves.

“Did you fix that sign yet?” were his first words to Henry. “It's been pissing me off all night, thinking about it. If that guy should sue us we won't have a fucking leg left to stand on. I want it raised by five inches. And I want everything dusted. Jesus Christ, just look at this place. We've got the new Munits coming in today and this place has to look spotless.”

Henry made his first sale at nine twenty, a high resolution disk player which was about to have its price slashed to make way for its successor (which was more metallic); the guy was back in less than an hour, saying his wife had talked him out of it. “She told me we should be spending money on tinned food if we have it to spare.

Do you think things are really that bad?” Henry refunded the money and talked all the while about the talks making good progress (Redmond insisted that his salesmen always took an optimistic view of such proceedings). “It comes to something when most people are expecting the talks to make things worse rather than better,” the guy said. “It makes you wonder why they don't just stay at home.”

“It's not the in-between parts what are the status quo, my friend,” George called across from Whites, always one to jump in to current affairs discussions. “Everyone 24

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

knows the talks always go badly, but when they're over they have to start preparing for the next lot; it's that we should be grateful for.”

During his morning break, George came over to Henry and talked about the moon tests until there was no-one else in the little staff room. He moved mugs to one side of the formica-topped table and leaned across. "Listen, Henry," he said abruptly, "am I right in thinking you can read and write Russian? And speak it?"

Henry's initial reaction was shock that this man knew the first thing about his personal details. "Good God, George; that was years ago!” he said. “And I only studied it to A-level."

"You got a good grade, though? That has to count for something, don't you think?"

"Did I ever mention this to you? I don't remember that I did." Henry hoped suddenly that he wasn't about to get branded a communist. Perhaps that was what this was all about. He got up so he could pretend to be interested in something in his locker, turned his back to George so his face would not be visible. Henry hated it when his face could be seen whilst people were asking him awkward questions. For the same reason, he was hoping he would be able to pretend to study something in his meeting at the end of the day with Redmond; a performance sheet or something. Why aren't you selling more stuff, Henry?

He had yet to decide on the external factor he would be naming in response to that question.

"Sure you did.” George did one of those ear-to-ear 25

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

grins that everyone was convinced was the true secret of his sales figures. “I distinctly remember it. We was in the Golden Horn at the time; you were making your way through a packet of pickled onion Monster Munch what Lisa from communications couldn't finish on account of her pregnancy. Listen; what are you doing after work tonight?”

“Redmond wants to see me last thing.” said Henry, who had never been in the Golden Horn in his life (and did not especially want to start). “I think he's going to talk to me about targets. I've been down the last three months running.”

George said, “Shit. I forgot he had his beady little eye on you.” Hearing it put that way was such great comfort.

“You know, you work hard, Henry; you don't deserve to cop flak from him up there like this. I heard his own sales were rubbish when he worked in Kent. The usual story – promote incompetence to get it out of the way.

You know what it is you need to do? It's all about convincing the customer you're desperate for him to be with the thing what you're selling. Make them believe you're in love with the idea of them sitting at home all happy with their new Matsoibishu. Tell Redmond you and I have a mentoring deal. Show him you're taking matters seriously.”

“Why is it important that I speak Russian?” Henry said.

George looked at his watch. “You're metaversian, right? I heard you telling a customer the other day.”

26

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

“Don't you go expecting me to tell you my nick,” said Henry, guardedly.

“Don't you worry about that.” George reached across and picked up the Herald from the spot where Henry had left it, opened it at the Sudoko, took a pen from his pocket.

“Did you see the new Munit yet?” he said, starting his little scribblings in the margin. “We've got four of them little beauties coming in today. I imagine it's your department they'll be coming in to.”

Henry view was that he was unimpressed by all the hype surrounding them. “I saw them talking about it on some TV programme my wife was watching,” he said.

“It's just the metaverse in a television set. What's so special about that?”

“Mainstream, my friend. Metaverse for the masses.

The significance ain't nowhere to be found in its technology. Mind you, you should see some of the 3D stuff they have on the horizon. All worked out by motion detectors, they tell me; it's blooming incredible. Remind me to get you a ticket up to the next expo; it's about time you got to do one of them. You and me could go together as part of our mentoring deal.”

Henry had no desire whatsoever to be mentored by George, but if there was the chance that it might get Redmond off his back it would be worth considering.

But his wife would have issues with the nights away for the exposition. “Why is it important that I speak Russian?” he said again.

George swung his legs off the table, stood up, came up 27

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

close behind him at the lockers and lowered his voice.

“Listen, Henry; what I heard is that they reckon the Soviets have their own metaverse, all to themselves. Did you hear anything about that? It's all highly unofficial, like; I can trust a respecting citizen like you, can't I?” “To tell you the truth, I'm thinking of leaving the metaverse,” Henry said, hoping that would shut the conversation down.

“Leaving? Now? Dear Lord, man, things are only just starting to get interesting in there; why on Earth would you want to leave? Don't you be telling me you had a bust up with someone and got your heart all broken – you, an upstanding husband of the wife and kiddy! I refuse to believe it! Have you been being naughty in there, dear Henry? Is there something you'd like to get off your chest? Not that it's any of my business – or, indeed, of any actual interest if I'm to be grindingly honest about it – but you do know your mentor is always here for you, should you need to talk.”

Henry said, “You're not my mentor. Why is it important that I speak Russian?”

The latest song by Jessica Taverner came onto the radio on the table in the corner – an old black thing with knobs and switches from the eighties; the closest Philip Redmond would ever come to achieving irony. Henry had listened to the tune several times now, and had started looking forward to hearing it.

28

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

Do we imagine things could never be another way?

Do we remember things we wished we'd had the strength to say?

George noted Henry's eyes flicking across to the radio, and then he saw the glance shift to the wall, to the calendar, where the days were crossed off in red when targets had not been met. “Do I sense a day of significance is upon us?” he said, his big grin returning.

“Is that regret I do detect?”

“She died,” Henry said, hoping that would be that.

“That's... a tragedy.” He looked genuinely sorry.

“It was a long time ago.”

“Now see here, Henry – if I can take that as my cue to resume my intended line of enquiry – these problems we've been having with our sovietic brothers – call them tensions, if you will – I can't help but think the direction they'd headed for is a nasty one. Call me weak stomached if you must, but the sight of a twenty megaton warhead creating its very own crater on the moon is a spectacle I find more than a mite disturbing. One's walk home from the pub at night should be illuminated by the sodium glow, the headlights of approaching vehicles and natural celestial phenomena – and nothing else.”

“They're just trying to scare us. They want to show us that what they've got works.”

“It's not really the why that concerns me, my friend; it's the ifs and the whens, and my view that the former 29

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

appears to be rapidly turning into the latter.”

Henry said, “We can't show them we're weak, George; you know what they're like. We have to show them we won't be bullied. They'll walk all over us if we don't” “Now look here, Henry; what with you being a father and that I'd rather hoped you'd take a somewhat different view of the presenting predicament. Wouldn't it be better if our efforts to resolve this frankly uncomfortable situation were expended in the direction of making friends with these distant cousins of ours, rather than the current preoccupation with the speed with which we can destroy each other? On the issue of bullying, I'll readily wag my finger as disapprovingly as the next man, but I just can't help feel something a little more conciliatory is called for when faced with total destruction of all life in a smidgen under fourteen minutes.”

Henry said, “Why is it important that I speak Russian?”

George returned his voice to a whisper. “Because, my friend, what I heard is that the Soviets have their very own metaverse. And that might be important. And that's all I'm going to say, except tell Redmond you've asked me to mentor you. And get out of that meeting early.

And come and find me in the Golden Horn.”

The Munits arrived at one, just as Henry was stepping out for lunch at Barney's. He glanced back through the window and saw Redmond watching him leaving, 30

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

walking past the truck whilst the tailgate was lowered with the first box ready. I can't do a damned thing to please that man, he thought. If I go back in there now to help he'll know it's because I saw him glaring. He wondered if he was being an idiot, and thought about his daily sandwich and the walk he always took to get it.

Henry liked routine. But he decided to cut his losses and grab something from the newsagent six doors down. He was back in the shop in less than five minutes, with a limp egg mayonnaise made yesterday and a box of juice to wash it away with. Redmond had the packaging off the display model already. He was wearing the excited look he always got when hypeware finally arrived.

Henry was instantly glad he'd come back and actually observed the smile broaden when the man looked up and saw Henry standing there.

“Couldn't keep away, eh, Henry? Good for you, that man!”

“Are you a metaversian, Phil?” Henry said, choosing his words very carefully.

But not carefully enough. “A metaversian? What in God's name is that? A metaversian? Don't tell me you're signed up with all this kind of thing? A married man with a boy at school?” The smile had instantly disappeared. “For God's sake, Henry; just because we sell ovens doesn't mean you're expected to learn how to cook.”

Henry held up the leaflet that had attracted his eye, a miniturised version of the promotional surround for the 31

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

display model. Are you a metaversian? The tagline was emblazoned across the top in large white capitals. He actually managed a smile completely devoid of smugness, though he sure made up for the deficit in his thoughts.

“My dear boy, I'm so sorry.” Redmond looked quite aghast at his mistake; now Henry was pleased more than ever at his lunch decision. “I can be most dreadfully judgemental at times, I do apologise.”

“It's quite alright, Phil. These things are something of a mystery to me, actually. Is it some sort of cross between a television and a computer?”

“Something like that, I gather. I'm afraid it will be up to you to work it out. There's an instruction chip in with the delivery note I think. I have the regional briefing at three and I'm expected in Exeter by seven if I'm to make Clare's recital on time.”

“Oh?” Henry felt his heart skip. “Is our meeting going to be a problem then?”

“Ah yes; I'm glad you reminded me about that.”

Redmond had found the mains cable and darted behind the counter for the box of spare plugs. Instantly, his voice became muffled.

“I hear you've been talking things over with young George.” Henry moved quickly towards the counter, hoping he didn't miss vital words or an important question. “I gather you've taken it upon yourself to ask him for some guidance in your sales. Now look, Henry, that young man's a flowerful chap, I do realise that; Lord 32

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

knows I have to stop and think a while sometimes to work out what on Earth he's going on about; but by Christ does he know how to shift a washing machine. And I mean does he. I've seen him sell a Roycone once – complete with five year extended warranty and a twelve month supply of descaling tablets – to a couple that only came looking for a new plug for their kettle.” He reappeared with a plug in his hand and set about opening it up. “So if you're going to him for advice, Henry, I have to say I'm impressed by that. The focus of our discussion was going to be the view you take of your own performance; hearing that you've asked a skilled colleague for advice leads me to wonder if it's a discussion we need to have after all. I think we can cancel our discussion, for now.”

“Thanks Phil. That's good feedback to receive.”

Redmond seemed particularly pleased with that remark.

It was couched in exactly the sort of language he liked to hear from his employees. Henry enjoyed the smile across his manager's face and wished there was a way this interaction could finish right now, before he got the chance to mess it all up again. As if by magic, the phone rang.

33

Three

Before leaving the store, Henry had spent a minute in the staff room examining today's date and wishing that the Taverner song could have been on. Now, in The Golden Horn, he was little more than a stone's throw from where he had met her that day. He wondered if he might be able to see the spot from the front of the pub and got cross with himself for not having checked before entering.

This (and that other place) were locations he avoided just as much as he could for 364 days a year, but on October 11 he could not help but stand and look.

The air inside was thick, visible layers of cigarette smoke floated between the heads of men and the yellowed ceiling. The moment he stepped in, Henry knew his cover story - that his time had been spent in the office with Redmond - wouldn't stand a chance once she got within ten feet of him. He decided to go for something closer to the truth: George had been allocated to him as a mentor in the meeting and he'd insisted on a friendly pint to kick-start the process. It would be seen as 34

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

evidence of his unassertiveness, of course, but it didn't leave him with nothing. He'd be able to counter-claim he'd refused beer and insisted on cola. He could also say that George had wanted to make a whole evening of it. It wasn't great, but it would do.

George and a man with a square face and thick glasses were huddled at a table in the furthest corner. Henry made his way awkwardly over, trying not to touch anybody en route. He stopped at the bar to order cola, thereby circumventing the issue of beer. The television showed the two presidents outside the White House walking over to a helicopter. The caption read, 'Talks move to Camp David.' Henry didn't know if that was a good thing or not, and then he remembered a similar thing had happened in March, when they had moved to Zavidovo. Henry thought, Is this whole thing just an excuse for two guys to go out into the country and be left alone? Do they spend their time shooting Grouse and fishing, and making jokes about what the world believes they're capable of doing to us all? It's the perfect cover.

No-one will ever trouble them because we just want them to Do The Right Thing. Never has the world wanted so much for two guys to just get along and be friends.

Henry stood at the bar for a moment and let himself take in the thoughts and sensations that this context provoked. He thought of a time in a club four months short of twenty years ago, he remembered spilled lager seeping through his jacket at the elbow and watching her reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

35

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

George introduced his companion as 'Yanceman'.

“Henry here has just become my mentee, Yance; soon he'll be just as good as I am in the art of finding loving homes for domestic electronic appliances.” Yanceman nodded slightly in the general direction of Henry's waist and seemed to close in around his bitter. He reached inside his lumberjack shirt and pulled out a pouch of rolling tobacco.

“Yance was just telling me – with considerable cynicism, I should add – how the new Munit device is little more than a computer inside a television set. Like you, I'm afraid, the larger ramifications have escaped him entirely.” He leaned across the table and bellowed, “Big Picture, Yance!” In shock, the square faced man dropped his rolling paper in his beer. He fixed George in a cold stare and said, “You fuck!”

“Delightful! Delightful! What masterly grasp of the King's vernacular he has! Two whole words, Henry, and in your first minute of his acquaintance too.”

“So,” said Henry, he pulled a stool over to the table so he wouldn't have to sit next to either of them. “Tell me about the Russian metaverse and why it's so important.”

The clock on the wall said five thirty; right about now Thomas would have been starting his swimming lesson.

He hoped his boy wasn't too disappointed.

“It's a simple enough idea, Henry; not beyond the wit of man to grasp. Imagine, if you will, a world in which everyone knows each other. Now. How much of the current predicament in world affairs, would you say, has 36

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

arisen from the simple fact that them there Ruskies ain't never set eyes on an honest-to-goodness Yorkshireman and likewise us for the other?”

“We think we can make a gate to their metaverse,” said Yanceman.

“Such fanciful metaphor, Yanceman, so passionately spoken; uttered from your lips like that the very best gate I can conjure is of the old and rust and squeak variety.

The sort of gate what you open at the bottom of your grandmother's garden path, only without the flowers growing through the cracks nearby. Is it beyond the realms of possibility that you might imbue such monumental statements with some semblance of their magnificence?”

“We could send someone from our metaverse into theirs,” Yanceman continued, flatly. “And vice versa.”

“We?” said Henry, “who is we?”

“Let's not beat about the bush here, Henry. The 'we' is me, Yance and the considerably large number of other participants, too numerous to mention, from hither and thither across the very face of this planet. And who would prefer to remain nameless, in any case. For obvious reasons. The someone, of course, is you.”

“Me?” Henry exclaimed. “You find a place for me in this fantasy?”

“He doesn't believe us,” said Yanceman.

“Of course he doesn't believe us, Yance; we're not even started on our programme of convincement, are we?

He, like all too many others in our broken society, has 37

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

lost sight of the significant role a single man can play all by himself and without the intervention of governments, corporate quangos and Manchester United Football Club.

I wouldn't believe us neither based on what we've said so far. Especially based on what you've said. You see, Henry, this here little project ain't the brainchild of just me and my esteemed associate here; think of us, if it helps, as the local representatives of an international initiative the likes of what the world ain't never seen before. All done on a purely voluntary and unofficial basis. A monster of collaboration!"

"Like open source software," said Yanceman.

"Yance, Certain though I am that your analogy is approximately valid, it might be more helpful if you chose one what actually makes sense to the people you use it for." George leaned across and slapped the back of Yanceman's head.

"I know what open source software is," said Henry.

“In any case,” George continued, “it is an open source project, so claiming it to be like an open source project makes about as much sense as saying a peg's like a bit of wood. Do me a favour Yance and leave the selling to me.

"You see, Henry, them powers what be don't want us every day types mixing with the likes of Ivan Ivanovich for fear we might just discover he's not the nasty piece of work what he's been made out to be. The more invisible your sworn enemy is, the more scared you is at just the thought of him, yes? But what if someone were to arrange it so that, in the metaverse at least, you and he 38

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

could go round each other's virtual houses and enjoy watching the footy together?"

"I don't like football," George said, delaying to give himself more time to think up an excuse. He thought, So this is the price I have to pay for getting Redmond off my back for half an hour. What an idiot they must take me for. What an idiot I am. Well, I won't be talked into this.

For all I know it's a big stupid joke in any case. It would be just like George to set me up like that and then tell everyone for years to come all about how he made look a prick. He reckons he owns me now, and this is his way of telling me.

"Without wanting to appear judgemental on the astonishing issue of you denying yourself the pleasure of the beautiful game, may I respectfully point out that you're attempting to de-rail my enthusiasm with attention to quite irrelevant detail, Henry.� George lit a cigar of some description and puffed smoke in Yanceman's direction. “Rather than resorting to diversionary tactics like this, why not put the panic on hold for a moment and hear us out. It might be some small comfort to know, perhaps, that we have no intention of pressing you to a decision in the right here and now this evening."

"Fine," said Henry, his heart beating at an impossible speed. "But why me? What can I possibly bring to such a hair-brained scheme?" His tongue sounded like it was being peeled from the roof of his mouth with each syllable articulated. He took a sip of his drink and wondered why he hadn't said something before the 39

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

barman had added that slice of lemon. It made him look weak.

“I should have thought that was obvious, Henry. I mean, programmers we have many, but Russian speakers? Do you know how hard they are to come by?

Why did you study it, incidentally?”

“My mother made me. And I hated every damned minute of it. And, by the way, I've never actually spoken Russian to a Russian. Still interested?”

“Henry, my lad, it's not like you've been recommended. Don't imagine our expectations are all that high. As a matter of fact, you're not the only person what's been asked to do this; if the whole world's survival hinged solely on your ability to pass yourself off in the motherland itself as a bona fide, born and bred Ruskie then I agree we'd be looking at a relatively desperate situation, but all we need from you is a bit of advance information, and there are other guys out there lined up to do it besides you.”

“Then why do you need me?” Henry looked at the clock again and tried to calculate an exit time. Was ten minutes from now achievable? Would it have to be twenty? How persistent was this idiot going to be?

Would he really let him leave without a definite answer?

Henry thought to himself, All I have to do is give him something non-committal this evening. Next time he asks me here I'll say I have other commitments at home.

I'll tell him Thomas is poorly and needs me. Henry felt instantly guilty about that thought. No. He would not 40

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

say that. He would not involve his son in his lies. In fact, why lie about it in the first place? I shall just tell him I'm not interested when I come in to work tomorrow, he thought. Perhaps I'll tell him my computer is faulty.

“The more the merrier, Henry! Sovietsville ain't a small place, I'll have you know. At the time when we open the public gates we'll need to know where all the popular destinations are and what exactly all the Ivanonviches get up to in their online time. We'll need to know what days are the most popular and what their server tolerances are. We can't have the invasion force turning up only to find out everyone's logged off to watch the Eurovision Song Contest or that they've crashed the whole bleeding system.”

“Invasion force?!” Henry declared.

“Yes! We're going to take those reds when they least expect it! Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of social intercourse! Can you imagine it, Henry? Hundreds, maybe thousands of western avatars flooding into Sovietsville, armed with virtual chocolate, virtual stockings and, by Christ, the best dammed couples animations the capitalist world has to offer!”

“Our animations probably won't work over there,” Yanceman objected.

“FFS, Yance!” He said it 'eff eff ess'.

“They don't use the same movement protocols that we do. We'd have to translate, step-by-step, every single-” “I don't... give... a shit!” George made to smack him again and the square-faced guy winced.

41

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

“How do you two know each other?” Henry asked.

“Yance here is my metaversian partner. We spent a year and three months thinking each other to be our lesbian lover. What can I say, Henry? I'm naturally Domme.”

“I was the one who owned up first,” Yanceman said.

“Only because you had a guilty conscience.

Photographs of his twenty-something next door neighbour, he'd been sending me. Mind you, the fact that most of the pictures had been taken from an upstairs window through a crack in the curtains should have alerted me to the possibility that something wasn't entirely straight and honest. Ah, how the eager mind is so easily deceived!”

“And you stayed friends? And you met up in real life?”

“Well I had to, didn't I?” George said. “I wanted to meet his next door neighbour!”

“She's married,” Yanceman said, flatly.

“Semantics, Yance,” said George. “I've told you before, they only serve to confuse people.”

“Listen,” said Henry, “you can't be serious about an invasion. The Soviets would just shut the system down.

Just as soon as you'd got in there you'd be out again.”

“Not something you need to worry about, my lad; we have people working on things like that. D-Day ain't going to be for a while just yet. We've got plans to be drawn and troops to amass and fake boats to build over in Dover. Although I have to say, judging by how things 42

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

are going,” George looked across the bar at the television, where they were replaying already the footage of the two presidents walking across the Whitehouse lawn, “it couldn't come early enough.”

Henry thought about that for a moment, about how his own thoughts on the issue seemed to change according to who he was with. With his wife he was the pessimist, the foreseer of the great big end and, with it, the final collapse of her made up dignity; the last moment, in which he would see her witness her own true self, as he had seen her all these years. But then she was the type who never saw a picture larger than the immediate bubble surrounding her. It gave him a sense of satisfaction to argue the case outside of her box, whether he actually believed in it or not. With the likes of George, however, he would argue the sense of the strategy in play. He would give support for the presentation of strength to the Russians and talk about the importance of never appearing weak. He would probably mention eventually his Russian language credentials, because naturally this qualified him to make bold and sweeping statements on the condition of the Russian psyche (he could be pretty much relied upon to neglect to mention the bit about never speaking Russian to an actual Russian person).

With his son he played a much more simple deceit; with Thomas he just gave in to the great grand collusion of childhood, the notion that adults always know what they're doing. When stories like this came on the news he just pretended not to notice, and if it was Thomas who 43

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

brought it all to his attention he'd just wave it all away with a careless flick of his hand. Something for the politicians to deal with, Bubs. That's what we pay them to do. That's what they're good at. It's nothing for you to worry about.

“They'll sort something out,” said Henry. “They have to.” All of a sudden he felt a knot in the pit of his stomach, as though the examination of his own inconsistencies had revealed the future in all its sickening certainty and all its horrifying consequences. I say all these different things to all these different people essentially because I have no opinion of my own, he thought, and I have no actual facts on which to base one.

I say all these different things because in each case all I'm actually interested in is how to manage the conversation successfully. I say all these things just to try to win every time! Think, dammit! Think about it now! How will it be in the seconds we have between the flash and the heat?

How will I say goodbye to my son? How will I manage to live if I should survive and he should perish? How will I nurture him if we both should live, or should I be asking myself a different question altogether about that eventuality? And what should I leave for him if he is the only one to make it?

George supped long on his pint, all the while watching Henry carefully. He put the glass down, wiped his sleeve across his mouth and took a long draw on his cigar.

“Henry,” he said, “since I know you didn't mean those words for one moment, I'm going to spare you the ennui 44

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

of my counter-argument-” “In any case,” Henry snapped, “I never spoke Russian to a Russian before. What possible use could I be to you?”

“They don't have voice in their metaverse yet,” Yanceman said. “You won't have to speak.”

“As for the writing element,” George added, “I can't imagine Sovietsville is any different from our own metaverse, insofar as the larger chunk of it appears to be comprised of people what has about as much knowledge of spelling and grammar as I have of Rugby Union. Your struggles with the lingo will hardly be noticed so long as you keep your sentences short. In any case, you don't have to say a word if you don't want to. Just wander around, listen to conversations; eavesdrop, Henry: go to crowd—pulling events and see what sorts of things are being spoken about there. No-one will object to you just standing there and saying nothing. Who here suspects the silent avatar of anything nefarious? If someone messages you, you send them 'Busy' in reply. One word, Henry; that's all you need. It ain't like the virtual KGB is going to come along and slap you in irons and haul you to the local virtual depot for interrogation. Meantime, you can take as long as you need to get your bearings. It'll be a walk in the park for you, lad; and if it isn't then you can just quit, with no questions asked. Think about it. Think about the disaster to come and the bit you can play to avert it. Think about your lad and the future he deserves.”

45

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

"You say it could help avert disaster,” said Henry, “but what if you're wrong? What if it has the opposite effect?"

"We're not asking you to assassinate a head of state, Henry. Try to get some perspective here."

“I'll do it,” Henry said suddenly.

“Really?” George looked genuinely stunned. “You've left me speechless, Henry; that doesn't happen very often.

You do understand we don't need an answer from you now, don't you?”

“Of course I'll do it. Who wouldn't want the chance to do something like this? When do I start? What else do I need to know?” Henry studied the clock once more and decided he had time enough and more to finish this discussion, time enough to visit that spot on the way to his car; and on this occasion he would have something of note to say to it.

“The first bridge could be formed within the next few days,” Yanceman said.

“Let me give you some co-ordinates,” said George.

“We'll continue this conversation inworld tonight.

There's something you'll need to get along the way.”

“I thought you said you were going to quit that place,” his wife said later, hearing Henry's login from her spot in the living room.

“George is a metaversian,” Henry said. “we agreed to meet up.”

46

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

“So now he's going to be, like, your new best buddy, out here and in there? Fuck. I think I liked it better when you were about to be fired.”

You hate it so much that anyone might value me more than you do, Henry thought.

Before teleporting to the co-ordinates George had given him, Henry went to the most isolated sandbox he could find and flew up high to 500 metres. Piece by piece, he unpacked the scene he'd been working on, laying out all the bits around him on a builder's platform and then assembling them carefully together. Lovingly textured with photographs he'd taken over the last twelve months, the place he built was the virtual counterpart of the spot he'd visited by himself just ninety minutes earlier. The university library. The terrace. The entrance to the Students' Union. In the future, he planned to recreate all the interiors also. A ridiculous thing to spend time on, perhaps, but weren't they saying now that the metaverse could in the future be used to archive for historical purposes any buildings and towns and cities which had been bulldozed, refurbished or regenerated.

Or blown away, of course. The recent increase in prim allowances – now 1000 per 512 metre squared plot, a massive rise – still wouldn't be anything like the capacity such a project required, but things were always improving. Also, there was talk about flying machines the size of flies being used for the data collection part of the project. No prizes for guessing the purposes for which that technology had been originally developed.

47

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

Henry the man stood Hoppy the avatar with his back to the library entrance and shifted his view to first person.

He made the sky dark, just as it had been that moment.

Nine o'clock, it had been, or thereabouts. He looked across at the direction he would take – that is, which he had been taking. Not for the first time he wondered why he had walked that way, when his destination had been in another direction entirely.

The current theory he favoured was that he was new and hadn't yet learned his way around the city properly. It amused Henry that he had to concoct historical hypotheses about his own movements and behaviour.

I wonder what I was wearing that day, he thought. He gazed at the screen.

Stupid, really, to lay so much significance on this moment. They would have met in any case; they were on the same course, after all. And yet it shone so brightly, where memories of other occasions were vague and difficult to bring into focus. If I could go back, he would think to himself a hundred, a thousand times a year, it would be to this moment. He would change very little about it, except that he would make sure his first impression was a more assertive one. Technically, it hadn't been their actual introduction, but the meeting she'd referred to when he asked her how she knew his name – a meeting just the day before, in fact; the first lecture, with all its getting-into-pairs stuff – he had no recollection of, then or now. So she had known him and he hadn't known her, and that was the factor which had 48

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

made this moment magical. It would also be the only thing he would change about the moment if he ever got a second go at it.

Henry thought, I was all alone for the first time ever.

Nobody knew me, nobody cared; and then you stepped out of the shadows and said my name. Yes, they would have met again if they hadn't that evening; many times over in all probability. But would he have noticed her subsequently as he had noticed her that night? If I could go back, he would think to himself, I would make certain you felt special too, just the way you made me feel.

Because the sandbox got wiped every 24 hours, he decided he would leave the build there rather than face the hassle of desconstructing and deleting it all. He liked the idea of it existing whilst he was elsewhere.

“Hey there Hoppy.” The text salutation surprised him and he checked his radar.

Empty, but then he remembered the script restrictions in this particular sandbox. Hoppy spun around until he was facing a female avatar called Meg. “Hey Meg. I didn't see you there.” He zoomed in on her for a closer look. She was tall and plain, with newbie hair; but, when he checked her profile, he saw she was several months older in the metaverse than he was.

“This is a coincidence,” Meg said, “us meeting up again like this.”

“Did we meet before?” said Henry, certain that they hadn't; certain also he would have forgotten if they had.

“Well,” she said, “I did talk to you a little last night.

49

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

That pretty place with the stream and the butterflies?

You said hi, and then you went all silent. I supposed you were busy messaging.”

“Oh yes,” said Henry, “that's right, I was. Sorry.”

“Is this your place? Did you build it?”

“It's a model of a place near where I live,” Henry replied, wondering for a moment if it really was just coincidence her coming across him again like this.

“An interesting choice,” she said. “Why build this, and not something else?”

Henry wondered for a moment if that had been a disparaging remark. The inner cynic had awoken with a start at that comment, as though soaked suddenly with cold water. A range of ripostes concerning the originality of her own hair style were presented to him, all of which he chose to ignore; they didn't fit the context even slightly. But he did resent her walking into his moment of reflection, and from the exact same spot as Mary, relatively speaking.

These few minutes and the significance of their timing had been the focus of months of planning. It wasn't a moment he had intended to share with anyone, least of all a complete stranger. It was just something for him and his memories.

But then, here she was; in the same place, at the same time. Henry thought, Perhaps this is my opportunity to extend my moment of reflection. I will take her for a drink and her price for stepping into my little diorama will be to hear the story behind it.

Except that Meg didn't want to go for a drink. When 50

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

he suggested the idea there was a pause and then the message, “I don't think so. Not tonight.� Henry wondered, all of a sudden, if she thought he was trying to initiate something. For several seconds he tried to piece together in his mind a clarifying statement which didn't sound unintentionally sleazy, and failed. He remembered having the same problem with Mary and laughed at the monitor, delighted all of a sudden at his own social awkwardness and the beautiful irony it was steeped in.

From her spot in the living room, his wife sighed loudly.

There didn't seem to be anything else to say to Meg, so he typed in the co-ordinates he'd been given, bade her farewell and teleported out of there.

51

Four

Gob said, “Yance, your hog roast is obscuring my view of fair maiden yonder. And, BTW,” (he said it 'bee tee doubleyou'), “just the thought of that pig fat sizzling is turning my stomach. Is there something about this moment what requires it, and if so can it not be roasted elsewhere so I don't have to look at it?”

Yanceman moved the whole roast – fire and all – two metres to the right, just at the moment that Hoppy materialised in the place it had occupied. All at once, several of the hunters nearby descended on the spot. Gob switched quickly to voice.

“Steady on, chaps; if I'm not mistaken this here is one of our new linguist conscripts. Is that you, my mentee?”

“I'm sorry; I'm out of credits and the recharge system is down,” said Hoppy, “I couldn't get the clothes you told me about.”

“Then it's a good job I remembered those co-ordinates I gave you,” Gob said. “These fellows here can reveal a most inhospitable side to their characters when they 52

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

decide to take a disliking to you. Being Cornish, Map and Cairn over there just can't help themselves; the others, however, come from places what you would have thought was quite civilised and cultured. Just goes to show what has to be kicked out in order to keep a place harmonious.”

“Do you want me to go?” Hoppy asked. “Does this compromise your security?”

“Making statements like that in open chat threatens our security,” said Map. “The dress code is more of a shorthand than an absolute,” Gob said. “But one we take seriously, all the same. In the meantime, someone here must have a peasant's outfit for our guest, no?” Several were forthcoming. “And while you're about it, get his group membership sorted out and all.

“Pull up a log, Hoppy, and sit yourself down. We're waiting on one of our technical chaps, who'll update us on the current schedule.”

Hoppy put on the outfit and sat down. Presently, Gob rezzed a lute and started singing over voice.

A bunch of reprobates, are we Yet what we are a planning Afar afield it will be felt In dreams of such...

By means of much...

“Yance! What rhymes with 'planning'?”

53

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

“Damning,” said Yance, straight away.

“Idiot! That's an m, not an n; it's only half a rhyme.”

“Scamming!” shouted Map. A new man sits amongst our group The new land, he'll be strong in.

He brings us language; in return, We give to him belongin'.

A new avatar rezzed in over Yanceman's head and hovered there whilst its world filled out. Meanwhile, Henry cammed around the area beyond the immediate camp, taking in a castle, a forest, a market in the far corner selling period costume and weaponry. There were thirty-eight people currently in the region – not including the newcomer – with a small cluster of eight or so in the spot around Hoppy and another in the castle; the rest were dispersed in ones and twos across the region. “Are all the people in this region members of your group?” he messaged Gob in private.

“Yes, my lad,” came his reply. “But not all are members of *the* group. Conversely, we each belong to a number of other groups what have some members what are members and some members what aren't.”

Just then, Thomas awoke with a wail. Henry left the computer before Celia had a chance to respond, bounded up the stairs to his room, found him sitting up again, just like last night, his eyes welled up once more with tears.

"Bubs, you can't keep doing this."

54

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

"Daddy?" Thomas asked.

"Yes, Bubs?"

"Do they let you take your toys into heaven with you?" The further through the sentence he got, the more urgent, desperate, desolate the words became. By the time he'd reached the end, he could wait for the answer no more and his face crumpled as the sobs escaped him.

Henry blinked back sudden tears of his own and tried to laugh, like it was just another silly kid thing. He found, for a moment, that he couldn't speak.

"For God's sake, shut up and go to sleep!" Celia shouted from downstairs.

"Bubs," he managed to say, reaching out to stroke his boy's hair as he spoke, "why on Earth are you thinking about things like that?"

"Daddy?" he asked again.

"Yes, Bubs?"

"Will I have to go to heaven by myself?"

Henry said presently. "I wouldn't want that."

"Will you come with me if I have to go?"

"Yes, Bubs. For you, I will." He pushed the boy gently back down to his pillow. "I wouldn't want you to be by yourself. I wouldn't want to be here on my own without you."

"Thank you Daddy."

"Stop worrying; go to sleep."

He thought about Mary, again. He wondered how she 55

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

had felt, and if she had wanted at the end for someone to be going with her. He wished she could have said something.

There were no last words from Mary; if there were, they'd been said by the time he reached her. Henry had spent about a minute at her side before the life had slipped out of her eyes. “I love you,” he had said, but too late. When she died he saw that her skin changed colour around her mouth. Then he was sat there by himself, kneeling in a puddle and looking at something that wasn't there any more.

“What's it like, the Soviet metaverse?” Hoppy asked.

“Have you seen it?”

“No,” Yanceman replied. “Not directly. I have seen screen shots, though. It's quite different. The whole thing is different, from the code up. We thought at first it would just be a derivative of the FreshStart code – it's been open source for over a year now, after all. Or even pirated code from before that. But it's a totally different system. It's possible they clean roomed it, but there's stuff in there that's unlike anything ever written in the west. Really old-looking code snippets in places, like the way things used to be written in the eighties. Did you know they have their own operating system and everything over there? A state-owned GUI; imagine that.”

“Their PCs aren't compatible with ours?”

56

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

“Not even slightly. But we've had emulators that run on our machines for several years now.” They were talking on voice. Henry heard the sound of a tin being popped open. “Which are of no use to anyone,” Yanceman added, “except people wanting to see if their software will work on or with a real Russian machine.”

“If you can get hold of their operating system, surely you can get hold of their metaverse viewer to run on it?”

“That's exactly what we have done. It's just you need a pretty dammed fast machine to run it all on. Liquid nitrogen cooled, and all that. Cost you an arm and a leg.

Not a solution for the masses, therefore; nothing less than a direct interface between the two systems will work in practical terms when it comes to the invasion.

“Like I said, I have seen screen shots of their metaverse,” he continued. “It's difficult to describe.

They don't use textures anything like as much as we do. I imagine it's just more difficult for them, what with all the restrictions they say exist over there.

Taking photographs, and that. I did hear once that digital cameras are banned – do you know if that's true or not?”

“I have no idea,” Henry said.

“Maybe it's bollocks. Who knows? Well, that's the whole point, isn't it? We don't know at all. They could tell us they eat bullshit for breakfast and we'd just have to take their word for it. That's why this is so important."

"You think the government knows all this?" Henry asked. "I mean, stuff about how they are. How they live."

57

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

"The government knows nothing. It gets told stuff, but it doesn't understand a thing. How can it, anyway?

It's not actually an 'it' at all. It's a 'they.' We lump them into one and call them an 'it', like all those politicians and civil servants and council workers are the individual brain cells of one enormous brain, and they're not. They're nothing like that at all. We think that just because something's been written down and filed somewhere that's the same as it being remembered by a human being.

We think that the government being told something is just like telling some wise old man who incorporates it into his vast array of knowledge; comparing, contrasting, considering... Nothing; nothing could be further from the truth.

“It's all facts and no information. All dots and no picture. In any case, the government's only interested in things about people if that helps it know more things about weapons. What does it need with nuance? Big pictures only distract you from the bits you need to concentrate on, no?”

“You say it's not an it, then you revert back to speaking as though it's a single entity,” said Henry.

“It is a single entity, but only at the level of illusion.

Only at the level of construct. It's the same for companies. It's the same for religion. The illusion of oneness, as opposed to the reality of mess.”

“You're more talkative in the metaverse than you are in real life,” said Henry.

“How do you know that's me you met in the real 58

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

world?” Yanceman replied.

“You mean, that was someone else?”

“Maybe. Maybe it was somewhen else.”

“That makes no sense whatsoever.”

“Don't let it bother you,” said Yanceman. “I'm a tech guy; we always work better in text, right?”

“Do you? Are you in text? I thought we were in voice.” Henry blinked at the screen, confused. Sure enough, there were the words in front of him.

“Don't let it bother you,” Yanceman reassured. “The metaverse can do that to you.

It sucks you in sometimes.”

“It's not like it's my first ever evening inworld,” Henry said, still disorientated. Even now, his own words were appearing as he spoke them. This could not be right.

He got up, walked around the room for a minute. He put the kettle on.

He came back. “If somebody from our side has used an emulator to enter into the Soviet metaverse,” Henry asked, “can't they at least model the Russian world?

Can't they show us what it looks like here in our own metaverse?”

“You mean like for training purposes?” said Yanceman. “Of course they could. But there might be Russian operatives in our metaverse who could see it; we don't want to alert them to the fact that we know what their world looks like.”

Henry felt goosebumps rising on his arms. “You think there are Russians in here spying on us?”

59

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

“Of course there are. And having meetings. I mean, this place is ideal, isn't it? And recruiting.”

“The KGB?” “Who else would it be?” Oh shit. Henry had never thought before about the possibility that he could be rubbing shoulders with KGB officers; the thought of it made him feel sick. He wondered how easy it was for someone skilled enough to extract real life information in the virtual world. He thought about Thomas. “Not necessarily guys logging in from Russia, mind,” Yanceman continued, “it's probably mostly western people they've recruited over here, watching us do stuff and reporting in. I've often wondered how many of them there are, and what their reports look like. Do they try to analyse the virtual stuff that people are buying, or are they more interested in groups? You know, it doesn't take much code to turn a simple prim into a listening device; perhaps a significant percentage of metaversian shopkeepers are actually undercover шпионов.”

“And so do the Russians understand our society any better than we understand theirs?” Henry asked.

“Just because they've got more people on the ground sending data upwards, that doesn't mean the top of their pyramid understands anything of any greater consequence,” Yanceman answered. “If you recruit a hundred idiots, how is that any better than ten good sets of eyes and a brain capable of incorporating distance?”

“Incorporating distance?” repeated Henry. “What do you mean by that?”

60

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

“The dispassionate view. The view from above. Did you know the word decide comes from the Latin to 'descend from the stars'?”

“No,” said Henry. “What has that to do with anything?”

“It means that implicit in the making of a good decision – any good decision – is the assumption that you've first ascended to the stars so that you can consider it properly. Did you know the word consider comes from the Latin to 'be with the stars'?”

“Are you making this up?”

Yanceman appeared to smile at the suggestion. “I like the way the words actually contain within them an understanding of our nature as human beings to act on things from our point of view only. It's like the past instructing the present.”

“That will never be heard,” said Henry, “so long as people take no trouble to become acquainted with the words they're using.”

“That's not the point,” said Yanceman. “The point is that they're there. Ideas can come and go. Politics and popular opinion can create false psychology until it sticks to the wall like cigarette stink, yet the very words they use to do so contain within them the whispers of reality; and that is a beautiful irony.”

Map came over and sat between them. Henry was glad of the distraction. “Fuckin' yet more to do,” said Map. “Not being funny, mate, but it's too easy for Gob to recruit sometimes. He doesn't realise how much time has 61

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

to go into processing newbies. Meanwhile, I'm coughing my guts up every morning, so that there won't be anything left to cough up soon.”

“Shut the fuck up, Map,” said Yanceman, surprising them both with this sudden aggression. “Henry you pay no attention to this dickhead. He needs to learn to think more before opening that mouth of his.”

“Alright, alright!” said Map. “I was just saying.”

“Say useful things or say nothing,” Yanceman snapped. It was as though Henry could see the exact expression of vitriol on his face. “You've been warned about this before.”

“Fuck you, Yance,” Map shot back at him. “Excuse me for allowing myself to become distracted by the fucking horror of my existence.” He spat in the fire, got to his feet and wondered off.

Henry thought, Did I just see him spit in the fire?

That can't be right. It must be some new animation. How clever, the speed with which he used it. Henry had encountered people like that just a couple of times before; their timing, their manipulation of animation and gesture almost flawless. But that was performance. It didn't feel like Map's exit was intended as something to be clapped at. “Is he ok?” he asked Yanceman, using private message.

“Don't worry about it, Henry,” Yanceman answered.

“Map's just an angry guy. In many ways, we all are here.

But some of us are really enjoying the view we have right now, and some of us can't bear that it's a window we can't 62

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

look out of for much longer.”

63

Five

En route to Barney's the next day, Henry spotted Joe, who he hadn't seen in several weeks, who he always ran into when he did at around about this spot at around about this time of the day. It didn't take a genius to factor into the causality chain the favours he always ended up asking.

Henry always spotted people he knew long before they spotted him. He made it his business. Not once, not ever had he been surprised by anyone. There was that time at the refuse centre, when he'd bumped into Redmond and his sack of grass cuttings, but that didn't count because the crap in the air at that place had set his hay fever off that day and his eyes had been streaming.

Henry knew just how to walk past someone and look exactly like he hadn't noticed them at all. At the same time, he could monitor them minutely in his peripheral vision.

He could spot the tiny movements that represented the initiation of a greeting and time a movement of his own to completely obscure it, like looking across the street just as a hand started to rise or 64

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

pulling out his mobile phone to study it like it had just made a confusing noise of some description. This kind of thing eliminated all but the most determined of approachers; if Henry feared determination he would cross the street straight away, just as soon as he had spotted them.

“Hey Henry! You headed to Barney's? You mind if I tag along?” Unfortunately, Joe fell into the determined category.

Halfway into his sandwich, fifteen minutes later, Joe said, “Are you still messing about with those old computers? I saw a guy last week with some sort of Pacman T-shirt.”

Henry finished up his egg and wiped the plate clean with his bread. And then he realised that Joe was done with his contribution to the conversation and waiting for a response. “On hold,” he replied. “I don't have the time right now.”

“Because of this 'metaverse' thing?” Joe clicked his tongue. “You tell me that place is a more sociable way to spend the time, but I'm not so sure about it. What the hell do you find in there that's so interesting?”

Henry thought, I should have crossed over the street as soon as I clocked him. Now he's going to bug me all the time that we sit here. Hell, for all I know he's got his own avatar and this is just his ploy to get my nick out of me.

Maybe he works for the Russians now! “Say, did you see the new theatre they're building in Well's Place?” he said, looking to see if Joe dodged the change of topic. For all I 65

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

know he's a woman in-world, he thought. That would be something.

“Of course I saw it,” said Joe, looking at Henry funny.

“They've been building that place for three months now.

Do you mean to say you spend so much time in that world of yours you only just noticed?”

Clever, Henry thought. It's good that I'm looking out for this kind of stuff. “You think we need a theatre?” he said, ignoring that last comment just like he did sometimes in the metaverse (where he could pretend he hadn't yet read it). “Who goes to the theatre these days?”

“Plenty of people go to the theatre. People who aren't all cooped up in front of their computers for starters,” Joe said.

“Did you know they do theatre in the metaverse?”

Henry said, trying a different tack.

“You mean like a bunch of pixels hanging around doing Hamlet?” Joe laughed and it sounded just like it always had, since he known him at secondary school, just like a donkey braying. That's it, thought Henry, next time I see this guy I'm crossing the street. And the time after that. But he said aloud, “Actually, yes. I did go to see exactly that. So did you ever see Hamlet in Real Life?"

"Not my cup of tea," Joe replied with a chuckle, but his tone indicated that the topic was concluded now.

Joe never did ask him for anything that day. Later on, in the afternoon, Henry's wife rang him at work, wondering how things were. Celia never rang Henry at work. Ever. Just to annoy her, he didn't mention Joe at 66

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

all.

Walking home that evening, Henry stopped to look in a shop window on Union Street. He examined what he could see in the reflection. There was something about the man walking about a hundred yards behind him. Was it his coat? Was it his hair? Henry felt sure he'd seen him somewhere before. He took a left down Durnford Street, just to see if he got followed. When he did, Henry decided he would take the ferry.

Maybe it was the glasses he wore. People wore that style a lot in the metaverse. Maybe that was where he knew him from. The Cremyll ferry came up to the end of the road; on board, the two men sat opposite each other out on deck. The day's light was dying. Henry half watched the man, thinking to himself, I mustn't speak to him. That's what he wants, after all. I shall sit here and look steadfastly over his left shoulder. I will not say a word.

The boat pulled itself slowly across the Tamar. Henry busied himself, pretending to look at things that were half in the distance and half in his thoughts. Important things.

He noticed that the guy with the glasses sat without moving. Henry shifted his gaze. Presently he looked back and saw that the man was gone. He had not seen him leave. So he looked at a photograph of Thomas for the remainder of the journey, uncertain as to what he was going to do when he got to the other side of the river, 67

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

other than catch the next ferry back.

As tyre pressed into tyre at the far end, he thought to himself, Am I stupid? Do I imagine this guy jumped overboard? Do I imagine that he vanished into thin air?

Of course he's still about. How can he not be? Henry stood back at the gang plank, being polite, letting others go before him. But the glasses guy was nowhere to be seen. Henry scanned the shore and saw him about a hundred yards away, sitting at one of the picnic tables outside of the Edgecombe Arms. As Henry watched, the man's sweater seemed to become blurred for a few seconds. It was getting dark. When he looked again, he was wearing a blue jacket motifed with something in large white capital letters. He looked closely. It said, Toys and Magazines.

His mobile rang. His wife. Henry told her he was on his way. He got off the boat and walked towards the pub as he talked, all the while keeping glasses guy in sight.

Finally he was at the table and looking right down on him. I'll call you back, he told her, knowing he would regret it. He sat down at the table and looked right at glasses guy. “You sure did get off that boat fast,” he told him. “For a moment there I was reckoning I'd have to jump into the Tamar to find you!”

Glasses guy said, “Do you think it's true what they say? About Virtusoft?”

“I don't know. What are they saying?”

“You didn't hear? They say the sex halls are to be banned. It could happen as early as next month.”

68

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

Henry shrugged. “So what in any case? No-one actually uses those places except the newbies. Mostly they're full of people just sitting around in hugs and yakking, and you don't need sex halls for that.”

“It's yet another freedom, friend. One by one they get taken away, just to make the metaverse mainstream. Are you telling me you don't have an alt who doesn't like to slap an enormous cock on every once in a while? There's freedom to be found in noobism. People expect less of you.”

Henry looked carefully at the man and saw no irony in the wrinkles round his mouth. He heard the ferry's engine opening up and watched it start to move slowly away from the jetty on its curtain of froth. When he looked back across the table, glasses guy was gone, but he caught a glimpse of blue disappearing around the corner of the building. Out the back, beyond the garden, he found himself at the start of a vast field of daffodils, and the guy was already half way across it, strolling at a steady speed. Daffodils, thought Henry, knowing there was something wrong about that, but unable to put his finger on it. He remembered this field. He had walked across it once with Mary.

Mary. He looked back at the pub, wondering if the table was still there on the inside, next to the food counter; he thought it was an absurd thing to wonder. He contemplated going in to see if she was there, just as he remembered her. Perhaps the others from that day might be in there too. He supposed he wouldn't mind that if 69

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

they were. It might actually make things easier. They could blend themselves into the banter. He'd be able to enjoy watching her talking again, how she laughed, how she giggled, how she wrinkled up her nose and shook her head from side to side and waved her hands up by her ears when something was dreadful beyond description. It would be good to sit there watching, waiting, not having to say things straight away, getting used to being with her again and looking forward to time alone with her at the end of it. They had a lot to catch up on. He would tell her about Celia. He would tell her about Thomas. He wondered how surprised she would be by it all. He wondered why he wondered that.

For a moment he had actually been there, sitting across the table from her, his pint glass in his hand. Now he was back in the field and glasses guy was gone. But he could hear his voice drifting back from atop the ridge. He was singing: Do we imagine things could never be another way?

Do we remember things we wished we'd had the strength to say?

Inexplicably, Henry set off after the voice, leaving the pub behind. It made no sense to him. Moments ago he had been wondering if Mary was there; now he was certain that she was and yet he was walking away. He told himself she would still be there when he got back, 70

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

but he knew deep down that something would happen to spoil that. It always did. He looked back one last time.

She was talking about her dog. She was talking about how he chased stuff. Henry wanted to stay, but instead he turned and walked across the field, waded through the daffodils, which slapped against his shins. At the far side he climbed the hill, up between the trees and beyond, to the ridge, where glasses guy was standing by himself, looking at the view to Saltash. He pointed. It could have been the bridge that he was indicating, but Henry knew it was the blast doors on the far side of it. “You do realise that all of this is wrong, don't you?” he said.

“What do you mean?” Henry replied.

“We shouldn't be here, Henry. There are things you should have done.” Henry turned to look at the man. In his glasses he saw the reflection of the sun bursting alive in the sky above them; spreading light; spreading death.

Henry woke, with a start, with his face on the keyboard.

The system unit was beeping at him. The text box on the screen was full of Zs. He wiped the drool from his mouth and looked at the screen, confused. He wondered how it was possible that he hadn't recognised glasses guy. Quite obviously, it had been Yanceman.

71

Six

Twice a year, Celia would slip across the Tamar to visit the Edgecombe Arms, where she would sit with a drink and wonder if Henry remembered that this was the place they had first met. Two times a year - once in the autumn, once in the spring (never in the winter, because everything then looked dead; never in the summer, because none of them had ever been here during that time of year) - she would sit at the table by the food counter where they had all sat together on that blustery day in November. Henry didn't know that she came here, and she would never tell him either. She knew he thought of this place as his, as special to him in a way it could never be to others, as the place where he had realised he was in love with Mary. He would resent knowing that she held had him in her heart here, just as he held someone else.

And she would resent him for resenting it. She was entitled to her maudlin.

Reminiscing was not an activity Celia was especially skilled in, especially when it came to the telling of 72

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

anecdotes in public and her tendency towards glamorous exaggeration whenever an audience was involved. Yet sitting here, near the fire, it was impossible not to go over the story in her mind as she remembered it, and she had come to realise over the years that sitting in stillness and thinking back on pleasant events could sometimes be a therapeutic thing to do, even when there was no-one around to witness it. They were brief, but inspiring moments, when they happened. They made her want to do reflective things, like start keeping a diary so that her future self had even better access to her mental past. But, on each occasion, and even before the return ferry had entered the Admiral's Hard, the present agendas in all their superficial complexity had tumbled back upon her.

It was as though she had left the ideas behind her, as though the Cornish air was unwilling to relinquish them, as though they were there on the shore watching her leave, waving, with tears in their eyes.

She remembered meeting Mary in the kitchen on her second day in halls and learning they were next door neighbours.

That was the first landmark.

She remembered that they talked into the night that evening about the city and the polytechnic, about their parents, about their boyfriends, and finally about Mary's brother.

She remembered the moment when she had wondered if Mary was about to cry and about not knowing what to do if she did. She had never had to comfort anyone like that before. But Mary hadn't needed comforting in the end, because she was strong like that, and they each had gone 73

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

to bed happy that the years ahead might not perhaps be as lonely as they had each feared they could be.

So it was her and Mary and Henry and three others from Mary's course who had come down to the ferry that day, about four weeks into the term. Henry had heard about it from some guy in a pub he was working in.

Mary had invited her. And that was the day that Celia had first met Henry. And that was the second landmark.

Mary had described Henry as "a guy on the course," but it was immediately apparent to Celia that, to Henry, Mary was a great deal more than just that. She noticed how he was always close to her. She noticed how he was often watching her, snatching quick glances when he thought no-one was watching him. She noticed how he looked away quickly when Mary looked at him, and how once he didn’t, and she knew he wasn’t going to because he’d gone quiet for a while beforehand like he was getting himself ready, determined to see something through. And there was that moment where he’d looked away when he didn’t have to, when nobody was looking at him except Celia, when Mary was talking about something small and silly, and it annoyed her that she couldn’t remember exactly what it was any more. It was something to do with her brother. It was a feeling she’d somehow put into words, something to do with how they’d been as young children together. Henry, who had a younger brother too, had looked suddenly away. He’d done it quietly, subtly, and he came back to the discussion as quickly as possible. She often wondered if 74

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

that was the precise moment that he knew.

It had been an odd day, a liberating day, a day of excitement and discovery. They would talk in months to come about the strangeness that morning of finding a ferry at the end of a road full of houses. They would talk about the stark contrast between the one place and the other, in clutter, in space, in nature, in grime; how a five minute ferry trip became the gateway from one world to another. But the real discovery for most of them that day had been their freedom and each other, and that a loosely connected collection of individuals were now a group, and by choice. A small day out had ended up becoming the first little bit of the big step into adulthood. And for her, and for Henry, that was true in more ways than one.

Out in the country park, standing around a cork oak, trying to decide with the others whether or not to venture a short distance along the coastal path for a bit, she had watched him opting out of the decision making process and kicking golden leaves into the air. Though she would never admit it to him now, it was that instant of seeing the child in him which had brought about her own look-away moment. It was an element of his character which was now well and truly dead, revived only occasionally in his play with Thomas; and a man acting like a kid was absolutely the last thing her son needed right now. Henry had been vibrant then, alive; but now he was just another boring man, and occasionally an idiotic one.

It shocked her to hear such thoughts suddenly so clear in her mind. Was that really how she felt? Celia looked 75

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

around the inside of the pub a little nervously, as though worried someone might have overheard the words as they had formed inside her head. Did it matter, she thought to herself, if they had? Would it be such a crime to speak them out loud? To shout them out? To scream them? To take the barman by his lapels and force the words upon him? Would anyone here really care?

A guy at the food counter smiled at her as her eyes passed by. Celia looked hurriedly back into her drink and tried to think of other things. She thought about the blustery day again. She thought about watching Henry on the boat back into town, how at peace he had appeared. That time when he had looked at Mary across the table, Mary hadn't looked away; ever since that moment Henry had been less on edge, more relaxed.

Smiling more. You don't know what I know, Celia had thought. You'll never have her, Henry. You can't. It's not possible.

And knowing that had brought about a vulnerability to him in her eyes. Which made him attractive to her in a way she'd never known before. All of sudden, she remembered how intently she had watched him during the crossing back, getting up and sitting next to him at one point so she could look at his hands up close.

Pretending to look at the city's approach off the starboard bow, she had leaned forward at one point, resting her chin on her hands above the rail, so his own hands were just inches away from her eyes. However good or bad a person was, her mother had always told her, their 76

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

humanity could always be found in their hands. She watched his fingers, how they moved. She had watched the tiny hairs on the back of his hand.

Celia had waited for the inevitable; in fact, the wait was longer than she had reckoned it would be. It had ended up taking Henry a whole extra month before he finally found the courage to ask Mary out. In those days, that length of time had been both an eternity and yet no time at all. Celia had felt that the sooner it was done and out of the way the better. Mary told her about it within the hour, biting her lip as she talked it through. A wet and windy moment on the corner of Drake Circus and Gibbon Lane had been the setting; an appalling choice on Henry's part; yes, it was getting close to the end of term but there was no excuse for poor judgement like that!

Mary made out the whole thing was all a big surprise.

Perhaps it was at that. She said she hoped Henry wasn't too disappointed. Celia had told her she was sure he understood.

Of course he hadn't understood; he was a man, a young man at that, with a head full of na誰vety and stupid ideas. In the absence of a significant competitor, he had thought it was just a question of finding a way to win her over in the end. Idiot. It had taken him another three years to notice what had been in front of him all that time, and it had been so much more than just three years' worth of ordinary days. In the end, Henry had had no choice but to grow up, and quickly.

She remembered where she had been when she heard 77

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

the news about Mary. She remembered stupid little things about that moment, like the copy of Carlson open across her lap that she'd been revising from. Like the big red lever arch on the floor next to her and its busted rings.

Like the biscuit crumbs around it.

She'd known something was wrong from the way Martin had come in through the front door and run up the stairs. It had made her chest feel suddenly tight. By the time he was in her doorway she already had her hands to her mouth.

That had been in May, 1989. She and Henry had got together in December 1991, at graduation. She'd half expected him to stay away from the ceremony – a third class degree was hardly something to celebrate when you'd joined the course expecting to get a first – but it turned out that Henry's soul had been searching for something – anything – to hold onto in the intervening months since the end of the third year. He’d come hoping to find her somehow; in their faces, in their words. After a fashion, finally, his gaze had come to rest on her.

Fuck him. He wasn't the only one who had loved her.

He wasn't the only man who had seen his dreams taken away, right in front of him. It wasn't even as though they were reasonable dreams for him to have had. Mary had never – not once – given him any reason to suppose that they were. He had no right to them. They were not his.

Even so, here they were now, with fifteen years of marriage accumulated and a seven year old son, and she knew dammed well those dreams were still there inside him, still filling his thoughts when his gaze went 78

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

wondering. Even in her death, he kept his hope for her alive. It was pathetic. Thomas had been four when she had understood at last that some things would never change. It had been the walk in on his very first day at school. Thomas had been holding his father's hand and Henry had been just looking at him. “What are you looking at, Daddy?” And Henry had just grinned and said nothing. And Celia had known exactly what he had been thinking. It was almost as though she could look inside his mind and see the scales.

Celia sighed and thought about lighting up a cigarette.

Clearly, today was not going to be one of those positive reflection moments. Just then, the man who she had noticed standing at the food counter earlier came suddenly over and sat himself down in the seat opposite, plonking himself down like a bag of shopping thrown down in exhaustion. When she looked at him in surprise he did a grin that stretched from ear to ear. “I do hope you don't mind me taking this here seat,” he told her. “I naturally wouldn't want to upset a woman of culture and learning, like what you obviously is. It's just that you looked like a sort of a lonesome character, all there by yourself, and I'm drawn to give company to such characters. It's kind of an affliction what I have.”

Celia found herself smiling back at him, eagerly. The day was yet young.

Henry was cross that George had left it until the last 79

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

minute to phone in sick. Redmond was at a conference and Tina had the accessories inventory to complete. He hated selling whites. On the plus side, covering both departments usually did his quota some good, but few things really compensated for having to sell someone a washing machine. George was gifted when it came to bending people to his way of seeing things, especially customers who were female. He got a text from Celia telling him to pick Thomas up from the child minder.

She was out with Tracey, buying stuff. Again.

In fact, it was a slow day. Henry fiddled with the display Munit a little, looking at the setup options whilst a young couple investigated microwaves. The shelf Munits had gone in the first two days, but they'd been told not to sell the display item. More stock was coming and they didn't want the merchandising area to suffer.

Henry contemplated logging on, there and then, just to see if George was on. The couple moved on to the kettles. You lucky pair, he thought; George would have had you in the extended warranty negotiations by now, for the fridge freezer you'd had no intention of buying.

The news came on. Twenty-seven televisions conveyed the Russians government's message that extending the talks would not put back the date for resumption of the moon tests. But there was no official word from Camp David. No news was good news, right?

He flicked the Munit over to the login screen. It occurred to him that if George was on, he could always do the sale from within the metaverse. He wondered how 80

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

the couple would take to that, being sold domestic goods by an avatar.

What the hell. He pulled out the slide-in keyboard and tapped in his details. Hoppy's house filled in around his greyed out avatar; he had to admit it looked pretty good at this size and resolution, much better than he would have imagined. There was a team of four avatars in his house, building kiosk shaped devices; Henry had forgotten he was having work done. The intention was that the invasion would be a two way affair - just as westerners would be able to step foot inside the Soviet metaverse, so too would Russians be able to bring their AVs into the western world. In fact, the more Russians they could smuggle out the better, that way if the whole Soviet metaverse got shut down they would still have some Russians left to play with. Everyone involved with the initiative who owned land had been asked for some of it to be donated for use as a welcome area. The only real work for the moment was the installation of information access points, which would dispense notecards about aspects of western virtual life in Russian. Henry had already started compiling the notes, along with two other 'scouts' he'd been introduced to who would be doing the same job as him once 'the door was opened'. “Is that your place?� The male half of the couple had managed to escape a re-evaluation of the microwaves and sidled over to just behind Henry. Henry supposed it didn't really matter if this guy saw Hoppy up there on the big screen, in his apartment of orange stripes from the 81

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

1970s. As it happened, his camera was following someone else at that moment anyway, a rather attractive scripter who he'd managed to convince last night he was eager to learn about inter-object communication. He had asked her if she didn't mind spending some time teaching him.

“Yeah,” said Henry, wanting to point out the authentic detail of his home made Staples furniture, but managing to restrain himself. Not the time or place.

“Nice place,” the guy said.

“Thanks.”

“Reminds me of the pad I had before I bought my first island.”

You might have an island, but I bet you wish you were a spy like me, thought Henry.

“What are those guys doing?”

“They're just some friends. I asked them to do some scripting for me.”

“Yeah, I don't bother with scripting myself either. Get someone in to get it done. I used to sell textures. Things like concrete facias and brickwork. I made tile sets that you could use in combination so that you don't get those repeating patterns. Useful for big builds.”

“Oh yes,” said Henry, “I think I heard about them.”

“Sold it all on, mate. Made a packet. Some of the new welcome hubs are being made now with the texture packs I made. I put the money I made into real estate and rentals. Once you get above a certain amount of land the money just starts printing itself. Everyone wants a place.

82

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

Now the prim allowances have gone up, there are some sweet looking builds out there.”

Henry looked at him. “So you must be one of these metaverse millionaires they keep talking about.”

“Not quite, mate; but it won't be long! The stuff we buy in this shop here today will be with money that was metacredits not 24 hours ago. I bought the house it'll all be going into from the same pot and all. And our twenty grand wedding next month. All in all, nearly 150 Ks, accumulated in just over a year, and that's without touching the money I need to keep the machinery going.”

Henry looked at the fiancée, who was sizing up an AClass Roycone. He sensed a profitable day was on the cards.

“And can you guess where the wife came from?” the man said, looking smug.

“Really?” Henry said.

“Yep. I mean, she had the most amazing avatar, but can you imagine the smile on my face when I saw what she looked like in RL? Re-sult! Ha ha ha.”

“How did you meet?” Henry asked, innocently.

“The official story is something to do with a gig somewhere, I think. Oh yes – an eighties revival band playing out of Europe, she says it was. Apparently the drummer was in Sweden and the vocalist in France. In fact, the lead guitarist was on a train travelling between Paris and Vienna. That's the story, at least. I ain't saying nothing mate.”

Henry laughed. “So you two are the first metaversian 83

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

couple I've served,” he said. “At least, that I'm aware off.”

“I expect you've had others, and if you haven't, we're the first of many to come.”

“People are often embarrassed to admit it. There's still a lot of stigma.”

“Not me. I'm not embarrassed. I don't give a shit about the stigma, me. You should see how the smiles of men vanish when I tell them how much money I'm earning in there. Can't sign themselves up fast enough then, can they? All this from a few photographs I once took of some brick walls. Fuck. You couldn't make that sort of stuff up.”

“But then,” said Henry, “that's why people show up inworld asking to be shown where all the money is, isn't it?

They hear about people like you and think it must be easy.”

“Not my problem, mate. And not my problem the daft-as-fuck ideas they come up with, either. If they can't get their heads around the concept that you have to have a product or service that people actually want in order to make money – real world or virtual world – then they deserve all the losses they make. I mean. 'Business in a box.' What kind of prick came up with that one?”

“I understand shoes is a good business to go into,” Henry commented.

“Yeah, she understands that one and all. From the point of view of the customer, that is.” He caught his fiancée's eye and sent her a winning smile. She grinned 84

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

back and started pointing frantically at the deluxe model in front of her. “One day it's Baroque quality shoes you're buying them, the next it's top of the range domestic appliances. Mind you, you can't really complain about the guys who come for the money; after all, they end up becoming your customers. Once they're in they're in, yes? Companies like FreshStart ® ought to be paying me for all the free advertising I give them.”

A thought occurred to Henry. “What if there was a second metaverse?” he said. “A communist metaverse.

How would it work? I mean economically?”

“You mean the Sovietsville theory, right? I don't know about that idea. Maybe it exists.”

“You don't think it does?”

“Ok.” This was clearly a well-practised speech.

“Personally, I think it's bollocks. It makes no sense.

Why would the Ruskies invent such a place? What purpose would it serve? All we hear about is how 'oppressed the Russian people are' and now we're supposed to believe they have their own metaverse, where they can meet freely and discuss last night's phonein show on Radio Free Europe? How can that be true?

How? The metaverse makes sense in the west because it makes money. End of story. It's the only way something makes mainstream. If you wanted to set up something state funded to promote social community then fine, but I hardly think that's something the commies would do, do you?”

“Maybe it exists just because the west have it?” Henry 85

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

said. “Maybe they don't want to be bettered by us.”

“We're not talking about something nice and easy like the moon landings here. This would involve giving a lot of people freedom they've never had before. Communist states generally don't like doing that sort of thing.”

“They could police it.”

“Why implement something that's not needed in the first place and then pay out even more to police it?”

Henry thought, You're wrong; I'm sure you are.

“I'm probably wrong,” he said. “What the fuck do I know? Maybe everything they told us about them isn't true. Maybe they're more advanced than we are. Maybe the new money from all the oil has turned them into capitalists and its just that the Politburo haven't been told about it yet.”

“Would you sell to them,” asked Henry, “if you could?”

“Without hesitation. And so would you, if all of this...” he gestured the interior of the shop, “...were yours.

A customer is a customer. There's no greater leveller than that. You know what would be good? If there really was a second metaverse? Make a bridge between ours and theirs. So long as they could bring hard money with them. I could make a fucking fortune. Do they have credit cards in Russia? They must have electronic money transfer, of some description, right? What the hell – even if they didn't they would find a way to make money. The girls especially, if you know what I mean. Did you know I do rentals by the hour? Who notices 50 metacredits 86

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

when you're being fucked by a fantasy? In five hours I've made the same money my other properties earn me in a week.

“By the way,” he said, looking at the Munit screen.

“You appear to be receiving messages from someone.”

Henry turned and saw the message box flashing. It was probably one of the workers asking him something.

It could wait. He frowned at the screen, thinking he needed to talk to George about what this guy was saying, and soon. Had he been blind? Had he been stupid? Was this what it was actually all about? So would you, if all of this were yours... Was George, the master salesman, just about pulling off a sale that would be his? He realised he knew nothing about what Gob did in his online time, when he wasn't sitting around medieval camp fires and making up songs to play his lute to. It was something he had to find out about, and fast. Why had it never occurred to him to consider that a master salesman in real life might aim to utilise his talents in the metaverse also?

He dismissed the private message, without looking at it, and shut down the session there and then.

“So,” said the metaverse nearly-millionaire, “perhaps now is the moment to negotiate the discount you can offer me if I tell you we're starting up a kitchen from scratch and it ain't an especially small space we have to fill.”

Henry recovered his composure, fixed a smile on his face, turned back to face the man and took out his pocket calculator. On the plus side, George's store record was 87

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

history. “Naturally, I take it you'll be interested in the the five year extended warranty?” he began.

88

Seven

Henry logged on as soon as he had put Thomas to bed.

Celia and Tracey had decided to make an evening of it, apparently. The message had been waiting for him on the voice mail when the two of them had got in. Henry didn't mind. Evenings at home with his son, just the two of them, were always pleasant. They would listen to vinyl records from one of the boxes Henry kept under their bed.

Thomas found them fascinating. He would tell his friends he liked listening to his daddy's 'big black CDs.' Although this evening was different. Henry was on edge, just thinking about the questions he needed to ask George. And then he realised, part way through a playing of The Ninth Wave, that maybe he needed to do a little poking around before he had any conversations with Gob. If he was a virtual entrepreneur in the metaverse, it wouldn't be too hard to find that out, would it? Not that evidence of an online business was suggestive of anything else at all, not even remotely; still, at least he would have a broader picture of his new acquaintance's 89

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

(he couldn't quite yet bring himself to say 'friend') online footprint.

And then he thought, Shit. What if he does all of that stuff using an alt? And he didn't have the first idea how you could go about tracking an alt down, or even if it was actually possible in the first place. Was this a job for one of those online detectives you read about? Henry wondered how you went about finding someone reputable. He didn't want to end up with someone like that private investigator freak who had hit the news recently, the one who had murdered her business partner in real life, just so she could use his metaverse account as an alt.

As he logged in, a news box flashed up to inform residents that teleporting was down. That evoked a swear word from him. The next one came when he saw that Gob was not online yet. Hoppy paced up and down in his skybox and absently inspected the work done by the guys he had seen earlier. The access points were ready for the notecards. He checked to see if any of the other interpreters were online and contemplated setting up a chat session with one of them when he saw that they all were. He asked himself, why would so many people get involved in all of this if the scheme was just a moneymaker? Or had they been fooled, just like him?

Or, in fact, did they actually know, and they were just after their own cut of the money? Henry wondered if this might be made out to him as one of those capitalist-witha-conscience operations, an altruistic mission which just 90

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

happened to have money-making consequences. Byproduct. Buy stuff? Well, of course they'll want to buy stuff, Henry; wouldn't you? Nobody's forcing you to sell anything if you don't want to. Might as well make a credit or two if they're there to be made. That sort of thing. Perhaps, once he broached the subject, they would speak openly on the matter, maybe even express surprise at his own astonishment. If that was the case, it wouldn't be difficult to establish it. He opened a message box to the interpreter he had been working with last night on the transaction guidelines document. And yes, wasn't it interesting that this was the first topic they had looked at?

He hesitated. Don't rush into anything, Henry. He thought about it some more. He thought about talking it through with someone neutral. He looked at his 'old' friends list and saw that Amanda was on, but straight away he dismissed that idea. If this stuff turned out to be nasty, he didn't want to get her involved in it. Be honest, Henry, it's more than that. If this stuff turned out to be nasty, he didn't want to look stupid in front of her.

Don't rush into anything. Do something else to take your mind off it for a while. It wasn't like there was any immediate rush. He realised he hadn't yet checked his private messages and looked through his inbox. One message. Of course. It was the message that he had received when he had been in the store earlier.

Hey Hoppy, I'm sorry I turned you down for that drink last night. I just freeze up sometimes!

The words made the hairs on the back of his neck 91

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

stand up. His stomach went funny. He instantly stopped thinking about George and the (almost) metaverse millionaire and Sovietsville and capitalist verses communist issues. Because those were the exact same words that Mary had said to him on the second time he had seen her. And it wasn't like he could have recited them a moment before, it wasn't like he knew them off by heart or had them written down somewhere; but now they were before him he recognised them instantly. The scene popped right into his head. The second day of lectures.

Lunch. The queue. With some guy he'd met on the course who was into hifi. A touch on his arm, from his left. He had turned. Hey Henry, I'm sorry I turned you down for that drink last night. I just freeze up sometimes! He had replied, Oh that's ok. I mean, it was late. Far too presumptuous of me! Yes, those had been his exact words. He remembered now. He remembered cringing with embarrassment inwardly at that last sentence, which had made it sound like he really had been after far more than just a drink.

Straight away, he opened up a message box. “Hey,” he typed, “I'm sorry I wasn't able to reply to you earlier.

Are you still online?” And then he deleted the whole lot, paused, and typed instead: “Oh that's ok. I mean, it was late. Far too presumptuous of me!” He felt that embarrassed knot inside his stomach again, as he read over those last five words. It was like luxurious pain. He hit enter.

Whilst he waited, sanity returned. So what that she 92

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

had used the same words? What on Earth significance did he imagine that had? He tried to think back to that moment in the lunch queue. Who had spoken next?

What had they said? He remembered being acutely aware of the hifi guy next to him and the potential for credibility offered by the moment. That sentence, it had hung in the air; if he could have roped it back in again he would have done. But how did you issue a disclaimer without specifying what the disclaimer was against? “I mean,” he had said eventually, after several very long seconds, “to ask you out for a drink after less than a minute's worth of conversation.” She had smiled, and Henry had wanted to collapse with relief.

“Anyway, it was very rude of me,” she had said.

“No it wasn't. Not at all. Really.” A natural finish point had then come upon the topic. Any more denials and his delay tactics would have been obvious. He had looked behind her at that point, to search for her presumed companion. There had been no-one with her that he had recognised. “Are you... in the queue there?”

“Oh, my friend is waiting for me, she already got food.” Mary had pointed to a table under the glass pyramid. Which, incidentally, was the first time that Henry had laid eyes on Celia. He didn't look at her for long. “I just wanted to, you know, say sorry.”

“Well the offer's still open,” Henry had said quickly.

“I mean, if you'd like to.”

“Sure.” She had smiled, headed over to Celia, glanced back and smiled once more, but only briefly.

93

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

That's right. He remembered now. It was the learning experience which had taught him a vital lesson in life: always set a date when you have an in-principle agreement.

In his skybox, Henry waited for Meg's reply. There was no auto-text, so her computer was definitely online.

Either that or it wasn't just the teleporting that was broken. He waited, enjoying the silly anticipation.

Gradually, his thoughts started to drift back towards George and other current affairs. He switched on the television and put it on the news channel. The talks were over, it said. Apparently, they had ended abruptly. An 'unresolvable disagreement'. The Russian president was returning to Moscow. Live pictures from Dulles showed him marching onto his personal Tupolev without so much as a backward glance. Meanwhile, shaky, long distance footage of Johnson, shot twenty minutes earlier by some cameraman up a tree somewhere, showed the American president standing by himself on a terrace, leaning against a balustrade and looking out across the lake; his hands were interlinked as though in prayer. The sight of him like that made Henry feel sick. You stupid man, he thought. You idiot.

His computer beeped at him. Meg's reply. “So is the offer still open?” she asked.

Goosebumps. He forgot about Camp David. You're being ridiculous, he told himself.

“I'd offer to take you somewhere right now if wasn't for teleporting being down,” he said back, deciding it was 94

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

time to break from the script.

“Are you on the mainland? We could always meet up somewhere?”

“Yes. I live in Lordshill,” Henry replied, feeling the tips of his fingers go cold as his heartbeat raced. “It's a region in the southeast corner of Hydrogen.

“Ok. Well I'm currently in Copper, but I'm not far from the bridge. How about we meet up in Juniper?

That's not too far from you.”

Henry found the region on the main map, it was twelve sims away, only a couple of minutes if he flew, providing the lag wasn't too bad.

“It's a date,” he replied, immediately thinking he shouldn't have put it quite like that, because it wasn't like they were organising a date, not really, not as such...

Despite himself, Henry smiled; it was good feeling like he was eighteen again.

After ten minutes of fiddling around frantically with his clothes, Henry finally decided on a brown suit with a flexi tie (that often seemed to disappear into his midriff), minus the jacket, which he thought looked too much like it was painted on him. He stepped out onto his terrace and took off into the air without further ado. And promptly fell 500 metres to the ground below.

He spotted several other avatars falling, plummeting, their arms waving helplessly in the air around them. One had an automatic parachute fitted, which deployed, which 95

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

Henry found immensely funny for some reason. On the ground, he picked himself up and wandered over to one of the others.

“What was all that about?” he asked. “Is there something wrong with flight?”

“Didn't you hear?” she replied, “flight's gone down across the whole metaverse. It's a bug. They say they're working on it.”

“That'll be that for the next month, then.”

“Yes! They should watch out they don't go the way of Parallel Life!”

Henry agreed, not really knowing what she was talking about. That had all been before his virtual time; some metaverse company that had gone bankrupt when Virtuosoft had launched its new, competitor product.

Theirs had been the pioneer platform that had started the whole thing off, and the big boys at Virtuosoft had seized upon the inevitable slowing of momentum that had left residents frustrated and angry, and waiting for a competitor. Lawsuits had followed. In fact, it was the high profile court case that, ironically, had attracted the numbers into the new metaverse needed to make it a viable mainstream product. That was when Henry had first heard about it all too.

He set off across the grassy terrain in the direction of Juniper, trying to avoid the occasional avatar falling from the sky. At this speed the twelve sims would take a while to cross. He reached the region boundary and found a great hole in the ground, a large lake where Lime should 96

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

have been. The detour would add still more time. He wondered about sending her a message, worried that it would sound like he was delaying for the sake of something else, like he was with someone. Presumably she was in a similar predicament, however. He didn't know why, but it felt important to him he should leave nothing to chance. And everyone appreciated an update.

“I can't fly,” he wrote, “and one of the sims I need to cross has crashed. This might take a while.”

“It's happening all over,” she replied a minute or so later. “I literally had just got across the bridge when the region behind me went down. It was like the whole structure just disappeared into the water.”

“What do you think is going on?” he said, annoyed that he had to stop walking to type, wondering why someone hadn't invented an 'autowalk' feature like an autopilot on a plane, making a mental resolve to send the suggestion to Virtuosoft the next day. They held a monthly draw for good suggestions. The current prize was a Munit.

“It's just the system. You know how it is.” And then they both kept a silence, presumably for the same reason.

And then Amanda came on. And within two minutes she was sending him messages. And Henry replied to a couple, torn between chatting with an old friend he hadn't spoken to properly for ages and completing what was starting to feel like a mission.

“Well I won't bother you any more,” she said eventually, and Henry felt a sinking feeling inside him.

97

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

Sometimes he just didn't know what to do.

Why am I doing this? He thought. Why am I spending my time on this, like it's some sort of stupid pilgrimage?

Why am I blowing off my best friend? Who is this stranger that I'm doing this for? Am I nuts?

But he knew there was no way he wasn't going to see this walk through; the resonance was just too great. And there was only one more sim to cross, a heavily industrialised region, damage enabled. He used his mini map to help him avoid any clusters of people. The last thing he wanted now was to get 'killed' by someone and end up back in his house again. He kept off the main streets. He moved as quickly as he could. Just for extra safety, he rezzed the only weapon he had ever bothered to acquire – a gun that fired extra large pizzas (it had whiled away an enjoyable half hour once with Amanda). He hoped he wouldn't have to use it, more for the sake of his pride than anything else.

He was literally metres away from the region border.

He took the next right turn, followed the street to the end, where he found... water. His heart sank. Juniper was down. The sim must have crashed; most probably it had taken Meg with it and she was now offline, unable to get back on, because that was the way things worked when you were off and badly needed to get back on again.

Your account will be available again in X minutes, where X exceeds the absolute maximum time you're able to wait.

Henry sighed.

That was when he saw the ferry approaching.

98

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

No way. Henry's heart seemed to just stop beating. He felt himself go cold. An amusing coincidence had suddenly become scary. He watched the ferry approach.

It was a good build; highly detailed. It left a frothy wake behind it.

“Are you still coming?” The message flashed up at the bottom of Henry's screen.

He typed in, slowly, “Yes. I'm at the sim border.

Where are you?”

“I'm on the north side of the river. You'll have to take the ferry. Or walk under the water! I'll meet you at the jetty.”

The boat came right up to the edge; right up to the asphalt road surface. Hoppy jumped on and paid for his ticket. The driver asked him politely to put away his pizza gun. He complied. A seagull flew over and landed on the deck, which Henry thought was quite a marvellous piece of building/scripting until he realised it was in fact an avatar. The seagull started talking about how hard it was the make a living in the metaverse and after a while Henry paid it a few credits to shut it up for a bit. Then a thought occurred to him.

“Hey,” he said. “How come you can fly? I heard there was a bug.”

“Bug shmug,” said the seagull. “From what I can make out they've just turned flying off, the same way you can turn it off if you own your own sim and don't want people flying around in it. Not that I would know anything about the experience of owning my own sim.

99

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

Would I be hanging around over ferries if I could own my own sim? I would not. So don't you go thinking I privately own a sim and go begging just for the sake of it.

There. I've said it now: begging. Are you happy?”

“How are you flying? Henry asked again.

“Didn't you know?” the seagull said. “You can turn flight back on again in flight disabled places if you know the right key combinations. It's easy. It would appear those same key combinations are working today across the metaverse. The only problem is, you've got to do it every time you enter a new region. There isn't a bug. It's just that someone's turned flying off. Or there could be a bug that's turning flying off. Sounds too intentional to me to be a bug. Sounds too malicious.”

“What's the key combination?” asked Henry, thinking what a grand event it would be for him to fly the rest of the way and land before an astonished Meg. He paid the bird an even bigger tip.

“Hey thanks, mister. That'll keep me in worms for a bit.” The seagull told him the combination. Just then, the sound of the motors began to wane. Henry looked forward and saw a shore, and a jetty, and decided that the surprise flying could wait until later. And it occurred to him that he was only interested in such spectacle anyway because he assumed it meant he would have to work less on impressing her with actual words. And he knew that that wouldn't work with Meg. Well, didn't he?

Meg stood about halfway down the jetty, waiting for him. Henry felt his heart quicken a little on seeing her.

100

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

He felt like he had been longing to see her. He felt like they were being reunited after nature had conspired to keep them apart. He felt like a dream was coming true.

He felt like an idiot.

He cammed in on her, remembering suddenly her relatively drab attire and her newbie hair, how it sat on her head like a lump of badly moulded plasticine. That's a horrible thing to think. He wondered what he would say if she brought the subject of appearance up, whether he should avoid engaging too much with that line of enquiry if she did. If he said he didn't care, which he didn't, would she believe him? Was it simply the case that she didn't know yet how to achieve a different look?

Had she never bothered to find out? Had she never needed to find out? Was Meg one of those people who just made friends wherever she went, never having time for other things, never needing to think on ways in which she could make herself more noticeable? That would be just like Mary. Exactly like her, in fact.

Or was it just that she hardly ever came online? Or was it that she'd created this avatar ages ago, abandoned it, created another, led a whole virtual life with another man that had run its course, crumbled, failed, died, whatever; was she now resurrecting her former self, an avatar kept in the closet for a rainy day, for just in case?

Or could this be her play avatar? Was this who she became when the real virtual life got too serious, too bogged down in relationship angst and/or grief? Was this who she became for time off? For fantasy? Well that 101

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

wouldn't be just like Mary. Not even slightly. Or would it?

Stop comparing her to Mary. He wondered what her other metaverse skills were like. Did she understand camming? How good was her emoting? Did she have an animation overrider (it didn't look like it so far)? Did she get stuff like logging your private conversations so that the end of the last one you had popped up when you opened up a new chat window with them. Did she do voice? Did she do voice? Henry felt a shiver travel down his spine as he came upon that question.

Oh, to hear that voice again...

As usual, he told himself, he was taking things way to far ahead in his thoughts. They had exchanged no more than a handful of sentences, and already he was fast forwarding to topics he had no right to examine whatsoever. Henry felt confused. He asked himself again what in God's name he thought he was doing.

“Hey,” said Meg, in open chat. “You got here, at last!”

Hoppy jumped off the boat and walked towards her, feeling like he had no idea what to say to her now. In the distance, behind her, he could make out a pub. This was just too bizarre. And yet, they had never met up on the jetty before; that bit was different.

“Meg, you sure remind me of someone I used to know,” he said finally. He almost didn't say it, because he was worried that if he broached the subject then the bubble might burst somehow. Perhaps it would, in any 102

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

case, but this was all starting to make him feel distinctly uneasy. Best to get it out in the open. Besides, it was the only thing he could think about, and if he tried to talk about other things with this on his mind he would probably end up sounding like an idiot.

“Someone nice, I hope?” she said.

“Well, yes,” he said. “About the nicest person I ever knew, in fact.”

There was a pause. “Really?” she said. “Wow! What a strange thing to tell a person you've said about three things to so far!”

Shit. You're an idiot. She thought he was using a chat-up line.

“It's the circumstances,” he typed quickly, hoping it wouldn't sound like a retractor.

“Right,” she said. “What are the circumstances?”

“Meeting you here on the jetty, in front of a pub. And some of the things you said... the wording you used.” In its articulation, it sounded pathetic. Oh Henry, you idiot.

You stupid, stupid man.

“So... you met someone on a jetty somewhere before?”

“Actually, no...” Henry felt his cheeks burning as he sat in front of the monitor. Oh Christ oh Christ oh Christ. He looked round him, as though making certain no-one in real life was witnessing this humiliation. The reality check helped to bring him back a little. He took deep breaths.

“It doesn't matter. I can't describe it properly. It's more of a feeling than something I can properly 103

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

evidence.”

“I should probably go,” Meg said, after a pause. “I have to admit, this wasn't the kind of conversation I envisaged us having.

Maybe you're looking for somebody else. I just fancied a chat.”

Henry felt his vision blur, slightly, and then decided it would be better all around if he felt relieved instead. This was good. Better that something ridiculous like this was put a stop to now. It had been getting out of hand in any case.

“I understand,” he said. “I'm sorry. Perhaps it was a stupid thing for me to say. It's just that that is how it is.

You remind me of someone I used to know, and I liked her very very much. And I miss her more than it's possible to say. I suppose I look for things about her in people I haven't got to know yet properly. I'm really sorry.”

Meg seemed to be taking this in, he thought it was a good enough attempt at winning a reprieve, although he wasn't actually sure he wanted one, and certainly that wasn't why he had said it. But then she vanished, without any further comment, and Hoppy was by himself on the jetty. Straight away he felt like a complete idiot; if he could have cancelled his metaverse account there and then, he would have done so without a second's hesitation. He thought to himself, I'm a grown man and I'm letting this place seduce me like I'm a teenager. He reminded himself about the Russian metaverse, which was important work he needed to see through; but there 104

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

were questions about that which had to be asked and answered before he was completely certain he wasn't behaving like a total fool there also.

He sighed. He rubbed tears from his eyes. What were you thinking? he said to himself. What did you imagine was possible? What do you suppose you have which could be of any interest to her or anyone else in this place with a brain and self-respect?

After a fashion, he walked lethargically over to the pub, just to see, just for the sake of completeness, and found it to be nothing remotely like the Edgecombe Arms. They didn't even have a food counter.

105

Eight

“I want the truth,” Henry said in the staffroom the next day, “don't you even think about bullshitting me, George.

Is this whole thing just some sort of moneymaking scam?

Is that what you're really all about?”

“Why Henry!” said George, a look of consternation on his face, “You've come over all assertive! Whatever's happened to you? Did Henrietta give you a proper seeing to last night or something?”

“Just answer the question,” Henry demanded. His head hurt. He rubbed his temples. He felt like he'd lost her all over again. He hadn't wanted to come to work that morning; he'd wanted to stay in bed, just lie there, just look at the wall. Then Thomas had run into the room and jumped on him, and that had made things a little better.

“Don't you be telling me you're having second thoughts now, Henry. In fer a penny, in fer a pound; that's what we agreed, yes?”

George appeared unconcerned. He put his feet up on the table.

“I'm with you all the way, 'Gob', if it actually makes a 106

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

difference.” Henry searched his locker for Ibuprofen.

“My motivation is my little boy. I want to know what yours is. Is it just the chance to make some metacredits off the Russians? Have you got yourself a sneaky little hotel chain hidden away in the metaverse, all set up to take rubles? A nice little arrangement in preparation for all those Russians that are going to need a roof over their heads when they get here? Tell me the truth, George; I want to know what I'm getting myself into here. Really.”

“Henry! I'm shocked and outraged at these slanderous, accusations what you're making.” George examined his nails absently. “You make one good sale and all of a sudden you're dreamin' up wild and exotic business models the likes of which the sane financial world ain't never seen before. Do tell me more about this blue-chip proposition, my lad; specifically, given that a week's rental ain't going to amount to much more than about four and a half kopecks, what plans do you have for getting around exchange commission exceeding the actual payment by a factor of about three thousand?”

“You're very clever, George; all I want is a straight answer. Are you planning on making money out of this or not? And if you are, is everyone else in on it as well?

And if you are, were you ever planning on telling me or were you just going to take me along as your idiot translator? And where the fuck are my pain killers?”

“Henry, you're not listening, my son. I'm not planning on making any money because there ain't no money to be made!”

107

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

“Maybe not now-” “Not now, not tomorrow, not in the next ten years.”

George swung his legs off the table, dug deep in his trouser pockets, pulled out a strip of aspirin and tossed it to Henry. “Take two of these, my lad, but have that apple first. Now will you please sit down and tell me what the bloody hell thou art going on about?”

Henry ignored the advice, practically threw the tablets down his throat, grabbed his coffee from the table – a cold, brown puddle in the bottom of the mug, left over from his arrival at work three hours earlier – and downed it in one. “When do I get to see the Russian metaverse?” he said. “I'm beginning to wonder if it even exists.”

George was starting to look genuinely concerned. Just then, Redmond burst in, print-out in hand. He stopped in front of Henry, a big smile on his face. “Henry, lad; have I underestimated you!”

“Oh do me a favour, Phil,” said George. “A lucky afternoon don't a master salesman make. You know that.”

“A turning point's a turning point, young George. Is that a touch of jealousy I detect? Henry, I'm making a note here – huge success! It's hard to overstate my satisfaction!”

“Thank you Phil,” said Henry, and walked out of the staff room.

George hurried after him. “Henry, you have me worried.

I'm beginning to think we might have overworked you. Tell me, is everything alright at home?

108

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

I don't expect the details, but as your mentor I think I have a right to at least a yes or no answer to that question.

Are things well with Henry Junior and Henrietta? Is-” Henry stopped abruptly and turned to face him. “His name,” he said, “is Thomas.”

“Right. Thomas. Understood. And your lady wife?”

“Celia.”

“Duly noted, then. Henry, Celia and Thomas it is, henceforth.” He put a hand on Henry's shoulder. “Why don't you sit down and tell me about your evening? Did anything... I don't know, out of the usual occur?”

Henry shrugged off George's hand and sat down at the main cash desk. “Why are you so concerned about me George? I'm just a cog; I know that. All I want is to know that I'm a cog in something important, something worthwhile. No more bollocks. Is that too much to ask?”

“No Henry, it ain't, and if it's that assurance what you seek, I give it unreservedly. I don't know how to prove to you I ain't seeking no financial gain from this. See, I'm a make love not war kind of guy.”

“And an astounding salesman.”

“Me job's me job, mate; there's got to be more to the living experience than just that, by itself. That's how it goes in the book of George: there's what you does for your money, what you does for havin' fun and what's left over's for the stuff what shows it was worth you being born. The balance sheets, see? I ain't making out I'm some sort of saintly phenomenon, Henry; my overriding motivation for the project is my selfish desire to stay 109

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

alive. If, in so doing, I manage to help secure the future of the entire human race for a few more years, I have to say I look upon that as a good package all round. It hadn't even occurred to me to see if there was the opportunity for a quick buck on top of everything else!”

Henry felt his conviction leave him. It made him feel weak inside. “Fine,” he said, “I'm sorry, George. Well, I had to ask. Once the idea was in my head... I thought I was being taken advantage of.”

George hoisted himself up onto the service counter, letting his legs swing underneath. “What did happen to you last night?” he asked again. “I'm right, aren't I? Something gave you a right shaking up; don't you try denying it.”

“Something far too stupid and embarrassing for me to want to describe it,” said Henry, rubbing his temples again. “I think I need to stick to my original plan and take time out from the metaverse. It's starting to really mess with my mind. I've printed off all the notecards. I can do the interpretations offline. Give me a week, maybe. Perhaps two.”

“Or,” said George, “you could get yourself straight back in there tonight and let me take you out for a proper night of metaverse hedonism.”

“Not really my kind of thing,” Henry said.

“Bollocks,” retorted George. He nodded towards the television screens, where a tired looking Johnson was seen visiting a school somewhere, refusing to discuss the talks with the press, pretending to enjoy listening to a 110

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

story. “Did you know,” he said, “it is rumoured that the president of the free world himself has been known to spend the odd half hour here and there in the metaverse?

I imagine a man of his reputation hasn't spent it browsing in virtual libraries, either!”

“Imagine that,” thought Henry aloud, “giving a guy a virtual blow job and never knowing it was the President of the United States disguised as a newbie.”

“There's freedom to be found in noobism!”

“What did you say?”

“I can take your image and make it even more delicious, Henry,” George said. “Imagine you was a Russian and you gave a blow job to the president of the United States!”

“Imagine you were the Russian President and you gave a blow job to the president of the United States!”

“Really, Henry; that's taking it much too far; you disgust and offend me.” George did one of those ear-toear grins. “Now you're starting to sound like a human again. Hold on to those funny thoughts, if you can.

Sometimes they're the only sanity left to us.” He kicked up leaves into the air, picked up his lute and started singing.

Do we imagine things could never be another way?

Do we remember things we wished we'd had the strength to say?

111

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

"What did you say?" said Henry.

"Eh?" said George.

"Nothing. Um. For a moment there I thought we were in the metaverse."

George picked up a lost pen and tossed it onto the customer service desk. Or was it a stray twig that he picked up and tossed into the fire? "Given that the metaverse is just pretendin'," he said, "then maybe we could be." He strummed idly for a while. Henry sat and looked at the way the light had just started coming in through the window, in a shaft, particles dancing. Light like that always reminded him of an old house he had stayed in once, when he was a boy; in the large, musty living room the light's way each morning had been to squeeze through the cracks between curtains so heavy you could turn daytime into midnight if you got them positioned just right. Henry remembered sitting in an old chair and watching the dust dance in and out of narrow slivers of light. He picked up a stick and threw it into the ray, watching the shadow it cast within the shaft.

Moments like this were made for sharing with you, he thought idly. You and I were meant to spend our days looking at small things together, like how the light falls.

Henry thought, what does my avatar do when I'm not online? I'm led to suppose it doesn't exist in my absence, but how can I be certain? How can I ever know for sure?

Does Hoppy find himself a place to sit and think in?

Does he wonder about my actions? Does he despair of my idiot behaviour? Or do all the avatars go to their 112

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

place in a great big store room? Do they talk to each other? Do they kick off their shoes and light cigarettes?

Do they brag about their owners? Or do they just line up and only think about what the back of their head looks like to the avatar behind?

Do they trade owners? he wondered. Now there was a thought. What if Hoppy one day decided he wanted to work for someone else, changed his appearance, swapped clothes and name tags, etc. How would he know the difference? How many avatars have traded me already? he asked the air. Is there some sort of league table? Do I have a trade value? Do I have a price?

I love you, he thought, quite suddenly. He felt his eyes sting. I never told you that. It wouldn't have made any difference, I suppose. All the same, I really wish I had.

George was doing something odd-looking with dry leaves from the ground, looking at one in particular and comparing it to a number of other leaves around him, scrutinising it quite closely, as though looking at the pattern of the veins. “Henry,” he said, “I'm going to have a word with my contact tonight, see if I can't get at least a rough date for you; something you can keep in your mind, at least; maybe that will help you, knowing if it's days or weeks, that sort of thing.”

“Yes,” said Henry, “I think it might help. Thanks.”

“You realise, by the way, that teleporting is still down?

We're going to have to do something about transportation if this continues for long.”

113

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

“We can still fly,” said Henry. “You just have to put in the right key combination to reactivate it.”

“Not any more, my lad; that little workaround stopped working around five o'clock this morning.”

“Really?” Henry found himself quite alarmed by that.

“But that almost makes it sound as though...” “...someone wants flying disabled,” George finished.

He stapled together the bunch of receipts and opened the till, lifted the tray, put them underneath. “Exactly.”

“But why would anyone go to that trouble?”

“We have people looking into it,” George assured him.

“Yance reckons a high speed train service is a possibility, in the meantime. That boy needs his head examining.”

Henry wondered what the seagull was doing. “What will all the birds do now, I wonder?” he said.

“We're all birds in the metaverse, Henry; but not when flying and teleporting is broken, we ain't. Maybe someone wants our metaphorical wings clipped.”

“Isn't it odd,” said Henry. “In the metaverse we long for our freedom back; in the real world we carry on selling televisions.”

George watched President Johnson listening to the children's story, laughing at just the right point, putting his hand on the head of the boy next to him and rubbing his hair, grinning at him; old, empty, desperate eyes, begging for forgiveness. “To the bitter end, mate,” he said. “To the bitter end.”

114

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

Celia was waiting for him when he got home that night.

She waved a piece of paper in his face as soon as he got through the door. Thomas was nowhere to be seen.

“What do you think this is, Henry?” He tried to look at the paper, but she snatched it away from him.

“Where's Thomas?” he asked, feeling slightly panicked.

“I sent him to bed,” said Celia. She slammed the paper down on the coffee table, marched into the kitchen, slammed the door shut behind her.

So. It was going to be one of those evenings. Henry took off his coat and hung it on the banister. He started up the stairs to see his boy, And then the kitchen door got flung back open. “Don't you dare! Don't you fucking dare! You want to pay your son some useful attention? Then you sit yourself right down and read that fucking letter. That little shit gets nothing from us tonight, do you understand? Nothing.”

She disappeared back into the kitchen. The glass in the door rattled as she slammed it.

Henry sat down with a sigh and picked the letter up. It was from the school. It took him about a minute to skim it. Thomas had set the fire alarms off at school yesterday.

He'd been excluded for a day.

Yesterday...

Henry bounded up the stairs and into Thomas' room, approached the bunk bed, saw eyes watching him from behind the bars. “No no no!” the boy whimpered, “I'm sorry sorry sorry Daddy!” He started to wail.

115

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

“Stop it, Thomas,” said Henry. He pulled over the chair and stood on it, bringing their faces together. “Why didn't you say anything yesterday? You just came home and acted like everything was normal?”

Thomas said nothing to that, just looked at his father, a look of helplessness on his face. Henry gave him time.

“I thought you'd look in my bag,” he said eventually.

Henry understood. It wasn't that he hadn't wanted to say anything; he hadn't been able to say anything. He didn't know how. He was counting on being found out.

“It says here you were supposed to stay off school today. This has just made things worse. Did you get into more trouble when you got to school in the morning?”

Thomas nodded, silently.

Downstairs, the door got flung open again. Henry heard something falling off the dresser and smashing, and had to look away from the boy for a second so the smile could have its moment.

“Fine, Henry! Ignore every damn word I say to you.

Do what the fuck you want, just like you always do. I might as well be fucking invisible in this fucking house.

You fucking prick idiot!” Something else got broken, but this time it sounded intentional. Something plastic. It sounded like his turntable. He winced. Oh well.

Predictably, the screaming stopped. Next would come the sobbing.

“Why did you set off the fire alarm, Bubs?” he asked.

“I wanted to hear what it sounded like,” Thomas replied.

116

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

“That's what fire drills are for.”

“I couldn't remember from then. Daddy?”

“Yes, Bubs?”

“Would they sound the fire alarm if they did a nuclear attack? Will we have to line up in the playground?”

“I don't know.” Henry looked away, thought to himself, This is why you must help George. “Maybe.

That's for your teachers to decide. They will know what's best.”

“Did mummy break your record player?” he said suddenly, just realising; his face contorted. He started to sob. Henry felt his heart breaking and hardening, at once in the same moment.

“It's just a thing, Bubs; I can get it fixed. Or I can get a new one. It's not important. It doesn't matter to me like you do.”

“But it's your favourite thing!” he wailed.

“You're my favourite thing!” he said, pulling him into a hug.

“You're a fucking idiot,” Henry said, when he came downstairs a few minutes later, “going on like that.” She looked at him like she'd been slapped.

“What did you just say?”

“It's a one day exclusion,” he said, turning on the television, “it's hardly the end of the world. You want to worry about something...” he pointed at the images of Johnson at the school, they were still being shown across 117

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

all the networks, “...you worry about that. Thomas is.”

“Did you just call me a fucking idiot?”

He looked at her. “What are you going to do,” he said, “when we get the three minute warning? Do you have any plans?”

“Did you just call me a fucking idiot?”

“Where were you last night?” Henry asked suddenly.

“Were you with George?”

“What?” she said. Immediately, she broke eye contact. It took her about a half second to realise that she shouldn't have. Too long.

“Did you just-” “Yes. I did. Because you are.”

She started to cry. Henry went to the computer.

“Make sure you have yourself sorted out by the morning,” he told her. “We have a meeting at the school.”

118

Nine

They reported to the Head Teacher's office with Thomas' class teacher at nine. Once the coffees had been handed out, Henry took the initiative, telling everyone the missing of the letter was his fault entirely. He apologised profusely. That took the pressure off the teachers, who seemed to be anticipating anger. The head conceded the office could perhaps have phoned as well as writing.

Henry told her that was unimportant, that he should have checked Thomas' bag as a matter of course. The head told him she appreciated him saying that. The meeting had got off to a good start.

Celia sat and said nothing.

There might need to be a small charge, the head informed them, already addressing herself mostly to Henry, to cover the cost of the replacement glass panel on the fire alarm. Henry told her he quite understood. “In all honesty,” she added, “it's really not the first time a child has done this. Every couple of years there's always a child who thinks they're the first to do it!” Immediately 119

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

she had said this, a comment intended to ease anxiety, she appeared to realise the alternative interpretation from a parent's point of view; we only see a few of these sorts of children in an entire decade! She quickly added a comment about the severity of some of the much worse behaviours they saw from other children sometimes.

Swearing. Fighting. Throwing furniture! Henry wanted to giggle.

Celia took this as her cue. “Do you think there's something wrong with him?” she asked.

“Something wrong?” repeated the head, carefully.

Henry saw the recognition in her eyes, and the scanning back in her mind through comments previously made.

He thought to himself, She's been here before; I wonder what predictions she's making right now.

“Why do you say that?” asked the head.

“So what should his reading be like now?” Celia asked. “His teacher last year said he was behind.”

“A bit behind,” Henry corrected.

“Behind.” Celia stood fast. Looks were exchanged between the two teachers.

The cautious tone returned. “Perhaps you'd like to book an appointment with Miss Beaver to discuss that?” the head suggested. Miss Beaver nodded, eagerly.

“Well don't you know now? I want to know if he's getting the support he needs. Assessments, and that.”

“Thomas isn't in my lowest group, or anything,” said Miss Beaver, helpfully.

“So you mean he's not getting any help at all?” Celia 120

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

said and sighed.

“Why do you think there's something wrong with him?” Henry asked, tightly.

“Have you seen his spelling, Henry? No. Have you listened to him read? No. Try doing those things, just for once, and you might see for yourself that there is something wrong with him.”

The two teachers shifted in their seats awkwardly.

They both took sips of their coffee. “I listen to him read,” said Henry, quietly. “Sometimes.”

Celia leaned forward. “Isn't there some sort of test you can do? For Dyslexia? You know, he's off in his own little world sometimes at home; I have to say his name three, four times before he pays me any attention. Isn't there something about that? Some sort of condition?

Attention deficit disorder, don't they call it?”

“Well I really don't think we'd want to talk about labels,” said the head, “at this stage.”

“There's nothing wrong with Thomas,” said Henry.

“He just likes to think about stuff. That's all.”

“Maybe he'd like to think about what he intends to do when he leaves school unable to read or write,” Celia said.

“Really,” said Miss Beaver, “I understand your concern, but he's not that bad. I have children in my class much worse than him. I mean... more needy.”

“They aren't my responsibility,” Celia said. “He is.”

“Of course. Of course. But I mean, he's making progress. He's improving. Isn't that the most important thing?”

121

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

“There's nothing wrong with Thomas,” Henry said again.

“Does he have friends?” Celia asked. “No-one ever invites him to their parties.”

“That's not true,” said Henry. “He did at least three last year.

“Three, Henry; not 'at least' three; exactly three. Out of a class of thirty-three.”

“Thirty-one,” the head said quietly.

“He has his little group,” Miss Beaver said. “You know who I mean, of course. They're very close. They do fall out occasionally; just as all children do. It's true, he doesn't have a big bunch of friends, but that's just the way he is. He's happy. He's fine.”

“He takes an age to clear his plate every night. He never puts his stuff away – I'm constantly having to clear up after him. He'd come to school in his pyjamas if I didn't go on and on and on at him to get changed in the morning.”

“If you didn't let him eat in front of the television,” Henry said, “maybe he would finish his food more quickly.”

“Why don't you and Miss Beaver arrange a time to go over this in more detail?” the head said quickly. Miss Beaver smiled, trying to look enthusiastic for the idea.

“I'm worried that you think we called you here to tell you there's a problem with Thomas, but it was only about the exclusion. It's standard practice, you know, to have a meeting. After an exclusion. The government reco122

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

mmends it.” She rolled her eyes up at the use of the G word. “And it's standard here to issue an exclusion for something like setting off the fire alarm. It's not like we're angry, or anything; it's just we need to send the right message to Thomas that something like that is very serious; that the fire alarm is not for children to play with.”

“Thomas is very worried about the situation with Russia,” said Henry. “That's why he set off the alarm.

He wanted to know what it sounds like. He thinks you might sound it if there's an air attack. I think he was worried it might go off and he wouldn't recognise it.”

“Oh, the sweetheart,” said Miss Beaver.

“I'm not sure what I should be saying to him,” said Henry.

“Don't say anything to him,” Celia snapped, “half the stupid ideas in his head come from you in the first place.

If you didn't talk to him about stuff like this he wouldn't worry about it, would he?”

“Oh well,” said the head, “I don't think we can stop him from finding out about that sort of thing. I mean, not completely. Children talk.”

“What are your plans for an air attack?” asked Henry.

“Perhaps it would help him if he knew.”

The teachers looked at each other. Celia sighed, threw her hands in the air. “You see?” she said. “This is what I have to put up with. From both of them.”

“We don't really have any plans,” said the head. “To be honest, it's not the sort of thing we make plans for. If 123

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

it happens, well... it happens. I don't think there's anything we can do that will make any difference, do you?”

“Does it matter if it makes any difference in the end?

I'm not expecting you to nuclear-proof the school, I just want my son reassured. Make something up and practice it. As long as he thinks there's a plan he'll be fine.”

“Just ignore him,” Celia said. “He has his head in the clouds.”

Henry turned to his wife. “You make it sound like I'm the only one who thinks like this,” he said. “You do know there's a big demonstration planned today? Things are getting worse.”

“They've been demonstrating against the bomb since before you and I were born,” Celia snapped. “It's part of life; get used to it.”

“I do see where you're coming from,” said the head.

“It could be something worth investigating. Thomas isn't the only boy who worries about this, I'm sure.”

“Thank you,” Henry said.

“Well, I'm not making any promises. You do realise, other parents might disagree with this on the grounds that it might heighten their children's anxieties rather than reduce them. We would need to have their permission.”

“Please,” said Celia at once, “don't listen to my husband. It's fine. I will talk to my son.”

Henry thought, That prospect is actually worse for you than that of nuclear annihilation, isn't it? There is no greater fear for you than being the target of others' social disapproval. He said to the head, “Listen. All my life I 124

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

was scared of flying. I'm still scared of flying now. I go on planes when I have to, but I sit there with my muscles tensed for the whole damned flight. I'm afraid it might crash, you see. But the thing that scares me is not the actual dying bit, because I know that will be over in an instant. It's the bit before dying I'm terrified of. The bit where we're falling from the sky, and everyone around me is screaming and crying and literally shitting themselves. I don't want to see people like that. And I don't want people to see me like that, even if it's only for a few short seconds. It matters to me how my life ends.

All I want is to die calmly, with no fuss, with dignity. If my son is there with me, I'd like to hold his hand.” He thought of Mary, lying there, looking up at him. There had been no last words from Mary; perhaps she hadn't needed to say anything.

“Put a procedure together,” said Henry.

“Get everyone into the hall, sitting down; make it so everyone has at least one person to hold hands with. Sing a song together. Something like that. If you never need to do it, you'll still have happier children.”

“I'll certainly give it some thought,” said the head, and to Celia she added, “I would be very careful to put the idea to parents as something thought up by staff, something for the benefit of all children.”

“Fine,” said Celia. “Whatever.”

“We could have used that meeting to get Thomas the help 125

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

he needs,” she told him on the way home. “Instead you have to talk all your bullshit about bombs. Honest to Christ, Henry, some days I could fucking strangle you.

Do you not care about the future your son has?”

“There's nothing wrong with our son,” said Henry.

“He doesn't need any help.” He looked at her, intrigued.

There was actually something conciliatory about her tone, he realised.

“You keep saying that like just repeating it will make it come true,” she said.

“And so do you,” replied Henry. “Our boy is not broken, just because he's not the same as other kids.”

“I guess you think he's a lot like you,” she said. Henry wasn't quite sure how to take that, and he had no idea if it was true.

“I understand,” he said presently, “how he sees things.

Some things.”

“I want to get him assessed privately,” she said. “That way, we'll know for certain.”

Fuck, he thought. So there was the reason for the softer tone.

“We can look for a private psychologist,” she said.

“But I think they're expensive.”

“I don't care what any psychologist says,” Henry answered. “There's nothing wrong with our son.”

The anti-war demonstration that marched that day was the largest in history and took place in approximately 800 126

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

cities around the planet. Millions protested. The estimated number of three million demonstrators in Rome was the largest single anti-war gathering anywhere in history.

In the metaverse, an area the size of nine regions was cleared of all prims for the biggest ever virtual protest. In the centre sim an 'atomic device' was placed, set to detonate at the same moment that the crowds reached the White House in Washington and set off fireworks painted to look like the latest generation of ICBMs. Avatars were required to attend naked, with no attachments other than hair. Hug scripts were also allowed, indeed they were encouraged. The idea had been to create a sky full of 'nakedness; innocence; love' which the blast would scatter far and wide. Look what you are destroying. Now that flying was turned off, attendees would have to stand on the ground, which was a compromise the organisers resented, but were resigned to. The original plan had also been to use a nine sim island for the demo, but with teleporting down, no-one had been able to get to it. At the last minute, an appeal had been made to mainland metaverse residents to 'lend us your land for the day.'

Perhaps due to the theory that teleporting was down because of the planned demonstration, the organisers had been inundated with offers. Once the nine sims had been selected, shops, houses and plants were taken down; land was flattened; skyboxes removed. In the end, it was calculated that each sim would be able to hold a maximum of three hundred residents with everything but 127

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

the bare essentials removed. That made a total of nearly two and a half thousand avatars across the whole nine sims (the centre sim was to be kept empty, except for film crew). In the event, nearly twelve thousand turned up, many of whom had had to walk for hours to get to the site. The excess attempted to arrange themselves in the sixteen surrounding regions, which had not been stripped; the lag was horrendous, but the atmosphere was one of joy. The bomb designers fiddled with the strength, so that it would be felt from further away (in fact, a separate, invisible 'push' device had to be placed in each sim in the right position for it to be able to work; it took a bit of extra calculation for the additional layer, but there were plenty of coders present to lend a hand). Land owners turned up and started tearing down their businesses in order to build capacity and reduce lag. And so, at thirteen minutes past one in the afternoon, twelve thousand naked avatars saw the light open up in front of them and allowed it to push them into oblivion. As many as possible did it with a loved one in their arms.

It was a major event for George, who took part in both the real and the virtual event, marching on London with a laptop and a high bandwidth mobile phone connection.

At the same time as his physical body was making progress along Whitehall, his avatar was standing in Region Seven, waiting for the blast that would scatter them all like bowling pins. He stood with Yanceman.

They held hands. Just after the blast was over he sent Henry a joyful text. They tried to clip our wings, lad, but 128

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

the day is full of birds!

Henry had watched the coverage of both from the store. Seeing the people in London, and the atmosphere between them, it was at once something he wished he could have been part of. Not for a second had he actually considered it beforehand; it just wasn't a Henry thing to do. The sudden realisation that this would have been something wonderful was an important landmark for his thinking. But he wondered how many years, months or days he would actually have to reflect back on it.

At the same moment, it occurred to him that others might be feeling the same thing. He logged the display Munit in on his account (he explained to Redmond he had created it last night for just this purpose). There was no time to get Hoppy to the blast zone, but all over the metaverse people were meeting up in little groups in their home sims and turning to face the event together, as though praying in the direction of Mecca. Henry tuned all of the televisions in the store to the BBC live coverage. He raced across the street to the stationers, bought large sheets of card, wrote, 'Watch the March For Life here! (No purchase necessary!)' and stuck them up in the window. Redmond looked distinctly appalled. Henry promised him his store would be remembered for ever because of it, and set about organising drinks.

The store was full by one. When the fireworks were released, the coverage went split screen between the real and the imagined universe. Then it went full-screen metaverse for the detonation. The sound got cut just 129

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

before the flash. The store went silent. Henry felt goosebumps all over, felt a shiver run down his spine.

George would later call him 'an utter fucking genius' for the moment, and its subsequent place in local folklore.

130

Ten

Meg. She was waiting for him in his skybox when he logged on that evening. She was sitting by his fireplace in the green sofa he had yet to share with anybody. He had modelled it on the sofas they had had in the students' union café, twenty years ago. Two years previously he had been walking past the union entrance and noted the absence of the security guy. On a whim, he had slipped in, down the stairs, into the gloomy bar below. The experience had been a crushing disappointment for Henry; everything – the décor, the layout, the furnishings – everything had been changed. Nothing was the same.

After two minutes of looking around he had just wanted to leave, before this bastardisation ended up corrupting his memory of how things had been before. But then he had spotted this sofa in the corner – just the one, where once there had been five or six, and about the same number of similarly styled single arm chairs. One sofa; filling a spot, he supposed, that had nothing else to fill it with just then. A sole survivor. His constant. His 131

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

passport to the past. He had taken its picture with his mobile phone. Several times. And then the security guy had spotted him and asked him to leave.

“How did you find this place?” he asked Meg, deleting the 'Hi!' and the subsequent, 'Hey!' and thinking, no – fuck it – she's the one who walked out on me last time.

“The picks entry for 'Amanda' in your profile gave the co-ordinates for here,” she said. “Of course, this could also therefore have been Amanda's house, assuming that she has one, but when I saw the décor I instantly thought, 'male'.” She waited for a laugh, and none came. “In any case,” she added, “you told me you lived in Lordshill.”

So I did, thought Henry. “How did you get up here?” he said, “We're hundreds of metres up in the air and flight is still turned off.”

“I rezzed prims at twenty metre intervals and sat on them, one by one, all the way up,” she replied. “I created for myself some stepping stones. Are you impressed?”

Henry checked. The blocks were still there, below them. “You're very resourceful,” he said.

“I am,” she replied.

“Which brings us to the last question,” “The answer to which is, 'Life is too short to bear grudges'.”

“On that,” Henry said, “we are in complete agreement.”

“Are we in disagreement on other issues?”

“Many,” Henry said. “For example, I'm of the school of thought that considers it highly appropriate to make 132

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

quite bizarre and inappropriate remarks to complete strangers. I gather you take a different view on this?”

“It's a thing I have,” she said. “Sort of a foible. Along with unnaturally high expectations of good grammar and clean fingernails.”

“You consider clean fingernails to be an unnaturally high expectation to hold of someone?”

“I know. You would think it a basic, wouldn't you.

And yet.”

Henry smiled at the monitor and thought to himself, Well this is going better. Then he asked himself why it was he had wanted to spend time with this person in the first place. She had reminded him of Mary, of course; but now that this was no longer true, was there still a reason to want to be with her? Henry thought to himself, It's good that she's not cross with me any more – I'm pleased about that – but do I really have the time, do I really have the energy for another metaversian relationship now? I'm sure she's really nice, but so what? It only means that three months from now I'll be messaging her and getting back hardly any replies and feeling wretched all over again. In any case, the way she walked out on me before was too extreme a reaction. Maybe I was a jerk, but I didn't deserve that. Henry decided he would aim to have the conversation wrapped up in five to ten minutes. It didn't help that she was in his place – it made leaving rather difficult, after all – but he guessed he would just have to work something out.

“Did you see the demonstrations today?” he asked.

133

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

“I did,” she replied. “They moved me.”

“Look, I'm sorry I said the things I said last time,” said Henry. “I didn't mean to scare you.”

“I thought about it after I logged off,” she replied. “It wasn't what you said, so much as the way you said it.”

Henry wondered how that was possible, given they had been communicating in text. “Don't ask me how,” she continued, “but I detected... longing.”

“Well,” said Henry, “It's like I said – she was a very nice person.”

“Was?” “Was.” Henry hoped Meg wasn't going to ask for details. Mary was a subject he never spoke about to anyone because he feared doing so, knowing his words would never do justice to any little part of it. He knew he would only cheapen things by trying to articulate them.

He especially hated it when Celia spoke of her. When that happened he would say nothing, would sit in silence, would pray for her to stop; each anecdote was agony, and when there was an audience (and there usually was) it was all he could do to stop himself from jumping up and screaming.

“I see,” said Meg, appearing to understand. “Yes, that sort of sheds new light, then.”

“I guess.”

“I lost my brother,” she said, simply. “I see him in other people all the time.” Henry sat bolt upright in his chair, staring. His heart started racing, all over again.

“Your brother died?” he asked.

134

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

“Yes,” said Meg. “It was a long time ago, now.”

“Suddenly?”

“No. And yes. I think it was about seven months between us getting the news and him passing.

Technically, not sudden, I guess. But sudden.”

Henry thought of that moment in The Edgecombe Arms, when he had had to look away. Mary had been talking about her brother when they had been young together, and the stuff they used to do. Dressing up in the living room. Playing with the mud in the garden. The earliest up on a Saturday morning creeping into the other's bed and playing with their toes. And then, because he was an idiot boy, he had reached the point where that sort of thing was no longer acceptable, and he had ordered her out of his room one morning in a huff.

Mary had been devastated; she'd realised then that something wonderful had just come to an end and that things would never be quite the same between them. At the Edgecombe Arms, she had told them about that moment, and how it had come to mind again on the day her brother died; Henry had thought suddenly about his own little brother, and the times of innocence between them also that were lost forever, and he had wanted badly to weep.

This time, remembering those words again, he could only think of Thomas. The loss of innocence had yet to occur, but it stood there, in the distance; inevitable.

“That's terrible,” he wrote, finally. “Was he older or younger than you?” It was a trick question, of course.

135

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

“Older,” she said. “My big brother. I still think of him as older than me, even though I'm now nearly twice the age he was when he died.”

Ok; not quite identical, then. Henry relaxed a little.

He became aware of things on screen again. He realised it looked odd, him just standing there. “Do you mind if I sit with you on the sofa?” he asked.

“The space is free,” she said, with a smile. Henry sat and cammed around him, briefly. The room was quiet; the cafeteria shut. Dust particles were dancing in and out of a shaft of light shining in through the pyramid; outside, the two physics buildings and their interconnecting walkway created a perfect slit for the sun at a particular moment of its descent, like some giant experiment in diffraction. The shaft came down just behind her. It made her hair look silver.

“How old were you,” he said, “when he died.” Asking questions was the only way Henry knew how to respond to another person's pain. It was hardly a comfort, he supposed, but at least it showed he was listening.

“I was eighteen,” said Meg. “And he was nineteen. I was meant to be going to university that year. So I ended up going a year later.”

Jesus Christ, he thought; so close! How can this possibly be? But the shock was surprisingly weak in its grip. After a minute or so, he still had that slight sense of unreality, but he was no longer sure what he was surprised about.

“I suffered terribly,” she said. “It made no sense to me 136

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

whatsoever. I couldn't understand how such a thing was possible.”

“I suppose,” said Henry, “loosing someone like that at least makes you appreciate better the people you still have around you.”

“That's the thing, though,” Meg replied, “I never didn't. I loved him, always. I never didn't appreciate him. I always looked forward to seeing him. That's why it didn't make sense.”

Henry thought, She said it happened years ago, and yet she doesn't look a day over twenty. He asked her, “And what of life now? Are you married? Do you have children?”

“That,” she replied, “is information I don't impart.

Not until I know you better, at least. This is the metaverse!”

What? Henry cammed around. The metaverse, of course; they were in his skybox. How had he forgotten?

He looked at her closely, saw pixels, saw plain skin and newbie hair. A moment ago he had been certain she'd been smiling, sadly. A moment ago he had been listening to the tone of her voice. Or thought he had been. Had it all been in his head?

He looked away from the monitor, at his living room, at his furniture, at the broken turntable dumped in a box now by the kitchen door. The metaverse, of course. How had he forgotten?

“Is that ok?” said a line of text on the screen. “You've gone awfully quiet all of a sudden.”

137

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

“Of course it's ok,” he typed, hurriedly. A thought occurred to him. “Can I at least ask what country you are in?”

She laughed. How do I know that she laughed? He looked at the screen, blinked, searched for some tell-tale sign. “Sure,” she said. “That sounds reasonable, I suppose. I'm in the UK.” “I thought as much,” he typed. “And so am I.” “I thought as much also,” Meg replied. “So, what made you want to study here?”

Henry looked at her, confused. You always had such wonderful hair, he thought. But the shaft of light was fading now, the silver sheen was gone. “I... heard it was a good course,” he said, “and I have memories of holidays in Cornwall.”

“Eh?” said Meg. “Did you just send me a message meant for someone else?”

“I'm sorry,” Henry typed. “I'm tired. I thought you just asked me about the course.”

“Course? What course?”

“What did you study at university?” he asked; it was a tenuous link, but it would do.

“Are you ok, Henry?” asked Mary. “Why are you asking me that?”

'Henry,' she had called him Henry; how did she know his real name? Or had he imagined her using it? Henry stood up from the green sofa in confusion, in fear. He turned to look at her.

“Are you Mary?” he asked, “or Meg?” 138

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

“I am Meg,” said Meg. “I am Mary,” said Mary.

Thomas started shouting something down from upstairs. In an instant, Henry shut down the client and was on the stairs, running; more glad than he had ever been before that his little boy couldn't sleep.

Henry found Gob in the clearing, sitting on a log, whittling something. Badly. Gob looked up in surprise at his approach.

“Hoppy! How did you get here? Your place is miles away. I was quite getting used to being the only one here, now that teleporting is down. It's a solitary existence, I lead, just me, myself and mother nature here; it's not entirely without its positives, though: the roast pig does seem to last a great deal longer than it used to.”

Henry thought for a moment about how it was he had come to be there, realised he didn't have a clue, and nor did he care. He said to Gob, “George, I need to know when the gateway to the Russian metaverse will be open.

This place is starting to mess with my head. I can't explain it. I think it's very bad for me to be online, inworld at the moment. I need to know when it will be time to go, and that time needs to be soon. I don't know if I'm going to be of any help to you any more if I have to wait much longer.”

“What do you mean, 'messing' with your head'?” said Gob. “What exactly in your head is being messed with?

139

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

And in what manner?”

“I told you, I can't explain.” Thinking about trying to describe it made him feel panicked; Henry took deep breaths and tried to calm himself down. “I can see the metaverse; I can perceive it. Not always, but when I can, it's as though I'm there. I see dust. I see shadows. I see things moved by the wind. I see the wrinkles around your mouth and eyes, George; I hear your breathing. I see the way your eyes move in time with the way your intonation goes up and down. And then, in an instant, I see only pixels again.”

“Wrinkles?” said George, appalled. “Them there is laughter lines, Henry.”

“I mean it, George. I'm not making this up.”

“I didn't suppose that you were,” said George. He appeared to Henry to be studiously avoiding making eye contact. But that, of course, was impossible.

“Look, Henry,” said Gob, “I spoke to Yance. He agrees you should probably go sooner rather than later.

But the gate isn't ready yet, he says it might not be ready for another month at least.”

“He told me a week! I can't wait a month,” said Henry. “I think I'll go mad before then.”

“I understand that. There is another way we might be able to get you in much sooner. It would mean forgetting about the gate, though. For you, that's not actually so important in any case. We could load up a version of the Russian client onto your PC – get an emulator running with it, at least. Yance reckons he could tie you into a 140

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

Russian server without you getting detected. He has a friend in Ivanovo, apparently, who works in some place important. There's so much that boy chooses not to tell me.”

“I don't understand,” said Henry.

“What's the difference between this and what we were going to do anyway?”

“The gate's all about converting your regular avatar so it'll function in the Russian metaverse, Henry. You walk through the gate; it modifies you to make you compatible with what they run over there. You walk through it the other way and it does the reverse, turns a communist into a capitalist, if you get my drift. You don't have to load any new software, you don't need to log on to any separate account, you would see the Russian metaverse through your regular viewer client, and so on. Minimal fuss, Henry; that's the key; Joe Blogs ain't going to be interested in a little vacation east of the Iron Firewall if it means he has to go through hassle to get there. We're the tour operators, see? It's up to us the make the whole experience as painless and trouble free as what it's possible to be; that way, loads of people will go. Nice and simple, but it's a bastard of a task for the programmers.

“What we want to do for you is more the equivalent of the backpacking holiday version. You won't be able to take Hoppy over there, for starters; we'll have to get Yance's fellow to create you a Russian account what you can log in with. You'll have to have special software 141

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

installed on your machine at home and someone will have to train you on how to use the interface. Yance will need to overclock your PC and fit a special cooling system to it, plus he'll have to sort out a connection to this server in Ivanovo; he said it'll involve a lot of 'piggy backing,' which I must admit I thought at first was his euphemism for what he was going to have to do to get this guy to do favours for us. So you see, Henry, it'll be much more hassle for you than we originally promised you, but it might be the only way we-” “It's fine,” said Henry. “It's no problem. You can do it.”

“Yance will need time on your computer. At least an afternoon, he reckons.”

“He can come round tomorrow.”

“Will that be a problem with...?” Gob waited for Henry to say her name.

“With Celia?” It was as though the word was a name he had just found and flicked off his sleeve. “I really don't give a shit what she thinks. Don't worry, I'll open the door for him. I'll take the afternoon off. You can cover for me in the store, right?”

“I... can,” said Gob. There was a brief pause. “Henry, are we going to talk about Celia?”

“No,” said Henry. “I have no interest in that.”

“Right,” said Gob. “I see.” Henry could tell that he couldn't. Or could he?

“George, I seem to be loosing my sanity at the moment and at the same time I'm trying to do my part to 142

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

prevent a nuclear war; if there was an additive factor I thought my darling wife could bring to the equation at this moment, be certain I would be the first to pursue it.”

“I see your point, Henry,” said George.

Henry started to say, “And maybe...” but then he paused, wondering if he wanted to commit to the words awaiting utterance. He looked at George, saw the knowing smile hovering around the corners of his lips, though of course George couldn't possibly have known he could see it. You do know, he thought. You're waiting for me to thank you, to tell me you might just be doing me a favour. Then I won't.

“But I will tell you one thing,” he said, “if you take my little boy out of my life, I will fix it so that famous smile of yours doesn't stop at your ears any more.”

The waiting smile dissolved. “A chilling warning, heeded,” said George.

“I mean it, Gob.” “I know you do, Henry.”

“She would take him from me. In an instant. She knows what that would do to me.”

“She probably reckons it's the strongest card she has, Henry.”

“It's the only card she has, George.” He wants me to ask him why, Henry thought. He so badly wants me to ask him. I will not. I will know it by myself or not at all.

“You and me, though,” said George, “and all of our stuff... The mission. We're ok, aren't we? If you like, we can be like Gregory Peck and Anthony Quinn; we can 143

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

agree that you'll kill me after the war.”

“If that makes you feel happier,” said Henry.

“I won't see her again, of course.”

You were never planning on seeing her again, though, were you? Ordinarily, Henry would have wondered what a guy like George saw in a girl like Celia. But he knew that attraction had nothing to do with it. There were other reasons here, hidden from him. “If that makes you feel happier,” he said again. He saw George peering at him, as though his nose was just a few inches from the screen and he was trying to make something tiny out. He's confused, he thought. He doesn't know if he's been successful or not.

Of course. It came to him suddenly. He intended for me to find out all along.

Wanting to change the subject, because he needed time to think, Henry said, “You really think it will take a month to get the gate fixed?”

George paused a little. He was pondering the strategic value of the change of subject. “That's what Yance tells me,” he said eventually.

“But I honestly don't think we have that much time remaining,” said Henry.

“For what it's worth, Henry,” said Gob, “I'm inclined to agree. But if it ain't working then it ain't working. We do what we can.”

“Do they need more people? Do they need more money?”

“Money's neither here nor there; what would it buy, 144

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

when people already give freely of their time? More people will probably only spoil the broth, but a couple extra programming geniuses might help, if you know of any.”

“I wasn't offering, unfortunately.”

“I didn't think you were.”

Henry thought about this for a moment. He wondered what would happen if people heard about the gateway before it got opened. “What if we sent out rumours?” he said. “How do you think people would behave then?

What effect do you think it would have?”

George leaned forward, rubbed his chin, appeared to be thinking to himself something like, What do I tell him in response to that? “You mean, like, hype it up?” he said finally.

“Yes. Exactly.”

“The only thing being, it would alert them what has control of the off switch to our intentions.”

“They'll be able to switch off the metaverse in any case, when the gate is open,” said Henry, “you must have thought of that one already. You told me you had 'someone working on that,' didn't you?”

“Yes well...” Gob did a blasé expression, “it's all about creating a movement, a groundswell, an upsurging.”

“With what intent? To achieve what aim?”

“Communication, Henry; exchange of thinking with our fellow men.”

“How will we be able to communicate if the system's turned off?”

145

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

Gob scowled, he actually scowled; it was the first time Henry had seen an expression such as that across his features.

“Are my questions inconveniencing you, George?”

The scowl deepened suddenly, then vanished in an instant, as though he suddenly suspected he'd been spotted with his gaze on a girl's cleavage.

“Of course not, Henry my lad. It's just I don't know what it is you're driving at.”

“If we hyped up the gate and they switched off the metaverse, would that not create an upsurge?”

“I don't know, Henry!” the words were snapped, but, instantly, George found a more conciliatory tone.

“Maybe it would create a headline or two, but you know what they say about today's news, right?”

“Is that part of your plan, though? To create civil unrest?” Henry pressed on, sensing the growing crack, but not understanding it.

“To a degree, Henry; to a degree. Look,” George said quickly, “it ain't like it's all me own thinking, son.” He had used the escape pod. “This isn't just my plan – I'm just a cog, you know. Let me take your idea to some of the others and see what they think.”

You always say something like that, Henry thought.

You're always playing for extra time. But time for what?

And who are these others, and why haven't I met them yet?

“I'm happy to do the pitch to them myself,” he said, testing.

146

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

“Better that they hear it from me, really,” George said, trying to sound reassuring. And added, quickly, “Don't worry – I won't try to take credit for the idea.”

George was doing one of his ear-to-ear smiles.

But Henry could see how it was wavering.

Celia said, “Henry, I'm sorry about George.”

Henry thought, I don't care to have this conversation now, because I still don't know why he did it. But I will.

There was a reason. There is a reason. This was not the happenstance he wants me to believe it was.

“It's ok,” he said.

“No it's not, Henry; it's not ok. If you think it's ok I will leave you, and I'll take Thomas with me.”

“I'll fight you for custody,” he said straight away.

She actually laughed at that. Did she think he was joking, or did she just think him an idiot? “You'll lose,” she said, laughed again, went upstairs to bed.

147

Eleven

Redmond told Henry next morning that George had called in sick. Which meant no-one would be able to cover him in the afternoon. Which meant he wouldn't be able to go home to let Yanceman in.

God dammit, he thought, you'd better be on your fucking deathbed, Gob. When Redmond was out he called George himself from the phone by the till, then again from his own mobile, because no-one answered.

Even the voicemail was turned off. He's monitoring, Henry thought, I just know he is. I'll call from the box around the corner at lunch. Let's see how he responds when it's a number he doesn't recognise.

He pulled out the number he had for Yanceman and tried that. No reply; no voicemail. He wondered if George had even mentioned the visit to him, if Yanceman was expecting Henry to be there when he he called in the afternoon, or if he had no idea any arrangement had been reached in the first place. Henry wondered how else he could get hold of him. He had no email address. He 148

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

logged into Hoppy's mail account, but there were no messages there from Yanceman that he could reply to.

He resolved to log in on the display Munit when Redmond went for his lunch at one. By then it might be too late, though.

The shop was busy, had been so ever since the protest event. George had put up anti-war posters, luxuriating in Redmond's ambivalence at the sight. The store's new 'reputation' seemed to be doing sales the world of good.

Phil worried about the mixed messages of on the one hand prophesising Armageddon and on the other making a big deal about the 0% finance deal available on all widescreen TVs bought before December. George had welcomed him to the world of conscious dissonance.

At least the heat was off Henry now. In fact, with sales increasing and with a 'much more straightforward guy' responsible for a great deal of that, Redmond was positively affable towards Henry. “Don't you worry about George not being here, Henry,” he had said. “I think you'll benefit from having a bit of room to grow in.”

Privately, Redmond considered himself responsible for Henry's improvement. Even though that meeting hadn't actually taken place, clearly its arrangement had brought about a serious getting of act together. He would be certain to mention this in a few weeks time – in passing – once the improvement could be assumed permanent. He had already built it into a telephone discussion with a new store manager in Exeter he'd been asked to mentor. The 'subtleness of effective management', he had called it.

149

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

The Exeter guy had thanked him for the advice and Redmond had put the phone down smiling, satisfied, convinced that life didn't come all that much better than when you had a talented staff, rising sales and a guy on the other end of the phone you could lecture about it all twice a week.

At eleven, Henry came back from his tea break.

Twenty-seven televisions were showing a man with a beard talking to a news reporter.

“Who is that man?” Henry asked.

“Crataegus?” said Redmond, “You didn't hear about him yet? He's some commie-sympathising author. He wrote that book they're all buying, about where the cold war ended twenty years ago. You must have heard of it – 'The Sinatra Doctrine'. It's number one in the charts.”

“Oh yeah,” said Henry. “I did hear about that. I haven't read it yet.”

“Me neither,” Redmond said. “And don't intend to.

Looks like shit to me. Can't be bothered with wasting my time on that sort of stuff. People like him should find some proper work.” He made to switch channels.

“Hey, there's people watching that.” Henry pointed to some customers in the far corner of the store.

“Reputation, remember Phil? We're concerned about all of this sort of stuff now.”

Redmond sighed. “Fine,” he said. Henry pulled the remote out of his hands and used it to turn the volume up.

He called out to the customers, “Is that better for you guys?” They turned and smiled, gave him the thumbs up.

150

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

Henry winked at Redmond. Redmond scowled.

The interviewer was saying, “...in your book, you talk about a hypothetical period in 1989 that you call the 'Autumn of nations,' in which a number of communist states fall within the space of about five months. Isn't that all a little far fetched?”

“It all hinges on Hungary opening its border to Austria in August 1989,” said Crataegus, “which, in itself, followed Poland's election of Solidarity earlier that year.

When East Germans started flooding into Poland to cross the border, Honecker put out a call to the Soviet Union to sort Hungary out. Of course, we all know the atrocities which followed; it stopped dead in its tracks the spirit of revolution in its path across Eastern Europe, just as Tiananmen had stopped dead unrest in China a couple of months earlier. But what would Gorbachev have done had he still been alive when Honecker put out that plea?”

“You think Gorbachev would have acted differently if he'd still been president?” The interviewer asked.

“I think he'd have told the GDR it was their problem, not Russia's.”

“Jesus this guy talks some bullshit,” said Redmond, ringing up a digital radio on the till for a customer.

“Why would the Soviets just let the Balkans dismantle the Iron Curtain like that?”

“So the alternative history described in your book hinges on the assassination of Gorbachev in Paris earlier that year?” the interviewer continued.

“Gorbachev was a peacemaker,” the writer said.

151

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

People don't think about perestroika any more, but everything back then was starting to go the way of deescalation. What would have happened if he had lived?

He was a big threat to the communist hard-liners. Did you know they found a 'song to peace' in his pocket when was killed?”

“Do you subscribe to the theory that the shooting was organised by the KGB?” asked the interviewer, ignoring the question about the poem, probably keen that Crataegus didn't mistake a timed interview for some sort of interesting conversation. It wasn't like he was a movie star.

“It's possible. It doesn't really matter from the point of view of the consequences. Maybe Pirette really was just an extreme radicalist. Who knows?”

“That was July that Gorbachev got killed, right?” said the guy buying the radio.

“Don't ask me,” said Henry, “I remember practically nothing from that period.”

“He was picking up some award,” said Redmond, assuming the role of elder. “Some peace thing, I think.”

“So how is this guy a communist sympathiser?” Henry asked.

“You listen to the detail too much, Henry,” said Redmond. “That's how they get you, you know; it's like brainwashing: they blast you with irrelevant bits and pieces to distract you from the main point.”

“Which is?”

“He reckons we should take a softer line towards the 152

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

Soviets, thinks they might be more willing to negotiate than we imagine they are. It pisses me off when they get someone on here like this. What does he actually know?

He's just a guy who essentially makes stuff up; just because people buy his bollocks, we put him on TV and ask him all these questions like he actually knows something.”

“I saw this interview earlier,” said the radio guy.

“They ran it on the morning broadcast too. He says later on that maybe his world is the reality and that this one that we're living in is the fiction. Some weird shit like that.”

“See what I mean?” said Redmond. “Sheer bollocks.

It makes me so mad.”

“Sounds to me like it's just another way of looking at stuff,” Henry said. “Can't see that there's a law against it.”

“There ought to be a law for time wasting,” said Redmond. “We could get him on that.”

“Why are they interviewing him, in any case?” asked Henry.

“The Soviets are objecting to exercises being carried out by NATO,” said Redmond.

“It's like a pretend war,” said the radio guy. “All the commanders of the armed forces have to go through all the actions they would do if there was actually a war on.

Except without the actual fighting.” A pretend war.

Henry knew nothing about such things. He spent a moment imagining it as a playground scenario. He 153

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

wondered if someone divided up all the commanders into goodies and baddies, and if any of the guys allocated to the Soviet side ever stormed off in a sulk, complaining that they always got picked to be a Ruskie. He wondered if one side ever made out that they'd nuked the others, but the other side then claimed that they'd missed. He wondered if the goodies and the baddies over time became coherent groups in their own right, spending time with each other even outside the context of the 'war,' slagging off the other team, calling them names, getting into fights behind the bushes and the bike shed. Probably not, he supposed. It was probably all done to some sort of script, where the goodies always won.

“Didn't we once nearly go to war as a result of one of those exercise things?” he asked, dimly recalling something he had read once.

“That's only a rumour,” said Redmond. “And, of course, it's bollocks. As if a foreign power could mistake a military exercise for the real thing. The Soviets know exactly what we're up to.

They've got people everywhere, you know. It's just that any chance they have of undermining public confidence in our military, they'll take it. They so want Joe Public to believe they're just peace lovers, and in the meantime they continue to build the world's biggest arsenal of ICBMs.” “They said yesterday they're going to resume moon testing,” said radio guy. Henry looked at him, beginning to regret making the store a hub for discourse on the topic.

154

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

“Exactly! What more evidence do you need of their true colours than that?” By contrast, Redmond seemed to be really getting into the swing of things. “They're just animals. People say Johnson should have been more concessionary, but I reckon he plays them just right.

They have to be treated hard, Henry; give them respect and they'll just throw it back in our faces. No. We need to stand firm on everything, and I mean everything.”

“You do realise,” said Henry, “that the Russians are probably saying exactly the same thing about us.”

“Well they would, wouldn't they? That's the kind of people they are.”

“And where does all this angry posturing, with our fingers on the trigger, end up taking us?”

“Henry, you're a nice guy,” said Redmond, “but you're naïve, you know that? You need to harden up. Get pragmatic. It would be great if there was a nice, neat solution to all of this, but there isn't. There just isn't.

Sometimes you have to wipe the slate clean and start things over. The Russians can't be trusted. I'm not proud of this, but I have a daughter, ok? Just like you have a son. So I for one will sleep soundly in my bed once the missile shield is in place and then we can launch all our birds and watch them die.”

Ah yes, the missile shield. Every time the panic started rising, out came the stories of the missile shield. Nearing completion. Final touches. Beta testing. And so on.

155

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

Each successive president had renamed/rebranded the programme; each successive president had promised its completion before the end of his second term. Still the development continued.

And nothing annoyed the Soviets so much as the missile shield. Every time the peace talks came round it was the missile shield they wanted concessions on.

Henry wondered what it was like for the Russians, seeing your mortal enemy building a wall that your rocks would one day not be able to get over any more, whilst theirs could still rain down upon you. What did one do in such a situation? Build faster rocks? Build a wall of your own? Or did eventually a sense of stoicism descend?

Did one decide that everyone dying was better than the enemy living on without you? Did one take the view in the end that if the wall ever got close to being finished it would be as well to put an end to everything, whilst you still could, rather than risk the inevitable attack of madmen like Redmond?

And sometimes Henry wondered if this was the real reason for the shield's delays. Did someone in the Pentagon have their head screwed on? Did some general somewhere understand just what would happen if they ever got to the point when there was actually a finish date and a time?

“He wants me to do what?� asked Yanceman, when Henry logged in on the Munit at lunchtime.

Henry disliked the positioning of the Munit, it meant 156

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

he had to have his back to the entire shop more or less when he was using it. He looked behind him, scanned around the store, felt like a shoplifter. There was a guy by himself looking at the set-top digital TV boxes, no-one else. Ok for the moment, then.

“Are you able to do voice?” Yanceman asked.

“No,” Henry replied. “I'm in the store.” He tried to explain it again. Russian PC emulator. Russian metaverse client.

Russian friend in Ivanovo.

Backpacking holiday? Piggybacking? Yanceman remained silent whilst he went through it all. He felt like an idiot.

“Ok,” Yanceman said finally. “Yes, I can do that. Just about. It would have been nice if he'd have told me first.”

“He said it was your idea.”

“It's something we discussed about six months ago, I think; trust Gob to just dream it up again out of the blue like that.”

“He definitely made out you and he had been talking about it more recently than that.”

“You must have misunderstood him.” Henry glared at that line of text angrily. “And why is all this necessary?”

Henry looked behind him again. The guy by the digital receivers made eye contact, he was obviously waiting for assistance. “Can't discuss now,” he typed, quickly. “Again, Gob told me he'd discussed with you.

No misunderstanding,” he added. “I have a customer.

Back in five minutes.”

“Ok.” Henry went and served the customer and wondered 157

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

what the hell George thought he was up to. Before he went back to the Munit, he tried ringing him again. There was still no answer. He checked his watch. He had about fifteen minutes before Redmond came back, and then it would be his turn to go for lunch. He would ring from the phone box around the corner. It had been vandalised last week; he hoped it had been fixed now. There were no other public call boxes left in the city centre.

“I'm back,” he typed in on the Munit. But there were already more people in the store. “I can't stay. I'll try to talk to you tonight. Can you get to the Golden Horn or should I meet you inworld?”

There was a pause. Henry waited. Eventually, Yanceman replied, “I'll meet you at the Horn. Five o'clock?”

“Five thirty.”

“Ok. Have you heard anything at all from Gob today?

Did you say he called in sick? Have you spoken to him?”

“I've tried ringing him,” Henry typed, “but he doesn't pick up. No voicemail either.”

“He's not answering me either.” A customer cleared his throat behind Henry, it made him jump. The infra red keyboard slipped off the counter and fell on the floor, splitting open. Henry turned the Munit off at the wall, whilst the guy grinned sheepishly.

George, he thought, what are you up to?

The phone box had been repaired. He called George.

158

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

Nobody answered. He replaced the receiver. He thought.

He sighed. He hesitated at first, but then he rang Celia.

“What?” she said, when she heard it was him. “And why are you ringing from this number? Is there something wrong with your mobile?”

“I need to speak with George,” said Henry.

“Well, he's not here. Did you try his mobile?”

“Yes. He's not replying to anything. He rang in earlier sick.”

“Did you speak to him then?”

“No. Redmond took the call.”

“Well, he's not here. I can't help you.” He waited for her to hang up, but she didn't. He wondered why.

“If you hear from him, tell him I need to speak to him,” he said. “It's important.”

“Right.” So much contempt in a single word. The line went dead.

“You can... 'see' the metaverse?” Yanceman repeated, his pint halfway to his mouth, frozen there whilst he took this information in.

“It happened to me last night. I was with somebody inworld. I started seeing things that I shouldn't have been able to. Her skin. How she smiled. How her hair shone.

Stuff.”

“Oh, I see,” said Yanceman, grinning a little bit, sounding like a guy for whom normality had just been restored. His pint resumed its journey. “You were 'with' 159

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

someone.”

“Not like that,” Henry snapped. “In fact, it happened with George too. When I spoke to him after. I could see his face. It was like he was put out by the questions I was asking him.”

“I shouldn't wonder. Were you on voice?”

“Yes. Actually, no. Actually, I can't remember. I'm sure I can remember hearing his words in my head.”

“That'll be voice, then.”

“I know what you're going to tell me,” Henry said, with irritation. “You're going to say that I 'deduced' the facial expressions from his voice intonation. It wasn't like that. It wasn't like that at all.”

“And you told all this to Gob?” “Some of it. I didn't tell him I could see his face.”

“So, you didn't want to alert him to your little secret, right?”

“It's not like that.” Henry found himself flushing.

“Look, I don't understand any of this. It's all happening and I'm just trying to absorb it all. It doesn't make sense.

Last night, when I was talking to George, I was in a complete state. I didn't know what was real and what wasn't.”

“And do you now?”

“I've calmed down a little, if that's what you mean.

I'm not so freaked out any more. I want to go back in and try to establish what's real and what's not, if I can.” Only as he spoke these last words did he realise that this was the case. He had not thought a great deal about returning 160

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

to the metaverse properly during the day. Of course, he had to. He wanted to find Meg again. He had to find Meg again. It was imperative that he did so.

“And you still want your computer sped up, cooled down and tied in to Ivanovo?” said Yanceman. “You still want the Russian client installing? There's no way this will take just a single afternoon.”

“I thought I was going nuts,” said Henry. “Maybe I still am. I need to get this work done sooner, rather than later. In fact, we all do. Time is not on our side. If we do it this way then we can get the information out to residents just as soon as the gateway is open, rather than introducing a further delay.”

“That is true,” Yanceman conceded. “In fact, I was thinking that myself just the other day. On the other hand, we can't just open the gate as soon as the first avatar has used it. There'll be load testing to do; there's going to be a delay of sorts in any case. Alright; fine.

We'll do it. I'll need to get hold of the software. Christ knows how I'm going to install this thing; I hope you'll be able to read the Russian error messages for me.”

“How soon?” asked Henry.

“I'll get on to it tonight. It might take me a couple of days to get all the bits I need together. It could be longer.”

“Ok. Thanks.” That would have to do. His task achieved, Henry relaxed a little, started his drink, resumed his worrying about George.

Meanwhile, Yanceman frowned. “You can... 'see' the 161

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

metaverse?� he asked again.

162

Twelve

Henry thought, First there was the moment outside the library entrance, then there was inside the students' union cafĂŠ. We did both of those places already, and we did Mount Edgecombe. Sort of. So the next landmark after that was the evening at the ski slope. It's the only other specific thing I can remember before asking her out, and it's not like I especially want to re-live that moment. I need a ski slope. I need an artificial ski slope. Where am I going to find an artificial ski slope in an artificial world?

Do I have time to make one? It can't be too hard, can it?

Isn't it just a diamond shape repeated over and over?

Henry wondered if he was being too literal. Surely, an ordinary ski slope would be symbolic enough. But where was the closest ski slope, and how long would it take him to get there? Teleporting had still not been fixed yet.

Teleporting had still not been fixed yet. As a result, the number of residents logging on was falling massively.

Sales across the metaverse were down by over 50 per cent, it was reported. Business owners were going out of 163

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

their minds. It was said that Virtuosoft itself was in state of panic, a rumour which the Virtuosoft spokespeople flatly denied. Nobody believed it, anyway. The current consensus was that the rumour had been started by Virtuosoft in the first place, so it would look like they were as much a victim as the residents. The current consensus was that Virtuosoft were the ones who had disabled teleporting in the first place, and intentionally so.

Which the Virtuosoft spokespeople flatly denied.

They smiled when they denied stuff like that, as though they were sharing a private joke with the interviewer, as though the suggestion was so utterly ridiculous there could be no doubt whatsoever over the answer, but they supposed the interviewer was only doing her job and had to ask the question anyway. It was a smile that said, We understand that you have to ask us such a silly question, but isn't it funny all the same?! Interviewers usually had a smile all of their own in response to that; it said, Fuck off you prick.

The official word from Virtuosoft was that teleporting was down due to a bug, which they were working on identifying, and they wouldn't say a word more than that.

Bear with us folks. The engineers are working 24/7.

That sort of thing. The residents were angry. And worried. Things like this did not bode well at all when they went on for more than 24 hours. Flying was still broken too. There were even some reports that private messaging was down in some regions. Which was unthinkable.

164

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

Henry logged on and looked for Meg on his friends list; it was at that point he realised the two of them had yet to actually exchange friendship. He cursed, sent her a private message and got back the 'resident not online' message. So that was that.

“Hey stranger.” It was Amanda. Henry tried to remember the last time they had spoken properly. Far too long. But things were different now.

“Hey Mandy,” he replied. “How are you?”

“I'm not very happy. Isn't this ridiculous? Nothing works! What is going on in here?”

“It's not very satisfactory, is it?”

“As always, you understate. Are you at your house?”

“No.” Henry had materialised at the camp fire. Noone else was there, in fact the entire region was empty.

In fact...

Shit! Now he understood why Gob had been surprised by his presence here last night. The sim was a private island. With teleporting no longer working, there was no way from here to the mainland and no way to get from the mainland to here. He was stuck. He was stranded.

So how had he got here last night? Henry tried to retrace his steps mentally. It was all a panicked blur. He remembered being in his skybox and confusing it with the students' union. He remembered going upstairs to Thomas. He remembered being here, in the clearing, with Gob. Had he just logged on like that? No. No. He remembered now; he had teleported. It had been an unthinking action, like the way you still reach out for the 165

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

light switch, even though the bulb has been blown for days. This time it had worked, but he hadn't noticed that it had worked.

He had teleported here, and yet teleporting was broken. Perhaps, temporarily, someone had fixed it.

Henry tried teleporting home.

“Are you still there?” Amanda asked, as his skybox rezzed around him.

“Have you tried teleporting today?” Henry typed quickly.

“Yes. It didn't work.”

“Try now. I'll send you a beam to here. You can come visit me in my skybox.”

“It won't work,” she said. Henry sent it anyway.

“Honey,” she said, presently, “I kind of... can't at the moment. I'm busy.”

Henry felt himself go red. “Of course,” he said. “I understand. I'm sorry.”

The private message box kept turning blue, then green, then blue, then green; over and over, as Amanda typed, then deleted, then typed, then deleted again. Henry found himself smiling sadly at the indecision. Finally, she just said, “I'm sorry too, Henry.”

At least it explained things. “Hey,” he said, “things end.”

Things end. If Henry could have had just two words inscribed on his tombstone, it would have been those.

166

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

Things end. The single truth that he lived with, day in, day out. That things began was also true, but the beginnings you looked forward to often didn't happen as you wanted and the beginnings that did were over in an instant in any case. Everything you ever did was all about working towards an ending of some sort, somewhere, some time. Ending was inevitable, for everything; even the planet; even the universe. Where others saw youth, Henry saw ending; this was the tragedy for him of fatherhood. Whilst others looked into the adulthood awaiting their children, Henry could not avert his gaze from the inevitability of his own son's death. A month earlier they had visited Celia's mother in her nursing home, and all the way back Celia had been fretting about herself ending up 'in a place like that'. And all the way back Henry had been fretting about Thomas, how one day he might look just like the ninety year old guy who had been sitting in a chair by the window, staring at his reflection in the mirror, wondering who and where and when the hell he was.

Things ended, and the way things ended mattered.

Henry hadn't known that before Mary died, even though she had told him. He just hadn't appreciated it. He supposed there must be plenty of other people who had this view also. He wondered what they did to make it bearable.

Some days he couldn't help himself. He sat and closed 167

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

himself to the world around him, so that nothing outside could get in and nothing inside him could get out. He sat and thought about Mary's final moments. He sat and thought about her ending, and the words which had passed between them that evening that Henry had never spoken of to anyone, especially Celia. And not just words. A half hour before her death they had been draining their glasses in the piano bar opposite the Barbican. Him and Mary and a couple of others from the course, it had been; a random selection, almost, based purely on who had sat with whom during lunch that day, because that was the way things got chosen back then.

They were out to celebrate the start of the summer term.

Henry knew there was something different about her that day right from the start, simply because this wasn't the sort of evening she ordinarily chose. Mary was close to her housemates now, and most evenings these days she just stayed at home with them. That adventurous first term, where everyone was out each night doing everything was now just a memory. By and large, the students had found comfortable routines and fallen into them. And Henry hadn't liked that, because the only thing he had wanted to do back them – literally the only thing – was to spend as much time as he possibly could in Mary's company.

That cold, wet, blustery evening in December, that moment at the corner of Drake Circus and Gibbon Lane when he had asked her out had become more comfortably distant with each day that had passed. The longer it was 168

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

since then the more he allowed himself to believe that maybe her thoughts might have changed somehow, that perhaps her answer might just be different, were he to ask her again. Of course he knew, deep down, it wouldn't be.

But his heart had no interest in such negative trivia, and Henry continued to dream.

Leaving the bar, they walked as a group to the bottom of Armada Way; the others carried on towards Lockyer Street and their flat in the YWCA, Henry and Mary took a right turn past the council chambers and the fountains, where skateboarders practised over concrete structures even at this time of the day.

Halfway up the precinct, the heavens opened. They tried to run, found it to be pointless, took shelter under the overhang for a camera shop.

They had been talking about different types of dog.

“Are you ok, Henry?” Mary asked, suddenly, out of the blue. “Are we ok? We haven't spoken much since, well, you know.”

Henry hated it when these sorts of questions came out of nowhere. Hated it. The desire to nod, to deny, to sooth, to dismiss fears hastily, to say whatever it would take to get the door on this topic to close just as quickly as the wind had blown it open was overwhelming.

Denying problems was like a reflex action for Henry.

Weighty, meaningful conversations had to be planned, had to be built up to, required no small measure of courage and alcohol, and even then he was prone to avoidance at the last moment. Outcome aside, that 169

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

evening in December when Henry had asked Mary out was one of his proudest ever achievements, for he had known that it was something he just had to do; he had planned it, he had chosen his moment, and he had carried it out.

Henry thought, What do I say here that's honest?

What do I say that's honest and which doesn't ruin things completely and utterly? I love her. Thinking of her is something I could fill my entire day with. If I should even hint at that then she'll know she has to put as much distance between herself and me as possible, and with good reason. But if I tell her the opposite then I'm lying.

And I can't lie to her. In any case, I shouldn't lie to her; I might be still in with a chance, for all I know. Telling her I don't love her might then close the door for me forever...

Listen to yourself, thought Henry. You're talking to yourself like a child talks to another. Grow up. You asked; she answered; nothing's changed since then. How could it? At least put an end to her worries. After all, she was truthful with me; she has nothing to be sorry for.

“Mary,” he said, and he spent a few more moments, composing it so that it came out right. “I'm an idiot; I know that. There's a line in life and it has something to do with seeing things as they really are, as they really matter; and you're on one side of it, and I'm on the other.”

“Please stop,” she said.

“Let me finish.” He thought for a moment again. “I wanted to say that it's not fair that you're over there, all by yourself, because it's not like you chose to go 170

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

voluntarily. I keep looking for a shortcut, so that I could be there with you to keep you company; but short cuts like that don't exist, do they?”

“No Henry,” she said, “they don't.”

“We're ok, Mary. That's just the way it has to be.”

She said nothing in response to that, but then her hands closed around his. Her thin fingers were wet and cold.

Feeling them made him want to sob.

She looked at him for a moment, kept the eye contact.

Neither of them looked away. Water dripped down her face; perhaps there were tears mixed in there too. Henry knew this was not a first kiss moment. He supposed the opportunity was there, but it would have cheapened them both if he had taken it.

“Henry, I'm lost,” she said.

“I know you are Mary,” he replied, looked at her a little longer and then pulled her close, put his arms around her. He felt her weaken there, within the space he had created for her. She didn't cry. He held her tight and, after a fashion, he felt her start to return the embrace.

Oh, how he remembered that moment. The sounds, the smells, the stinging in his eyes. He remembered resting his cheek on her wet hair and the rustling sound her jacket made. He remembered the noise of water running into drains and the puddles rippling, reflecting coloured lights. He remembered feeling cold and wet, and yet more content than he had ever felt before. He remembered the sense of relief. He remembered silently rejoicing in the revelation that, yes, he – Henry – was 171

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

capable of lending strength to her after all. The part of him that usually went mad with anxiety, frantically searching for things to say, was suddenly gone; silenced; no more. There was just him and his senses, and the moment he stood in. He let it last and last, and the when and the how it would end stopped mattering to him. In that moment of physical contact, they communicated more through their closeness than they had through all the words they had exchanged in the eight months they had known each other. And then they pulled slowly apart, spent another few seconds looking at each other, and walked hand in hand the last few yards to Mayflower Street, no longer noticing the rain, where they went their separate ways for the evening.

Henry knew it had not been a first kiss moment. He supposed the opportunity had been there, but it would have cheapened them both if he had taken it. But, he thought, if I had kissed her, I could have kept her there for five minutes, ten perhaps; who knows? Even if she hadn't returned my kiss we could have stood there and argued, at least. We might have walked together. We might have gone a different route. We might have ended up going exactly the same way, but a few seconds either way would have been all that was needed.

Because, not ten minutes after their embrace had ended, Mary was lying dead in the street.

Henry spent the evening looking at ski resorts, using his 172

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

newly found powers to teleport from slope to slope to slope. With a couple of exceptions, they were all pretty much of a muchness, and clearly designed with the holiday season in mind. The two exceptions were a whole alpine sim where snowbeasts jumped out from behind trees and attempted to eat you, and a slope where all skiers were required to take to the piste naked. Henry chose a resort of medium popularity, keen to avoid the lag of hotspots (although numbers were low in any case).

Holiday season was fine. It had been the first few days of December when they'd gone there in any case; and a week later he had asked her out.

Henry typed out another private message for Meg, attempting to explain his absence the previous night with a computer crash followed up by difficulty logging back on. A lie, but surely better than the truth, which would only scare her. Why am I doing this? he asked himself, yet again. What am I hoping to achieve? Every time Henry tried to examine the phenomenon he appeared to be caught up in, all sense surrounding it appeared to break down. Look at it and it cannot be examined. He simply did not know enough about this effect to be able to make any reasonable assumptions about it, far less attempt any predictions. Where was this going? He had no idea. Why was he doing it? To find out where it went.

Liar, he thought. You know exactly why you're doing this. Just because its articulation would make you sound like a madman – even to yourself, which is why you don't 173

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

say it – don't pretend you're here for reasons of scientific curiosity or anything so virtuous as that.

Perhaps I am mad. Henry reflected on the possibility for a few minutes, wondering if it would be such a bad thing if he was. What constitutes 'mad' in any case? he thought. If I am able to ask the question, does that make me mad in certain moments and sane in others? Why would madness not affect me across all of my modes of existence? Why would madness only affect me when I am connected to the metaverse?

Perhaps, he thought, this is only the start. Perhaps my madness will grow. Perhaps I will start to perceive things soon in the real world which do not belong there.

Images. Textures. People who should be dead. People who have not yet been born. Perhaps I will become paranoid. Perhaps I will start to imagine things about the people around me. Like Celia – perhaps I will suspect her of plotting things behind my back. Henry laughed out loud at that idea. After all, that would hardly be an incidence of unreality, would it? What about Redmond, though? What about Yanceman? What about George?

What about Thomas? Thinking the thought made Henry sick in his stomach. The idea that something beyond his control could reach into his brain and change the way he thought about his son – change the way he perceived his son's behaviour – was upsetting, even in the contemplation. I must not think such things, he told himself. I must not give such ideas my attention; it only lends them credence which they do not deserve. How 174

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

could it be possible, in any case, for my perception to be changed in that manner? How could it be possible for one day an action to mean one thing to me and the next for it to mean another? Surely that is ridiculous, like one day witnessing red as yellow.

And yet, thought Henry, where I perceive uniqueness, Celia sees abnormality. Where I perceive imagination, Celia sees distractibility. But those are the views of two separate people looking upon the same thing; how would it be possible for one to start experiencing the perceptions of the other? Would it be possible to know such a thing had happened if it did? If one day I notice that the light is yellow instead of red, do I assume my perceptions have changed or do I conclude that someone changed the colour of the bulb? If one day I grow weary of Thomas' thoughtfulness, do I assume that my perceptions are altered, or do I conclude that my boy is changing? Once upon a time, Celia would delight in everything he did, every sound he made, every face he pulled, every mouthful of food that he swallowed; in those days she saw perfection in every action – what now has changed that now she observes only dysfunction?

I give up, Henry thought. I just don't know. Would madness be such a bad thing if you never knew you were mad? Would the sadness of others as they looked upon my madness matter if I was unaware of it? Conversely, if I can perceive the sadness of others observing me, does that mean that I cannot, by definition, be mad?

You are not mad, he told himself. You cannot be.

175

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

You know this to be true.

I know nothing, he replied to himself. I can trust nothing I see or hear or think. Maybe I am mad. Maybe I will never know. Maybe it is of no consequence one way or the other. It can make no difference to the ending.

Things end. Henry looked at Amanda's name on the friends list and thought about the way that things change.

He would miss her. But it was good that things ended; it was right. Wisdom was knowing this. Knowing that things ended took away the safety net provided by the blind assumption that they would never change. It made the moment matter. It made perception and interpretation matter. If a place that you looked upon was known to you as the last thing that you would ever see, you would make sure you noticed something nice about it, if only so that you could be sorry for never seeing it again.

176

Thirteen

Just as he was about to call it a night, Meg at last answered his message.

“Are you still online?” she asked.

“I am,” he replied. “Perhaps we should exchange friendship,” he suggested.

“I'm not sure I trust you yet,” she answered to that.

“Frankly, you unnerve me at times.”

“That's fair,” Henry said. “There have been occasions over the past few days when I've unnerved myself.”

“I get the distinct impression that you seem to think statements like that reduce my anxiety. Please allow me to correct that assumption.”

“I simply meant,” said Henry, “that things have happened to me whilst I've been talking with you that I am unable to explain. The things I say which scare you are just the utterances of a confused and frightened man.”

“Why are you confused, Hoppy?” she asked. “What things scare you?”

“Tell me,” said Henry, “what you make of the current 177

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

situation with the Russians?”

“Oh, that reminds me,” she said. “There's a test due any minute.”

Henry leaned back a little in his chair, drew the curtains back, looked upon the full moon slap bang in the middle of the sky. It already seemed impossibly bright, he thought; how could anything stand out against that?

“You make a point of watching them?” he asked.

“You don't?”

“I only saw them on the news.”

“You do understand that they publish the times well in advance?”

“Of course,” he said, “they want people to see them.”

“You should watch it tonight; it's quite a sight.”

“I don't doubt it,” he wrote. “My worry is it will heighten my anxiety about dying in a nuclear inferno.”

“It has that effect on me too,” she replied, “but I still have to watch them. It's due in about five minutes.”

Henry settled back, so he could keep the moon in view. “Ok,” he typed. “I'm watching.”

Suddenly, he saw an opportunity.

“It's difficult to watch it and type at the same time,” he wrote. “Do I have to be looking directly at it to see it?

How long will it last?”

“I thought you said you saw the replays on the telly.”

“Yes, but that's never the same, is it? They fiddle with things to make it easier to see.”

“If you say so.”

“I need a hands free method. Hey,” he wrote, as 178

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

though the idea hand only just occurred to him, “do you ever do voice?”

“I fiddled with that once or twice. I could never get it to work. Three minutes.”

“Oh. I guess you don't want to try it now then?”

“It'll take longer to set up than the time we have remaining,” she answered. “There's no point.” Henry swallowed his disappointment, pulled the wireless keyboard onto his lap, supposed it had been a long shot in any case. At least he had floated the idea; now it was out there it could be returned to one day.

“Think of it this way,” she wrote. “In a few moments, you will actually see with your own eyes an event on the moon. Did you ever imagine you would witness such a thing?”

“I suppose that's one way of looking at it,” Henry replied. “It makes me less keen, however, on the idea of going to the moon any time in the near future.”

“There. I think you've just discovered a great peacetime application for this new technology: moon tourism. You get shot to the moon on a giant rocket. The only problem is it's a one-way ticket.”

“Would you go?” he asked.

“Only if they fixed an extremely long piece of elastic to the space rocket before it took off! How about you?”

“I suppose I would want to know that I was going to die pretty quickly once I got there,” Henry typed.

“Are you mad? It's the moon! You can go bouncing!

Why would you want your time up there to be any shorter 179

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

than it could be?”

All of a sudden, a tiny patch of the moon lit up. The surface around it seemed to go into shadow. The light spread. It was like a torch beam widening. It was over in an instant.

“I think,” said Henry, “I would always be scared to look up, just in case I saw exactly that, but on the surface of the Earth. I would prefer to die knowing that there are people here who could see me, rather than dying completely by myself with a dead planet in the sky.”

“You're a bundle of fun to talk to tonight,” said Meg. “My apologies,” Henry replied. “The sight of a nuclear explosion on our natural satellite does dark things to my soul.”

“You'll get over it. By the way,” she said, “did I mention that I'm standing in your living room?”

“Oops!” typed Henry, “Are you stuck?”

“No; my stepping stones are still here. But are you likely to return at any point? And, if so, will it be with company that you would prefer not to be seen with?

Should I make myself scarce? I only ask because there doesn't seem to be much point in going to places any more in the metaverse. I might just as well make myself comfy on your sofa and do all my messaging from here if you're not planning on returning any time soon. Are there drinks in this cupboard?”

“I'm on a ski slope, actually,” said Henry. And now, his heart started to beat more quickly. “Would you care to join me?”

180

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

“Are you nearby?”

“No.” He checked the map. “In fact, I'm halfway across the metaverse.”

“By my calculation,” she said, “that means you've been walking non stop since I last saw you.”

“Meg,” said Henry, “I have special powers.”

“Don't tell me they've fixed teleporting and never bothered to tell anyone about it?”

“I don't think so,” he answered. “Try teleporting to me now.” He sent her his location.

“No luck, Hoppy,” she replied. So, instead, he sent her a beam. Instantly, she appeared beside him.

“See?” he said. “Are you impressed?”

He saw that she was looking at him with suspicion in her eyes. “How did you do that?” she asked. “Are you one of... them?”

“You mean a Virtuon? Good heavens, no. In any case, you'd be able to tell from my surname if I was.”

“You could be an alt,” she said.

“Well, I'm not.”

“So, explain it.”

“I can't. I wish I could.” Henry sighed. “It's actually rather the lesser of so many mysteries in my life at the moment. Hey - you changed your top.”

“I got fed up with the old one,” she said. “I used your living room to change in. That's the real reason why I needed to know if you were about to stumble in on me, incidentally. It wouldn't have done for you to find me naked in your accommodation.”

181

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

“I guess that would have been embarrassing for us all.”

“It would.”

“I actually did that once,” he said, going red as the memory returned to him, “in another person's house. I'd been there previously, when I'd logged off. When I logged back on again it told me my home location was unavailable and rezzed me right back into her house.

God that was awkward.”

“She was naked?”

“She was naked,” Henry confirmed. “But not because she was changing clothes.”

“Oops.”

“Yes, oops. Oops indeed.”

“Bravo, by the way; I almost didn't notice the change of subject. Very smooth.”

Henry laughed, thinking this was going well. All the same, disappointment was pulling at the edges.

“And why the ski slope? Just happenstance?”

“As opposed to?”

She paused at that, looked at him, closely. “See?” she said. “You're doing it already.”

“What am I doing?” asked Henry.

“You're comparing me to her again.”

“I'm comparing you to who?”

“Oh come on,” she wrote. “Don't try my patience.

You know who. Her. Mary.”

“What do you know about Mary?” he asked.

“I know nothing about Mary,” she replied. “You told 182

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

me on the jetty that I reminded you of someone. And yesterday, before you left me, you asked me who I was, Meg or Mary.”

“It's true; I did,” said Henry. “You both replied.”

“Both? What do you mean, 'both'? You see two people standing here?”

“I see one person, but it changes.” As Henry typed, his own understanding started to focus. “It's like those illusions which are one thing or the other, but never both at the same time. Vase or faces. Old woman or young woman. Eskimo or Indian.”

“Inuit or Native American, you mean?”

“I stand corrected.”

“You're weird, Henry,” Meg said. “I don't understand you one bit.”

“Am I scaring you?”

“A little. I suppose I'm gradually desensitising.”

“Hurrah for systematic desensitisation!”

“So am I the old woman or the young woman?” Meg asked him. “Answer carefully.”

“That's a surprising and somewhat tangential approach to the issue,” Henry replied.

“It helps me if I can divert conversations to familiar subject matter.”

“How old did you say you were?”

“I didn't,” she said. “Let's just say I've seen 21 a few times. And that doesn't mean multiples.”

“Mary was 20 when she died,” said Henry, “and that was 20 years ago. I still think of her as 20, even though 183

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

she would be 40 now. Sort of like how you think of your older brother. So I suppose that must make you the older woman. Sorry about that.”

“Thanks very much,” she said. “There are so many positive aspects to knowing you.”

Why isn't anything happening? Henry thought. Why do I only see Meg? Where is Mary? Should I be doing something to initiate the phenomenon? Is this ski slope too much of an abstraction? Should I have tried to make an artificial one after all?

“You know,” he said, “it concerns me that the sole basis for conversation between us appears to be my confusing you with someone who has been dead for twenty years. Why don't we actually do something and lay down some new shared experiences we can talk about?”

“What exactly did you have in mind?” she asked cautiously.

“Well... fancy a ski?”

He saw her lips go hard. “Why did you bring me here, Henry?” He knew he was in trouble now.

“This is where I happened to be.”

“I asked happenstance earlier, and you asked me, 'as opposed to?' There's a word implied there.”

“There is?” asked Henry.

“Coincidence,” said Meg. “I don't quite follow.”

“I'm warning you, Henry,” she said. “I'm not an idiot.

You wanted to see if I was observing a coincidence. You 184

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

chose this place because it looks like somewhere you went with her, isn't it? You wanted to see if I recognised it.”

“The coincidence,” lied Henry, “was to do with the season!”

“It's October, Henry.”

“You didn't see the shops yet?”

“Last chance,” she said. “You tell me the truth or I'm out of here. I mean it.”

“What are you going to do? Wade through the snow at a slow, but determined pace away from me?”

“And now you're taking the piss?”

“Are you going to find a precipice,” said Henry, “and threaten to jump?”

“Yes,” she said, “that's exactly what I'm going to do.”

“You're going to find a precipice?”

“And hurl myself over the side, yes.”

“You're not even going to threaten to hurl yourself over the side first?”

“I'm not going to do that, no.” She started to walk away from him, up the slope.

“Did I mention I can fly too?” Henry called after her, wondering if that was true. “I'll just fly down after you, catch you, and bring you right back up again.” He launched himself into the air, flew over her head, landed a few feet in front of her.”

“How do you do that?” she cried, but no words appeared on the screen. “I'm not impressed,” her avatar said. “In any case, I don't believe it's even remotely 185

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

possible for one avatar to actually catch another avatar mid-fall. Are you going to try to rez a pose ball or something?”

“Let's go skiing,” Henry said. “You can race me.” He tried to think back to the dry slope, to the evening they had spent there. He tried to locate a detail, a moment; anything. The problem was exactly that. He remembered they had done skiing... and nothing more. It wasn't the same as the moment outside the library or the day at Mount Edgecombe; those were much more vivid memories. He had a vague recollection of coming home in a taxi, crammed in with her and four others, but of the events on the slope itself he could remember nothing. He was not even entirely sure that the taxi memory actually did belong to that evening at all. After all, it was twenty years ago!

I need a trigger, he thought, something specific. I need something to hang it all on. But what? I need to remember something about that evening and try to recreate it here. Without her noticing. And I haven't a clue. I have no idea. None. I shouldn't have chosen this place. I should have gone for something more vivid. The New Year party, for example. But it's too late now. I must try to think of something. I must!

Meg sat on a passing chair lift and started to disappear out of draw range. Henry launched himself into the air and flew alongside her. “Are you mad at me?” he asked.

“I've told you already that I don't understand things being the way they are.”

186

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

“I bet you're just waiting for me to disappear and for her to fill my shoes,” she said. “How inconvenient it must be for you to have to put up with my twittering.”

Oh my, he thought. You're really not like her at all, are you? That's not to say your gripe isn't legitimate. He said, “It's not like that at all. You fascinate me. Even if it isn't you I see all the time, it interests me the places you turn up in, the coincidences you generate.”

“Now you're just using fancy language. I'm sorry,” she said suddenly, “this way of talking really isn't like me at all. You miss your friend. I should be able to understand that. I don't know why I'm acting this way.

Perhaps I'm tired.”

“Let's do some skiing.”

“Did you go skiing with her? Tell me the truth. I promise I won't be cross.”

“Yes,” Henry admitted, finally. “I did. But only once.

And I can hardly remember anything about it. I think for that exact reason I haven't seen Mary at all so far this evening. Just you. Hey: perhaps it's not about seeing you in order to see Mary at all. Perhaps I needed to see Mary in order to see you.”

“That's actually about the nicest thing you've said to me,” she said. He could see that she was smiling.

“You have a nice smile,” he told her.

“How do you know what kind of smile I have?”

“I just know. It's another one of my powers.”

They had reached the top of the slope. Meg jumped off the chair lift. “I think you're joking about that,” she 187

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

said.

“So make a face,” he told her in response. She wrinkled her nose. “Disgusted,” he told her. She opened her eyes wide. “Shocked,” he announced. She narrowed them into slits. “Angry,” he said, grinning.

“Stop!” she cried. “How do you do that?”

“I don't know!” he told her. “It just started happening a couple of days ago. Now I can do it with everyone I meet in the metaverse.”

“Not just me, then? Not just Mary?”

“Anyone.”

“But can you see what I look like?” she asked. “Could you describe my face? What colour hair do I have? Am I wearing glasses?”

“I have no idea,” Henry said. “I see none of that. But when I perceived Mary then I did see her features also. I recognised her.”

“But this makes no sense!”

“Have you not heard me telling you that?”

A pair of skis appeared on Meg's feet and Henry noticed for the first time the little ski vendor at the top of the slope. Not for the first time, he marvelled at the capacity of the female brain to multi task; even the absorption of such mind-blowing information as such he had just imparted to Meg was apparently insufficient to distract her from the business of shopping. He bought himself a pair also, and a pair of ski goggles too, just for the hell of it. By the time he was done she was off down the slope already. Buying herself time to take it in, he 188

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

thought, and he didn't blame her one bit.

Have I badly misjudged this situation? He thought.

Does it have nothing to do with Mary at all? I was so certain. It felt so real. She felt so real. I'm such an idiot.

Why did I log off last night when she spoke to me? Why didn't I stay? Why didn't I ask her things? There are so many things I want to ask her. There are so many things I want to hear her talk about. I let my fear get the better of me, and now I'll never hear her voice again. Perhaps everything about this phenomenon was leading up to yesterday. Perhaps that was the moment it was all pointing to and now it is gone. I've blown it.

He clicked on the start orb and his avatar set off down the slope after her. Waves of snow sprayed left and right of him as he cut one way and then the next. He wondered what things he and Mary could have spoken about had he had the good sense to get a hold of himself yesterday, had he not gone running off like a child. The air was cold and crisp, he felt a prickling feeling inside his nose as he looked across the wintery scene. He thought to himself, of course this is more reminiscent of those holidays to the Tirol when I was a teenager. It took him back to a youthful awe of mountains and nature, and experiencing for the first time that wonderful sensation of an audible silence. There had been none of that at the artificial slope that evening. Plastic bristles didn't absorb sound in the same way that snow did. And this place here, along with his memories of Austria, was just so... white. From the artificial slope he remembered only the dirty colour of old 189

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

plastic under the glow of artificial lights, and the distant lights of the city centre. And dampness in the air.

Because it had been the evening. It had been dark.

But here it was midday, the snow almost blinding in its brightness. Henry suddenly wondered why he had left his light settings on local time and brought up the settings menu to change it to midnight. Instantly, the scene before him changed. The sense of white vanished, and darkness settled in. In the distance, far off buildings turned into little spots of light. And local lighting turned the slope into a yellowy grey, heavy with shadow, brighter in pools here and there beneath the floodlights.

Yes, Henry thought, I remember that's how it was on the slope that evening. I remember watching how people's shadows moved around them as they whizzed past a floodlight. I remember watching Mary in that way, and as I watched her she wobbled and slipped, and fell. I remember skiing over to her and seeing her face contorted, thinking her in dreadful pain, but actually she was laughing. I remember offering her a hand and pulling her back to her feet. How could I have forgotten that? It was the first time I held her hand?!

The bottom of the slope was approaching. He could see her on the ground, sprawled on her back, her skis lying next to her. He heard the sound of her laughter drifting up towards him and he skied over. He held out his hand to her.

“Mary?” he asked.

“Yes, Henry?” she replied.

190

Fourteen

“Is it really you?” Henry's heart was racing, his fingertips were cold.

Mary paused, said, “What?” Took his hand and pulled herself to her feet. She looked past him and started to laugh again. Henry spun around, saw another avatar approaching. “Did you see that?” Mary cried at it. Henry recognised the habit she had of raising her hand to her mouth when she laughed, but not as though to cover it.

All those little movements, how he had treasured their memory in the years since she died. And that was how he knew that it was her now. Beyond all doubt. It had to be.

Mary was laughing so hard she suddenly lost her balance, tried to put her foot out to stop herself from falling, misjudged the weight of the ski boot completely, and toppled into Henry. They both went down. “Oh Henry!” she laughed as they tried to disentangle themselves. The third avatar came over to help. As it got closer the features started to fill in and Henry recognised Adam Thorpe, the mature student of their little bunch, the 191

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

guy who he would tell people privately he reckoned was there for the sole purpose of recapturing his lost youth.

Henry liked to focus on youth; with Adam's good looks, muscular build, smooth voice, social charm and the spending habits of someone who had fifteen years of fulltime employment behind him, there was really very little else he lacked. It had been Adam's idea to come to the ski slope in the first place.

Adam looked worried. He shot over to them – his skiing, of course, was excellent – and offered a hand up to Mary whilst Henry pushed himself back up to his feet.

“That was quite a tumble!” he exclaimed, steadying her by holding her arm with his other hand whilst she stood getting her breath back. Henry watched him jealously, remembering in an instant the confidence Adam had always had to touch women in this way, and how they never ever seemed to resent it. Two minutes ago I wouldn't have been able to describe a single thing about this man, he thought. I wouldn't even have been able to recall his full name. And now I recognise everything about him. To Henry, the revelation brought with it another sudden understanding.

Mary's movements, Adam's movements; it's movement I remember best about people, he thought.

“Are you alright, Mary?” Adam asked. Henry felt his stomach tighten at the sound of her name, the first time someone else had mentioned it since this whole thing had begun.

“I was just flying down the slope,” Mary laughed, 192

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

“and I suddenly thought, 'Shit! How am I going to stop!'”

“A good job Henry was here to pick you up,” said Adam. Henry thought, Fuck off Adam, I don't need your charity, And then he remembered the conversations the two of them had had about her. Had that been before this night or after?

Shit, he thought. I remember. It was this afternoon!

It was today! It was four in the afternoon in the students' union café; I told him how I felt about Mary. This is playing out exactly the same as it did that night. Word for word. Am I supposed to go along with the script?

What will happen if I say something different?

Mary walked a little shakily over to her skis, picked them up, walked over to the side to put them back on.

Adam skied alongside her. Henry did his best to keep up, feeling an idiot for the way his skis made him look as he tried to lift them up, one after the other, and move forwards without slipping. He entertained the idea for a moment that his recollection of the skill of skiing did not appear to match that which he had of the people of the setting and the things that they had said; he then remembered this was pretty much exactly as good as he had ever been at skiing. The recollection, in fact, was perfect.

Enough of this. He was not here to drift alongside that which had been already, though he could feel himself being pulled in that direction; it was a vaguely hypnotic attraction, already it was starting to feel like she had never been away. She's been away for twenty years, he 193

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

reminded himself. He tore his gaze from the monitor and forced himself to look around the living room, bring himself back to reality for a moment. Straight away, he looked back, worried that it might be Meg there again if he lost his focus. He wondered what happened to Meg when he saw Mary. Did she perceive him to have disappeared? Could she see everything that he did and hear every word that he said; was she there in front of him right now, jumping up and down and waving her hand in front of his face? Was she talking right now to her very own lost love from twenty years ago? Or had she simply winked out of existence for the time being?

Or for ever? Had she ever existed properly in the first place? He would be sure to ask her about that. If he ever saw her again. Henry realised that he really hoped he would.

Finally, he managed to make his way over to the side, where Adam was doing some joke about the number of fingers he was holding up in front of her. “Mary!� Henry cried; when they both looked up at him he realised he had no idea what to say to her. How did you go about greeting someone who had been dead for twenty years and did not appear to realise it?

Mary said nothing, just looked at him expectantly.

Henry realised his blankness was a factor of his mental state somehow being the snapshot of how it had been back then. His thoughts, his feelings; it was as though he had regressed; it was as though he was back in the mind again of a socially clumsy nineteen year old. He 194

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

reminded himself of his actual age. He reminded himself that he did not need an excuse to speak to people.

“Adam,” he said, “can I speak to Mary for a moment?

I really need a couple of minutes alone with her, if you don't mind.”

Adam looked at Henry approvingly. “Sure thing, Henry,” he said. “You keep an eye on her, mind,” he said as he walked past, clapping Henry on the shoulder, “that was a nasty fall. Make sure she sits for a few minutes.”

“I won't let her move an inch,” Henry promised him.

He sat down next to her.

“Are you ok, Henry?” Mary said. “You shouldn't worry about me, it was only a little fall.”

“I'm not worried about the fall,” said Henry. Again he found himself searching for a way to start this conversation, to overcome the knot that was forming in his stomach. The script they were following did not help; it was as though she had no idea she was in the metaverse...

“What year is it?” he said, suddenly.

“What?” said Mary.

“I mean it,” he insisted. “Humour me.”

“It's 1988, Henry,” she said slowly, looking faintly irritated by the question.

Now this was an interesting turn of events. Henry looked at Mary for a moment, wondering what to say next. Was she in role play? Was she having a joke?

195

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

Of course it couldn't be 1988 for her. That was impossible.

Any more impossible than it being a ghost you're somehow talking to? he thought. A ghost that logs into the metaverse? A ghost with a bank account that allows it to log into the metaverse? And if you dismiss the answer so readily then why did you ask the question?

Once more, he grimaced at the unexamined nature of his acceptance of the situation. He tried to decide quickly which way to take this. Play along or confront?

Mentally, he flipped a coin.

Confront. “Mary,” he said, “it's not 1988. It's 2008.

And this isn't the first time you and I have sat here at the foot of this slope.”

Mary frowned at him, then looked past and waved at someone behind. “I don't know what you mean, Henry,” she said.

“I mean it, Mary,” he insisted. “This is really serious.

Please look at me.”

“I forgot to stop!” she shouted, appearing not to hear him. Irritated, he turned to see who it was who was approaching this time. An avatar's details filled in as she came over.

Henry gasped as he recognised the newcomer. It was Celia.

“Fucking hell, Mary; you went flying!” Celia was red cheeked. She sat down on the other side of Mary. “Are you alright? I thought you were going to break 196

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

something! Are you being the noble gent, Henry?”

“Celia?” Henry said.

His wife looked at him. “Yes?” “What are you doing here?”

“What?” She looked at Mary. “What's he on about?”

“I have no idea,” said Mary.

He tried to send Celia a private message, but the facility appeared to be down. Henry looked at the stairs.

Was it possible that Celia had her own metaverse account? Could she have been using it secretly all this time? Could she be up there now, on the laptop, using the wireless network to connect, piggybacking her own virtual adventures on top of his own?

He looked back at the monitor. “Maybe I should take a tumble,” Celia was saying to Mary. “Then perhaps Henry would be a knight in shining armour for me!”

Bitch, he thought. She knows how I feel about Mary.

She has to parade it out in the open like that, like she reckons I'll think she's clever. Perhaps she wants to send me a message about her power. Well I won't give in to blackmail.

“Be my guest Celia, if you want to give it a try,” Henry typed, “be sure to go nice and high now to get a good speed up; I don't come running for low velocity collisions, you know.” Henry paused before hitting enter.

He kicked off his shoes.

He hit enter, jumped out of his seat, ran up the stairs (as quietly as he could), threw open the door to Celia's bedroom.

197

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

The room was in darkness, just the time in large, LED numbers illuminated a small patch of the bedside table in a faint red glow. The covers rustled.

Celia sat up, blinking. She rubbed her eyes. “What?” she said.

“Where's the laptop? demanded Henry.

“What?”

“The laptop. Where's the fucking laptop?”

“You woke me up for that? It's... one in the morning, Henry. The fucking laptop is wherever you fucking left it. Now piss off and let me sleep.”

He could hear a faint electrical buzz coming from underneath the duvet. Henry turned the bedroom light on, took hold of the corner of her duvet, pulled the whole thing in one go off her bed.” The buzz was not coming from a laptop.

“Oh for fuck's sake,” he said.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she screamed at him.

She jumped out, tripped on one of her own toys and fell at his feet. “You bastard,” she said to him. She pulled herself back up, slapped the back of his head, snatched back the duvet.

“You're pathetic,” he told her.

“In the absence of a loving husband,” she told him, “I do what I need to in order to survive.” She pushed him out of the room and slammed the door in his face.

Henry ran downstairs, returned to his computer. Celia and Mary were gone from the spot they had been sitting in. He scrolled up the message log, saw a brief 198

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

conversation about Mary calling it a night. They were going back to the lodge to change; they had not yet got very far and he could see them just a few yards distant.

Mary called back, “Are you coming, Henry?”

He got up, ran over, told them, “Sorry, I was in a world of my own there.”

“You looked like you were having some sort of absence there,” said Celia, sounding genuinely concerned. He looked at her, hopelessly; didn't know what to say. In the end he just assured them both he was fine and walked beside them wordlessly, trying to make some sense of this. Failing. Badly.

Is this the past? he thought. Am I actually there? Am I actually crossing time through the metaverse? Have I become a time traveller?

Ridiculous. It had to be a hoax. It had to be others masquerading as the people he had known. They had done their research well. They had captured every detail.

Looking around him now, Henry saw that everything was exactly as it had been that night. The slope, the lodge the ski lift, the skyline... He looked down at his feet and saw that the surface was now exactly the right type of plastic mesh. None of these details had changed suddenly, they had each been painted slowly in, one tiny piece at a time; imperceptible; and now the picture was complete.

How could anyone but the actual people concerned know of the things they had said and done that evening?

199

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

Who but one of that group could have set this up? Not Mary, who was dead. Not Celia, who was upstairs otherwise occupied. Could Celia have got someone else to set this up? What about Adam? But why would he want to do such a thing? That was almost more ridiculous an idea than time travel.

Adam met them in the lodge. “Are we done for the night, then?” he said, in his always cheerful voice.

“My mother always taught me never to push my luck more than once in any given twenty-four hours,” said Mary. The phrase brought a smile to Henry's lips. He remembered her using that several times during the time that he had known her. It was good to hear it again.

He couldn't help himself. “How I've missed you saying that,” he told her.

“You what?” said Mary. She sat down and started about the business of undoing her boots.

“It's like I said outside, I haven't seen you for twenty years, Mary!” He ignored the presence of Celia and Adam now.

“What did you tell me outside?” Mary asked him, frowning.

“Fancy a swift half before we go?” asked Adam, brightly. “It's only nine thirty.”

“The year,” said Henry. “That it's 2008.”

Mary rubbed her arm where she had landed on it and moaned. “I'm going to be so bruised there tomorrow,” she complained. She reached across with the boot she had just removed and used it to hit Adam. “Thanks a lot, 200

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

Mr it's-perfectly-safe these days.”

“A whiskey chaser for Mary to help numb the pain,” announced Adam, moving out of the way of second and third wave attacks.

“Did you hear what I said?” said Henry.

“What was that, Henry?” said Adam.

“The year,” he said, feeling irritation growing within him.

“What about the year?” said Mary. She leaned her head against Henry's shoulder and pretended to weep.

“Carry me home, Henry! I can't go on any more!” Adam grinned. Celia looked away. Henry felt his heart start beating like crazy.

“You'd better make mine a double,” he told Adam.

She looked up at him and mouthed, You are a pig silently. She sat up again and started taking off her other boot.

“We should ask the guys here if they captured Mary's fall on CCTV,” Adam said, taking off his own boots and the ski socks he had come carefully prepared with. “I reckon, if we were to look closely, we'd see a pea just in front of her, seconds before control was lost.”

“Oh!” she said, and hit him with her ski.

“Does that make her a princess?” asked Celia. She always had to stay with jokes just that little bit longer than their shelf life.

“What you will find,” said Mary, using the voice which Henry always thought of as 'Mary's posh secretary voice', “is that no-one in the history of skiing has ever 201

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

survived a fall like that, and that I am, therefore, a skiing legend.”

“Sports personality of the year!” exclaimed Celia.

“I don't think they do an award for not being able to stop in time,” said Henry.

“Henry!” growled Mary.

“You should become a ski jumper!” Adam announced.

“Like Eddie the Eagle!”

“Mary the Magpie, more like,” Henry said. She stamped on his foot.

“Children, children,” said Adam, another big smile across his face. He looked like a man proud to have played the role of cupid. But a few minutes later, as they went through to the bar, he held Henry back a moment and told the girls they would catch them up. “Just a quick word in your ear, Henry,” he said. “I was having a chat with Mary earlier, after you and I spoke in the union.

Don't worry – I didn't tell her anything about our conversation.”

“What did you learn that you want to tell me about?”

Henry asked, cautiously.

Adam sighed. “Look, you're not much going to like this. But I have to say it. I don't think she's ready, Henry.

I don't think she's up to anything with anyone right now.”

“You don't think we had a great evening here?”

“Yes, I think we had a great evening. But Henry, all the smiles, all the laughter; I think a lot of it is just a screen.”

“A screen from what?” Henry said, knowing that 202

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

Adam was right; he definitely was not going to like this.

“You know about her brother, right?”

“Sure I know. She told me I think the second day of the course.” Henry threw that bit in to show Adam he'd known stuff longer than he had.

“You do realise how long it takes people to get over things like that, right?”

“Of course.” Henry swallowed. “I want to help her.”

“Nobody can help her, Henry; not like that. I'm just telling you not to get your hopes up. She's going to need time to get over this. Lots of time.”

Shit, thought Henry. He was just not used to conversations like this. This was way out of his comfort zone.

It was also requiring way more empathy than he was capable of generating. Is he telling me the truth? he wondered. Is there some sort of code I should be cracking here? Did he actually tell her I was interested in her earlier today? Did she then tell him she wasn't interested and is this his way of putting me off? Fuck. I am far too trusting. I won't be telling him shit again.

Well of course she would tell him she wasn't interested; he'd just demonstrated his own complete inability to be trusted in telling her about how I feel, she wasn't about to trust him with how she felt about me in return, was she?

But look at how she's behaved this evening towards me.

If she knew and she really wasn't interested, she wouldn't have done that leaning against me thing. On the other hand, knowing that I am interested and then doing that 203

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

has to be a positive sign, right?

Henry smiled to himself. Here was Adam telling him Mary wasn't interested, pulling the rank of age to make himself look more experienced, more wise than Henry was; how ironic that these very words were actually proof to Henry of the contrary.

“Henry,” Adam said, “it's not just that she watched her brother die that's important; what's important is that she watched him facing it with his own eyes, and who he was to her. You do understand why that makes it different, don't you?”

“Of course,” Henry lied. It wasn't entirely a lie. He got the gist. But Adam was wrong about Mary, he was sure of it.

“Henry, she's a wonderful girl.”

“Yes, I know.” It annoyed him that Adam had said that. It almost sounded like a warning. He wondered what Adam would say when he was proven wrong about this. He would look forward to that moment.

Adam clapped him on the shoulder, a gesture that was beginning to get on Henry's nerves. “Ok,” he said. “Let's go through.”

“Yeah,” said Henry, “thanks for the heads up.” They went through to the bar area, where the girls were sitting in a booth opposite each other. It was like an invitation.

Henry made sure he got there first, slipped in next to Mary, making the space beside her his. He took orders for drinks and went to the bar. He estimated he had at least half an hour and possibly more. If he could, he 204

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

would progress this thing right now, right in front of Adam's eyes. If he could, he wouldEverything went black.

Henry fell backwards.

Nausea hit him. His arms flailed. His chest started to convulse. Bright points of light started to appear before his eyes. His head hit something hard. His muscles went into spasm. He felt the vomit spewing. His body jerked against the ground. The knot began to tighten. The lights began to merge. He felt himself losing... slipping...

He breathed; a single, urgent desperate gasp.

The colour started to return. Pastel blobs started to join together. He breathed in; he breathed out. The brightness dimmed. Shapes began to form. Detail started to become visible. Sounds became audible. Normality returned.

He was lying on the floor of the dining room. In front of him stood Celia, the mains cable for the PC in her hand. She looked white. She looked terrified. As Henry started to return to normal, however, she appeared to recover her composure, just enough to deliver her line.

“There you go, you freak,” she told him. “See how you like being interrupted like that.” She dropped the cable, the plug hit his head. She turned and went upstairs.

205

Fifteen

Henry stumbled into work the next day with a sore throat and a splitting headache. For the first hour he stood at the service desk, unable to focus on anything. He somehow managed to sell two fridges, a cooker and a TV satellite dish, nonetheless. He did so unskillfully. One customer walked out of the shop mid-transaction, complaining about the 'dreadful customer service'. One customer actually thanked him for not trying to force upon her the range of optional accessories, however, adding that sales pressure usually put her off buying anything in stores like this. Henry smiled at her, not having listened to a word she had just said, and ran her cheque through the till just as quickly as he could. He forgot to write down her address for the delivery. That would be a problem. Oh well.

“Where is George?” he asked Redmond at eleven. “I have to speak with him.”

“I have no idea,” Redmond told him as he poured boiling water on his teabag. “I've rung him several times 206

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

today. I can't get any reply. When he returns I shall probably try to talk him into using his staff discount on a telephone answering machine. This sort of thing simply isn't good enough.”

“Well doesn't he have some next of kin you can contact? Isn't there someone else you can ring? For all we know, he could be lying dead in his flat.” Henry poked around the biscuit tin. He considered a Hobnob for a moment, then rejected it in favour of a pink and yellow party ring.

Redmond looked suddenly worried, like this was something he was realising he should have spent some of his time thinking about. “Really? Of course, of course; of course you're right. But I don't have any next of kin information for George at all, I'm afraid. I was looking at his forms earlier, he never filled that stuff in. Oh. Shit.

Do you think I should call the police?” he asked.

“Do you have his address?” Henry said.

“Of course.”

“Why don't you let me go around there and knock on his door? If he doesn't answer, maybe a neighbour will know something.” Redmond grimaced. It would mean him having the hold the shop floor all by himself. It would mean having to do some work for a change.

Henry waited for the man to think it through, to realise that the only alternative was for him to go round there himself. It took about three seconds.

“I think you might be right,” he said. “But I want you to go straight there and come straight back. I'm 207

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

responsible for your safety when you're on my time, remember.” Nicely done, thought Henry; when you could successfully make a concern for having to do a little bit of graft look like a concern for employee wellbeing, there could be no doubt that you were indeed quality management material. He got his coat straight away, took down the address details from Redmond and left.

George lived in a one bedroom flat in Mutley, part of a Victorian conversion. It took Henry about fifteen minutes to walk there. When he found the address, he walked straight up the big steps to the front door and rang the bell for 1a. After half a minute he rang again, holding the bell down for a full five seconds. No reply. He tried again a minute later. And again a minute after that.

The bay window next to him opened. A middle aged man with a ruddy face and stubble leaned out and looked at him. “What do you want?” he asked. “Are you trying to sell stuff?”

“Are you 1a?” asked Henry.

“No I'm not 1a,” he said. “1a is downstairs.”

“I need to speak to the guy who lives there.”

“Then why don't you phone him?”

“I have,” Henry said, “several times.”

“Well clearly he ain't in,” the man said. “So why don't you piss off and let the rest of us have some peace?”

Henry considered this. “Are you the landlord?” he asked?

“Now why are you asking me that?”

208

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

“The guy I need to speak to hasn't turned up at work for two days,” said Henry. “He's not answering phone calls. None of his friends know where he is. If you're not prepared to help me then the next place I go to will be the police station, and I will tell them there that you didn't help me when I asked nicely.”

“Oh, fucking great,” the man said, “just what I need.”

“Why don't you go down there and open his door,” said Henry. “Just look and see if he's about? I'll wait here.”

“Who are you, anyway?”

“Tell him Henry's here.”

“Henry. Fine.” He shut the window, drew back the curtains. Henry waited. A couple of minutes passed.

Then the front door opened. Ruddy/Stubble appeared, an envelope in his hand.

“There's no-one there. This looks like it's for you.”

The envelope had 'HENRY' written on it in large capitals.

“Where did you find this?” Henry asked him.

“On the floor in front of the door.”

“Did you search the apartment properly?”

The man looked at him. “There ain't no-one there,” he said and shut the door.

“Fine.” Henry opened the envelope. There was nothing inside it. On the inside of the envelope itself, however, the words Torpoint ferry, 12:00 had been written. Henry recognised George's handwriting.

“This is bollocks,” he said, to no-one in particular. He looked at his watch. It was 11:30.

209

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

“Shit,” he said. Henry started to run.

He managed the two and a half mile run in just under 28 minutes, jumped aboard Plym II just as they were closing the gate on its car ramp. Tamar II was across the river at Torpoint. Lynher II was just coming in. Someone swore at him as he vaulted the rail; he barely heard. Henry could taste the blood in his mouth.

He staggered into the narrow foot passenger area running down the starboard side of the boat, saw George standing at the far end, grinning at him his ear-to-ear smile.

“You... bastard,” he gasped.

“Steady on now Henry,” said George. “You'll give yourself a heart attack if you're not careful, carrying on like that. You have too much aggression in you, that's what your problem is. You should learn to relax more.

Do a bit of exercise every now and again. A short jog down to Devenport should be well within the realms of capability for a man of your years.”

Henry collapsed onto the bench, sat with his head between his knees whilst he recovered. “Sorry old boy,” said George, “no sitting around please; we need to move outside.

More noise out there.

Besides, there's something I want you to see.”

He led Henry forward, out onto the car deck, facing across the Tamar, pointed at a large black lump in the water that was approaching them.

210

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the PA cackled at that moment, “we regret to inform you that this service will be delayed by approximately ten minutes.”

“They're not allowed to publish the delays to the ferry service in advance,” George shouted in his ear, “just in case someone works out why.”

“What is that thing?” Henry said.

“That, my boy, is HMS Victorious, one of our four Vanguard Class ballistic missile submarines, on its way out of Ernesettle after a quick re-armament. Each one of those monsters carries sixteen Trident II missiles, each with twelve independently targettable nuclear warheads.

That's 192 cities what can be destroyed by this single boat, and, just as soon as it's out of the Sound, it's location for the next three months will be unknown to all but a handful of people in the country. It could be anywhere in the world, Henry.”

“I do know what Trident is,” said Henry.

“I'm sure you do,” said George. “There's just something about seeing the thing, though, don't you think? Look at it! Is it Britain's finest naval achievement or is it just a big black turd what everyone wishes would sink?”

They watched the submarine pass them. Henry squinted. A single man stood at the top of the sail, he was holding a pair of binoculars and talking to someone below him. Perhaps this was the captain. The second man climbed up to stand beside him. He pointed at something. The captain raised his glasses to look at it.

211

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

The two men remained still for a couple of seconds, then he put the glasses down again and they both laughed.

Henry swallowed. He decided instead to watch a seagull wondering around on the missile hatches aft, pecking a few times at something discovered there. How easily we are fooled, he thought. We perceive such difference between the man who drives a boat capable of destroying an entire country and the seagull which pecks for food on it. We know the machinery is complex and we know that the men are trained, and from this we surmise that the man with the binoculars understands his relationship with the planet better than the seagull does. But all he does is mistake his own little man-made system for something which has relevance and meaning. It is all such a myth.

It is all so terribly sad.

“I've always wondered what it would be like to work on a submarine,” George said. “All that training. All that discipline. Then, one day, someone finally decides, 'enough of all this waiting around, let's just pull the fucking trigger'. What I want to know is, what happens after that? I mean, you're floating around in the sea, with all of civilisation destroyed... is there a plan of some sort?

Is there a special safe somewhere with instructions on how to start up a new society, how to grow potatoes and make bread and stuff? Do you get selected for submarine duty in the first place based upon the skills you have what will come in handy once the world's been blown up?

Alternatively, is there a little box somewhere with 135 pills in it? It's a serious question. I'd really like to 212

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

know.”

“Where have you been?” said Henry. “Why haven't you been coming in to work?”

“Did you speak to Yance?” said George.

“He said he didn't know where you were.”

“He was lying. I phoned him up first thing yesterday morning, right after I phoned old Redmond up. If you tell him I said that, he'll deny it of course.”

“What's this all about, George?” Henry demanded.

“Where have you been all this time?”

“We've been rumbled, Henry. They're onto us.”

“The Russians?”

“The Russians. The Americans. Maybe both of 'em together! Perhaps they did a special pact what enables them to pool their top secret covert intelligence on the nefarious activities of Gob, aka George. They both want to stop us from building the gate, after all. Now how ironic would that be?”

“Someone spoke to you about this?” Henry asked. “'Spoke' ain't exactly the word what I would use,” said George, “although it's fair to say I received a very clear communication.” He turned to face Henry properly, who realised suddenly that George had been very careful up until now to keep the left side of his face concealed or in shadow.

“Who did that to you?” Henry said, shocked.

“This little scratch?” George said, “This is nothing!

It's the other stuff what they wanted to do to me that I'm more worried about.”

213

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

“When did this happen?”

“A couple of nights ago,” said George, after just a moment of hesitation. “In the Armada Centre car park, of all places. Don't you worry about it, Henry. They won't find me in a hurry.”

“What are you going to do? Are you coming back to work?”

“I don't think that would be an especially intelligent thing for me to do in the immediate future,” he said. “For any of us, Henry. They only want me because of the contacts what I have. Incidentally, my lad, that includes you.”

Henry looked at George, thought he saw an expression on his face, but when he looked closer it was gone.

“How are you going to continue work on the gateway project now?” he asked.

“In a manner of speaking, there ain't much more that I can do on that project. My little job, such as it is, is recruiting; there ain't nothing technical what I can do for it. That's how I know the details of so many of the participants, see? It's made me more visible too. Which must be how them pesky secret agents cottoned onto me.”

“So who do I liaise with now?” Henry moved to the other side of George, looked at the back of his head before he turned to face him. Once again, there was the vaguest hint of... something. “Don't tell me – Yanceman, right?”

“Right,” said George, frowning slightly. “He'll be able to sort you out with everything. Is everything alright, 214

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

Henry?”

“You're different, in a way that I never noticed before,” Henry said, without thinking. “I can't put my finger on it.”

There. But then, just as soon as he saw it, it vanished again. But this time it vanished for different reasons.

This time, it wasn't his focus which lost the thing he was looking at, but rather that the thing he was looking at got hastily covered up. That was how it felt.

“For such a solid and predictable feller,” said George hastily, “you don't half come out with some odd things sometimes Henry.”

“You wrote your location inside an envelope?” Henry asked, incredulously.

“Alright; fine. So it ain't the most sophisticated communications method,” George replied, defensively.

“It was the only thing I could think of at the time. I never said I was an expert in countersurveillance, did I?” “It never crossed your mind that someone would search your room for clues as to your whereabouts?”

George looked around suddenly.

“You're right, Henry; what was I thinking? We should get off this boat right now!”

But Victorious was now well clear of the ferry's path; with a clank clank clank, the slack in the chains got taken up and the boat began to pull itself across the Tamar.

“Too late,” said Henry, “unless you want to jump for it. Perhaps you should.”

“We should stay out in the open,” George said.

215

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

“There's no-one in the foot passenger room, it's too out of sight. They could do anything to us in there.”

“Do you know what I would have done?” said Henry.

“I'd have got here early and then got on the Tamar II when it went over. Then I'd have stood in the exact spot that we're in now with a silenced rifle on the return journey and sniped you when the two boats passed each other.”

“Oh shit, Henry!” George made out to be looking wildly across at the approaching boat, as though searching for the gunman. Henry thought, What a fool; he only just told me they want him for information. He'll say anything now to keep me distracted.

“I think it might be a good idea if we was to split up now, Henry,” George said. “It's for your own safety.

Two targets harder to shoot at than one, and so on. I'm beginning to think seriously about that idea what you put forward regarding jumping overboard.”

“I think we should stick together,” said Henry. “His plan will only work if we're not expecting it. Look, George, we're in a boat made out of steel – all we have to to is find a spot out of his line of sight.”

“Why Henry,” said George, an edge to his voice, “ain't you the calm one under pressure? I never had you down for the combat type.”

“I think we should go back inside,” Henry said. “Just inside the doorway. We'll be safest there.”

“You go,” said George. “You're more important than I am.”

216

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

And then, after I've turned my back for ten seconds, thought Henry, I'll look back and find you gone. I'll be supposed to think you're at the bottom of the river with a sniper's bullet between your eyes. I don't think so.

He moved closer to George, pressed against him.

“George,” said Henry, in his ear, “he's not on the other boat. You know that, don't you? He's here. He's been here all along.”

“He is?” said George slowly. “You can see him?”

“It's me, George,” said Henry. “I'm here to kill you.”

Earlier that morning, after Henry had left for work, George had turned up at his house and Celia had come to the door in her dressing gown.

“Where have you been?” she demanded. “No-one knew where you were.” She smiled sweetly. “Are you here to fuck?”

“I want you to leave Henry,” George told her.

“What?” Celia asked, incredulous.

“Leave Henry,” said George.

“Tonight.

This afternoon, if possible.”

“Are you saying you want to live with me?”

“If you like.”

“If I like? Is that supposed to encourage me?”

“I don't much care,” said George. “But I want you out of that house. Today.”

“You want me out of my house? My house? Why?” “Because you're becoming a fucking liability,” he told 217

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

her. “When you unplugged Henry's computer last night you nearly fucking killed him. I never had you down as that stupid.”

“What? What did you say? How do you know about that?” she demanded.

“You're out of control,” he told her. “I have to go.

Are you going to do what I ask?”

“How was I supposed to know that would happen?

'Out of control.' You have some fucking cheek.”

“You have no idea!” he shouted at her. “More is at stake than you could possibly imagine. You even think about doing something like that again and I swear to God I'll break your fucking neck. Do you understand me?”

Celia felt her blood run cold. “Who are you?” she asked him.

“Celia, I'm told I'm one of the lucky ones,” George replied. “Believe me, if you saw what I wake up to each morning, you wouldn't think yourself lucky.” He jumped up into the air, flew off in the direction of Devenport.

“You're very clever, Henry,” said George. “I must admit, much more clever than what I thought you were. Well done. I mean it. That's a nice little checkmate you just pulled off there.”

“There is no Soviet metaverse, is there?” said Henry.

George thought about this for a moment. Then he said, “No Henry, there ain't. It was Yance's idea. He said he reckoned it would keep you motivated. Hmmmm.

218

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

We're going to have to do something about this. I doubt I'm going to be told this is a turn for the better.”

“What the hell happened to me last night?” said Henry. “It felt like I was dying.”

“Yes, my boy; you very nearly did. Had you been immersed any further then that's exactly what would have happened,” George replied. “You have to be able to make your own way back from those places. Being yanked back when you're properly connected is dangerous. The good news is, Henry, you don't need to be in that deep anyway. I use an alarm what goes off every five minutes; it keeps me surface level. You might like to think about something similar.”

“George, I try to say things that are different,” said Henry. “But they just ignore me. I can't change things.

Why can't I speak to them like you can speak to me?”

“You have to think of time as a force what pushes back against you,” George replied. “Think of it as being like a trampoline: you can jump as hard as you like, and it'll just spring back; make a cut with a knife, however, and that can't be reverted. Basically, Henry, if it can be repaired it will be repaired. Do things what can't be repaired.”

“And what,” said Henry, “do you need me to do?”

“Save Mary,” said George. “Save the girl you love.”

And then, just like that, he disappeared.

219

Sixteen

“All the time, he always gets away and hides,” explained Thomas. “They thought it was a he but it was a she; so what they did, right, was they went there and Ozzie banged her on the head with two dustbin lids, and then they unmasked him and it was Jessica Taverner!”

Henry laughed, stroked his son's head with his left hand, held the folded note in his right. They lay on the big bed together, listening to the rain outside. “She wanted to be the top pop star,” Thomas continued, “so no-one else would be number one. So they finally unmasked the Flattener.”

“Was she cross?” said Henry.

“Yeah, she was like grrrr. But, the thing is, it was funny because what she did was she went like that-” Thomas pointed across the room, “-'what's that over there?' then she put the mask back on and ran away!”

“So she escaped at the last minute?”

“Yeah. So Ozzie thought she's gone and he said, 'don't worry, I'll put some wire around the area and she got 220

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

trapped in the net.”

Henry re-read the three lines from Celia one more time, then opened the draw in his bedside cabinet and dropped the note into it. There was nothing he could do about it now.

“So it was Jessica Taverner!” Thomas said again, pleased with this thing he knew from the adult world, which he had seen on the television that afternoon.

“It was Jessica Taverner all along.”

“Yeah.” Thomas sighed contentedly.

“So what did you do in school today?” asked Henry, wanting to keep the normal chatter flowing.

“Maths, PE... no, Maths, ICT, PE and, um, English.”

It was important to get these things just right.

“What did you do in PE?” Henry asked.

“Cricket.”

“Have you done that before in PE?” “Outside once; we did it inside today.” Thomas raised his right leg and let it drop back onto Henry's, repeated the movement idly. He did this when he was relaxed, uninhibited, not worried about things. It was good to have this time with him. It was good to have a conversation without the angry voice downstairs lurking in the background.

“In the hall?” Henry asked.

“Yeah.”

“You like cricket?”

“Mmmhmmm.”

“I think it's boring,” he said.

221

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

“Why?” “I've always thought cricket's boring.”

“Well, even if I think it's boring,” said Thomas, “I have to do it.”

“I once got hit in the eye by a cricket bat,” said Henry, “because I was standing too close behind the person who was batting. That was pretty painful.”

“Did you have to wear an eye patch?” Thomas asked him.

“No, I think I just had a black eye.”

“Well, they go racing very fast,” he said, doing with his arm the action of a bowler. “So it must have hurt.”

“Yeah. My own fault, though, for standing too close behind him. But I didn't like playing cricket too much after that.”

“Because you got scared, didn't you?”

“A bit.”

“You just didn't want to get hit again.”

“I didn't want to get hit again, that's right.”

Thomas swung his legs off the bed, sat on the edge, peered down behind the radiator. “Oh, that's so cool!” he exclaimed.

“What?” asked Henry.

“You've got the colour now, right,” he said, pointing at the paint on the wall, “and then behind the radiator there's a bit of green and then right down in the middle of the radiator is the yellow colour that it used to be ages ago.

Come look, Daddy.”

Henry allowed himself to be led by the hand, peered 222

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

down the back of the radiator, saw the layers of paint his son was talking about. “Oh yes,” he said, “that is cool.”

“It's like looking back in time,” said Thomas.

How many times had Henry looked back in time through his dreams and wished that the window was real? How many times had he dreamt of touching the yellow paint and finding himself back in the room before the green or the magnolia? In his dreams, the story always started again in that spot outside of the library on 11 October.

He wanted to get it properly right in his dreams, to not have to go anywhere near that moment in May. A small change outside the library – remembering her name, he reasoned, would be a good alteration to make – and, by the time they got round to May again, the road and its wetness and the guy behind the wheel would be of no relevance whatsoever. But, in the end, wherever he chose to start his story, wherever he chose to make his changes, it was all about that night. That was the only thing that counted.

“Henry, I'm lost,” she had said. These were the last words she had said to him; when they had parted, a few minutes later, they had done so silently. They were the last words she had said to him, but they were the first words also of an entirely new relationship. Even in full knowledge of the horror of the moments to come, Henry still could not think back on this frozen moment and not feel the tingle. And he had to wonder, if he could have 223

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

that moment again, and if he didn't have the luxury of a small change and had to choose something big and crude and nasty instead, what actually would he do? Would he sacrifice his moment? Would he give it away for the sake of having her alive again? That moment in the rain outside the camera shop had been the first time in his life that he had given to another human being exactly what their heart had needed at that moment, and he was proud of himself for doing it; was he willing to scratch that finest five minutes from the face of history and replace it with something entirely dull and ordinary if it meant that she would live? And what would become of my memory? he thought. Would I recall my precious moment, at least – how things had been before – or would even my own memories become overwritten by the altered chain of events?

Would the rewriting be complete? Would I know myself only as a failure, never know what I had once achieved?

Henry knew it had not been a first kiss moment. He supposed the opportunity had been there, but it would have cheapened them both if he had taken it. But, he thought, if I had kissed her, I could have kept her there for five minutes, ten perhaps; who knows? A few seconds either way would have been all that was needed.

If he got the chance to go back to that moment, to change it if he wanted, what, then, would he do?

I think of you every day, he thought, whilst he sat 224

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

watching Thomas examine further the back of the radiator. I give thanks for what you taught me. If you could be standing here before me now, that would be the best thing of all; this person I'm interacting with via the metaverse isn't you. Not yet, at least. Not completely.

Perhaps I'm wrong to return to 11 October in my dreams, since the changes I would make there also would deny me my finest moment. Ah, but I assume now that I would achieve such greatness as a matter of course, don't I? How na誰ve I am, as usual. It was being rejected which forced me to grow. It was being told no that made me learn eventually the things I had to learn. I wouldn't have become the person I was in that fine moment before you died had you said 'yes' to me five months earlier. I cannot regret a single moment of our relationship, from the start to the finish. I value the rejection just as much as I value every other word you gave me.

So, when it came down to it, it had to be the final moments before the accident where the changes, if they were going to be made, got made. Not the moment outside the library. Not the time in the Edgecombe Arms.

Either he had her back the way she was when she left him or he did not have her back at all. It was an interesting revelation to Henry, a complete change in the way he had thought about things up until now. But it meant that if he was going to attempt something then it had to be at that moment; there was no possibility of practice at another point in time, and still he wasn't certain what it was he had to do in order to make a change that remained. He 225

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

would only have seconds in which to act.

I will only have seconds in which to act, he thought. Will that be enough time? Will I know, instinctively, what it is that I have to do? Or will I just freeze and stand there, clueless? Will I have to watch it? Oh God, that would be unbearable.

I should have a plan, he decided. Two plans. Perhaps I should do something completely random. Perhaps I should groan out loud when she's walked three paces from me and clutch at my stomach as I sink to my knees.

Perhaps I should pretend to have been shot. Perhaps I should throw myself in front of the next car that passes and create an accident that stops all the traffic. Perhaps I should rugby tackle her to the ground and tell her when she recovers herself that a lorry just passed her with its passenger side door open.

Do things what can't be repaired. Did that mean big, brash bold? Did that mean loud things which couldn't be walked past, like screaming that he loved her at the top of his voice? Did that mean physical impositions, like walking to her house with her and holding her hand in an iron grip if necessary.

Walking to her house with her, he thought. Now that idea had potential. Why had he never thought of that before? After all, they had walked hand in hand to Mayflower Street. He could have just continued with her.

She would tell him she was ok by herself, of course – that 226

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

had always been her way. He would just say no. He would just tell her he wanted to see her home.

Was it really that easy?

“We played dominoes at Alexander's,” said Thomas, interrupting his thoughts.

“You played dominoes?” said Henry, dragging himself back to the present.

“Yeah. We knocked them over. It's cool because, instead of taking ages and ages and ages standing them up, Alexander has a train that stands them up for you.”

“You're joking.”

“Yeah,” Thomas said, meaning no. “What it does, right, is you put the dominoes in there in this big stack, right, and then you put it on the train and you steer it round and it goes through this system and it pushes dominoes out and this green thing pushes them and stands them up.”

“I've heard it all now,” said Henry. “That's amazing.”

“It's from the Toybox shop,” said Thomas, making sure his father knew where one could be bought, just in case.

“Don't you think, though, that that's cheating?”

“Yeah, I suppose... though, um, we tried putting them up on its own but they kept on falling down so we decided to do that.”

“But do you reckon if you were doing the world record for domino tipping,” said Henry, “do you think it would 227

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

be acceptable if they used something like that or do you think that one has to be people putting them out?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, what do you think?”

“Well maybe it would... actually no... actually maybe, yeah... actually no.”

“No what?” asked Henry.

“No, it won't be acceptable.”

“It wouldn't be acceptable,” Henry corrected.

“Because the skill of it would be them putting the dominoes out by themselves, wouldn't it?”

“Yeah.”

“I agree.”

“Daddy,” said Thomas.

“Yes, Bubs?”

“Where's mummy?”

“She's gone away for a few days,” Henry replied, his answer to that one well rehearsed.

“When's she coming back?”

“In a few days, I expect.”

“Well, um, what's she doing? Is she with Tracey?”

“I don't know, Bubs. She might be.”

“Is she cross?”

“Possibly. Don't rub your head like that.”

“Is she coming back soon?”

“I said I don't know. Yes, I think so. In a few days.”

Thomas rubbed his head. “Are we still going to go shopping on Saturday?”

“Of course we are,” said Henry. “We still have to buy 228

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

food, don't we?”

“Will mummy be coming with us?”

“I don't know. Possibly not.”

“Will you know what to buy?”

“I'm sure I can work it out.”

“Is she doing a sleepover at Tracey's?”

“I don't know, Thomas. She might be.” Henry could feel the irritation growing. “Enough of these questions.

And I told you to stop rubbing your head like that.”

“Daddy?”

“Yes, Bubs?”

“Who's going to take me to school tomorrow?”

“I will. You'll go to school just like normal.”

Thomas sat on the radiator and looked at nothing for a while. Henry lay on the bed and thought about the note again. I'm leaving you, Henry. Don't feign surprise. I'll return for Thomas when I have a place sorted out. C. The words were just blue marks on paper. He looked right past them. His mind was on darker, more terrifying things. When I'm through, he thought, none of this will ever have happened. Is that what I want? Is that what I can go through with? Is it?

229

Seventeen

Henry stumbled into work the next day with a sore throat and a splitting headache. For the first hour he stood at the service desk, unable to focus on anything. He somehow managed to sell two fridges, a cooker and a TV satellite dish, nonetheless. He did so unskilfully.

George came in at eleven, complaining about the unfairness of illness. “I need to speak to you,” Henry said to him as soon as they were by themselves for a moment. “Something happened to me last night that I just can't explain. I think I nearly died. It was terrifying.”

“Never mind that,” said George, “did Yance sort out your computer yet?

Have you managed to visit Sovietsville?

I've been thinking about what you told me, Henry, and I reckon you might be onto something.”

“No he didn't,” said Henry. “What do you mean, I might be onto something? What are you talking about?”

“The pre-launch hype idea. I confess, it's grown on me. I talked it over with me superior officer last night 230

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

and he thinks it has potential. Only he did say the sooner you get your first look at the virtual motherland the better. What the F does Yance think he's up to? I sometimes wonder if he'd prefer we had a war, just so he could watch all them pretty lights.”

“He said you hadn't told him,” said Henry. “He said he could do it, but it would take him some time.”

“He's lying,” said George. “Take it from me, Henry, you shouldn't believe a word that boy says.”

Henry said, “Look George, I really need to talk to somebody about what happened to me last night.”

“Save that thought, Henry,” said George, “save it for just two minutes.” He grabbed the remote from behind the till and turned up the volume on the televisions. A reporter was talking from an aircraft carrier somewhere.

Stock footage was shown of Ohio and Vanguard class submarines in the process of submerging. The reporter talked about the increasing anger of the Russians, the steadfast refusal of NATO to step down its exercise.

Speaking from The White House today, President Johnson told journalists assembled that “NATO member states have a right to their defence systems, and these systems require maintenance. The Soviet Union,” he said, “knows and exercises this same right. It is wholly hypocritical of them to expect of the west action – or inaction – which they themselves would not be prepared to take.” The President was responding to the latest claim by the Russian Ambassador to Washington that Operation Birdsong – the biggest ever NATO exercise 231

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

undertaken since the signing of the North Atlantic Treaty, and due to continue for the next five weeks at least – is actually a cover for strategic military activity.

“Those God-damned Soviets,” Henry said.

“Maybe they're right,” said George. “Maybe it is all a cover. Had you ever considered that?”

“That's ridiculous. Why would we want to start a war?”

“Is it ridiculous? Are you certain? What if the missile shield really is near completion? What if the Americans know that the Soviets know that? What if the Ruskies reckon that the day that shield gets switched on is the day their nation dies? What if the Americans know that the Ruskies think that and have concluded that the shield is something they will never get to complete? What if that moment is approaching? What if the Americans have decided they have no choice but to pre-empt the preemptive? How, then, do you line everything up and not get noticed? How do you sound the action stations without the other side hearing the alarm?”

“You're suggesting the west is preparing for a preemptive strike,” said Henry. “I refuse to believe that.”

“Henry,” said George, “did you know that submarine launched nuclear missiles were originally thought of as a first strike deterrent? What worried each country was that a successful pre-emptive strike could fuck their defences entirely, thereby making the return fuck impossible. Both sides knowing that made a pre-emptive strike more likely, since if you're each equally vulnerable 232

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

to being fucked, the only viable form of defence is to be the first one to attack. The boomers changed all that.

Since they were virtually undetectable it meant you could hide your return fuck arsenal anywhere in the world. Noone would launch a pre-emptive strike against you, they reckoned, since even if you got wiped out completely, your submarine counter-fuck would destroy them bastards right back. Henry, It costs more than the entire gross national product of a third world country to build and arm one ballistic missile submarine; but it's worth it, right? If it protects you from annihilation, it's a bargain at twice the cost. No? “The problem with all of this was that they didn't work out there was nothing stopping the enemy from parking its ballistic missile submarines right on your very own coastline. Which meant that if the counter-fuck was used instead as the pre-emptive fuck, your nice leisurely half an hour of notice was reduced to about three minutes.

Hence the term 'three minute warning'. Three minutes, Henry; less time than the play of a seven inch single to register the launch, inform POTUS that he's about to get rear-ended and get him to authorise the return fire. It's not possible. It was one thing when the missiles had to fly all the way from Russia before they got to you, quite another when they were being fired at you from Chesapeake Bay. Ballistic missile submarines actually ended up making a pre-emptive strike more likely rather than less likely, since the time from launch to detonation would be so short there would be no time to order the 233

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

counter-fuck.

“But you can't get rid of a bastard like that once it's there, Henry. So next comes the whole submarine detection industry: 'Hunter-Killer' submarines, whose sole purpose is to find and track the enemy's ballistic missile submarines or the enemy's hunter-killers tracking your own; passive sonar systems that can hear a fish fart from three hundred miles away. I kid you not, Henry; if there was such a thing as a car equivalent to a modern submarine's sonar, you'd be able to thrash that Focus of yours in first with Guns and Roses at full blast on the stereo and it would still be able to hear the old guy outside who swears at you as you pass him, tell you exactly what it was that he said and give you a directional bearing on him so you know where to hold up your finger when you show it to him. And the better they get at detecting and identifying the other side's submarines, the better they also have to be at making submarines as quiet as possible so they can't be detected. And then there's the passive sonar arrays laid out all over the ocean floors, listening to everything passing above them. And then there's the satellite tracking systems capable of spotting a submarine's wake under the water. Billions and billions and billions of dollars, Henry; all spent with the sole objective of preventing the other side from deciding to make a pre-emptive strike. As long as that balance between the two sides is maintained, the status quo continues.”

“So why don't the Russians develop their own missile 234

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

shield?” said Henry.

“They are, Henry,” George replied, “of course they are. But in this race they're behind, and they know it.

They made the mistake of concentrating on stockpiling instead of innovating; perhaps they thought that sheer quantity would overwhelm any defensive system we had.

And so the balance has been tipped, and they're scared.

And the Americans know that they're scared. Henry, when you say that we would never launch a pre-emptive strike, you're imagining us one day launching our birds just for the sake of it. What if you launch a pre-emptive because you're actually convinced beyond all doubt that the enemy is just about to launch a pre-emptive against you?”

“For fuck's sake,” said Henry. “Then just scrap the missile shield. It isn't worth it.”

“The Soviets know that the Americans know that they know how close the shield is to completion,” said George. “They know that the Americans are scared that they're scared. If the Americans announced the cessation of all work on the shield, would they believe it? In any case, the shield is commissioned by the President, who understands only the need to protect his people; all of this counter-counter-counter bollocks is well beyond his grasping. That's what he pays his Generals for.”

Henry sighed, turned off the volume. In any case, the news broadcast was over and it was company policy to reduce customers' exposure to commercials, just in case an advert for the competition should come on. “Didn't 235

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

something like this happen before?” he said, as he slid the remote back into its place down the side of the till.

“It was called Operation Able Archer,” said George.

“November 1983. Only on that occasion the Americans had no idea that the Soviets had mistaken their simulation for actual war preparation until after the event was over.

This time, the confusion is out in the open; the Americans know the Soviets might moan and grumble about BirdSong, but are counting all the same that their previous misinterpretation will be in the back of their minds, undermining any attempt to look at the situation dispassionately. Able Archer was an embarrassment from the point of view of the message it sent out about the quality of Soviet intelligence. They won't want to make the same mistake twice. Or so the Americans think they think.”

“You don't think the Russians think the way the Americans think they think?” said Henry.

“I know they don't, my lad. The Russians are far better chess players than that.”

“So the Russians have seen through the ploy?”

“Of course they have.”

“So they know the Americans want to pre-empt their pre-emptive strike?”

“Absolutely.”

“So what can they do about it?” asked Henry.

“Only one thing they can do,” said George. “Pre-empt the pre-emptive to their original pre-emptive.”

“So the Russians launch first?”

236

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

“Could it be any other way?”

“Jesus, what a mess.”

“Irretrievable is the word you're looking for, I think.”

Henry scratched his head and looked at George, doubt all over his face. “And you really believe,” he said, “that opening a gateway to the Russian metaverse could help all this?”

“You've heard about that Crataegus guy, right?” said George, ignoring the question.

“The author? The alternative history thing? I've heard about his book. I haven't read it myself.”

“It's quite a tale,” said George. “You should look at it, whilst you have the chance. I wonder. What would you give for it all to be rolled back and for that to happen – the way he describes it – instead of the mess we're in now?”

Henry frowned. “As I understand it,” he said, “it's hardly like he's describing a utopia.”

“The sun would still be rising each day though Henry,” said George, “or at least you'd get to see it from time to time. The water in the rivers might be polluted, but at least you'd be able to clean it.”

“That's twenty years of history that'd be wiped off the slate,” said Henry.

“Gladly traded,” replied George, without hesitation, “if it means they're no longer the last ever twenty years of human existence. You never know, we might be able to avoid The Spice Girls the second time round and all.”

“I suppose it would be nice if life came with its own 237

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

rollback feature, yes,” agreed Henry. “I don't see why it would be necessary to go back as far as twenty years, though.”

“History has its turning points,” said George, “events both little and large what set a course difficult to deviate from once started. If you want to prevent the avalanche, the easiest thing to change is to prevent the guy from sneezing.”

“You mean the assassination of Gorbachev?” Henry said, wondering how you prevented someone from sneezing at the last minute. By breaking their neck, perhaps?

“So our friend Crataegus says,” George replied.

“Sometimes the events are smaller than that. Sometimes the watchful eye of history misses them completely. A butterfly flaps its wings and twirling tornadoes descend upon the plains of the next continent. And you'll never know it was the butterfly what started it; he gets away scott free.”

“I don't understand,” said Henry. “Not Gorbachev, then?”

“Oh we want Mikhail to live, Henry, make no mistake about that; he's one of the most important men of the twentieth century. But how do you hunt down an assassin in Paris? Easier to find the blighter in another time and place, when he's not armed and going out of his way to evade the gaze of anything what watches. Easier to go back just that little bit further in time to just before the sneezer leaves to go skiing and put a few drops of 238

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

MegaLax in his morning coffee to help dissuade him.

'Minimum strategic action', Henry; that's what Asimov called it.”

“Did he really?” said Henry, growing bored. “All so hypothetical.”

“Yeah. It is,” said George. “Better than thinking about dying though. Give me a deus ex machina device over certain death any day. What was it you wanted to tell me about earlier?”

Henry shot George a sudden look. “Now there's a very interesting topic change,” he said. “I wonder if you already know about what I was about to tell you?” He thought he saw an expression on George's face, but when he looked closer it was gone. “You were telling me you thought you nearly died last night,” said George innocently. “Or something like that.”

“Who nearly died last night?” said Redmond, coming out of the staff room with tea. “Fucking hell it's quiet in here today. George?”

“Yes, Phil?” said George.

“You know how head office want to promote freezer sales? What do you think if we did a thing on stocking up on food in case there's a war?”

“You want to promote stocking up on frozen food in case there's a nuclear war?” George clarified.

“Yes,” said Redmond. “A good citizen is a prepared citizen; that sort of thing.”

“You do understand that there wouldn't be any electricity after a nuclear exchange, don't you Phil?” said 239

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

George.

“Good point. Good point,” Redmond conceded.

“Well, I'm sure they'd get something sorted out eventually,” he added. “They'd have plans for that sort of thing, wouldn't they? But you're right, of course – and we don't want to make the company look foolish.

Henry?”

“Yes, Phil?” said Henry.

“Be a good chap; pop up to the roof and get the Christmas decorations down, will you? It's time we started thinking about where to place the tinsel this year.

Just a few pieces for the time being; we're under strict instructions not to overwhelm customers with festive ornamentation prior to 1 November, but a strand or two over the 'Buy for Christmas, pay nothing until Spring' signage would be perfectly within acceptable limits, don't you think?”

“Now there's a promotion we could make topical!” exclaimed George. “Buy now, and if the war happens before the first of May you'll owe us nothing!”

“What about battery operated radios?” said Henry, trying to be helpful. “Oh! What about the wind-ups?”

“Now that,” said Redmond, “is a brilliant idea. And get out from storage the radio/flashlight combinations we couldn't shift last month too. We could do a window display.”

“You don't think this might be viewed just a little bit as us cashing in on the fear and terror experienced by us human beings when contemplating our impending 240

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

annihilation, Phil?” asked George.

“Not if it's done tastefully, George,” Redmond replied.

We'll just call it 'survival' gear – no wait, survival equipment. No mention of 'nuclear' or 'atomic', please, and definitely no mushroom cloud graphics. Stick a pair of binoculars in there too.”

“Ain't it a shame we don't sell sniper rifles,” said George. Henry looked at him, hearing something in his voice he hadn't heard before. There was the vaguest hint of... something. George sounded tired. George sounded weak.

“What else? What else?” Redmond was saying. He was doing the snapping of fingers thing, as though something was on the tip of his tongue.

“Perhaps we should just focus on the seasonal stuff,” said Henry.

“So go get the tinsel,” said Redmond. “George and I will work on this. We can use our five percent community interest merchandising space.”

“The community interest display space ain't supposed to be used for merchandising,” said George.

“It's community interest,” said Redmond, “and it just so happens to be merchandising. No harm in that.”

Henry went upstairs to the stock room, spotted the boxes of Christmas decorations at the back, had to move a few end of run items that hadn't sold so he could squeeze through. He opened the top box to make sure of its contents. He got that dry tinsel smell from it. It made him think of Thomas.

241

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

A ridiculous thought came to him. If it really does happen, and if it happens before Christmas, and if somehow we survive and make it to the 24th, will Thomas still expect Father Christmas to come? Would he have to spend time explaining away Santa's absence? What would be kinder, to tell him old Saint Nick was dead along with everyone else? To say that Christmas was cancelled this year? To inform Thomas that he'd heard the elves were working on fixing the world right now and didn't have time for the presents this year? Yes. The last one. That was what he would say.

Henry sat down on a returned vacuum cleaner and thought about Mary and the metaverse. Might it be possible, he wondered, to roll back the universe to that night if he relived that specific moment and made a vital change? Then again, was it actually possible for him to make a change at all, or would things just keep on snapping back to how they had been, like he had never said anything? Just like last night on the ski slope, just like how he had told her the current year and then she had seemed to forget it. Henry thought, maybe it's different if I actually do something physically. A comment could be forgotten, not noticed, woven into the existing weave of time; but if it was possible to wrestle her to the ground just before she embarked up the last, deadly metres of her walk, would not that be something which would have to stick? Henry wondered if, even so, time would still find other ways of healing itself, like the bastard swerving later, or more aggressively, so that the accident ended up 242

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

happening anyway. But then I would be hit as well, he thought, so that would have to be a change. That made him think. If he got hit, say, and his arm got mashed, would it then disappear in real life, as he sat there in front of the computer? Of course it wouldn't. If the weave got changed to that degree there would no longer be a distinction between the real world and the metaverse; all would roll back to then, including his own consciousness.

The metaverse reality would become the real world; everything else would cease to exist, would cease to have ever existed. It meant that he would get the chance to make a single knowledgeable change, and then nothing more.

All would roll back. He thought about the moments last night before Celia had – quite literally – pulled the plug on him. My consciousness divided, he thought.

Between the one when and the other. I must be careful not to become quite so submerged; the deeper I go, the more at risk I am.

But not just for that reason. In the deep moments there, his memory of reality – of twenty years of history – had blurred almost to nothing. He had become the him that had been again, almost completely, in fact. He would not be able to make his 'minimum strategic action' if he forgot that he was there to make one. He tried to pinpoint the moment when this had happened and failed.

The whole event was becoming dreamlike in the recollection, fading from memory. Just like the now had faded also in those few submerged moments. It chilled 243

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

him to think of it.

When Henry got home later the house was empty. A note stuck to the fridge told him to pick Celia and Thomas up from Tracey's before seven. He sat in front of the television, tried to take in the news, thought about Mary for several minutes, drifted off.

He dreamt about the moment. He dreamt about making the change. At Mayflower Street they paused, looked at each other, smiled; her hand began to slide out of his, but he tightened his fingers. Her expression changed, softened a little, her eyes held understanding, but... disappointment.

Henry said to Mary, “I want you to let me walk you home. Don't ask me why, but I need to. Don't ask me how, but I know it's important and I must. I only need to go with you as far as your door. Then I'll leave you be and come back home.”

“Don't be silly, Henry,” Mary told him.

“Please, Mary,” said Henry, “humour me this one time; even if it's just to the top of Mayflower Street.”

Mary looked like she might attempt to argue, then appeared to decide that this wasn't a moment worth spoiling. She smiled at him. “I'll accept the top of Mayflower Street as a compromise, then.” She squeezed his hand. They walked.

The dream fast-forwarded to three minutes later, at the pedestrian crossing that she would take. Henry made 244

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

sure it was right under the street light, just to avoid any possibility of misinterpretation. He said to her, “Stop.”

Mary stopped.

She looked at him, concerned.

“What?” she asked.

“We need to wait here for three minutes.” He tightened the grip on her hand, just a little, just in case she tried to carry on walking. It was a tiny increase in pressure, but he saw that she felt it.

“What?” concerned flickered across her face. Henry found himself starting to panic. Three minutes had sounded like nothing before, now it seemed an eternity; would he be able to keep her here that long?

“Mary, I have to keep you here for three minutes,” he said. “I have to keep you safe. Please trust me. I don't know how to explain this, but it's very important.”

“Henry, come on,” she said, “This isn't amusing. I'm getting cold.”

What the hell, tell her. If nothing else it'll fill some time. “Mary,” he said, “I know something about this moment. In two minutes time, a car will come round that corner, out of control. You will have crossed the road by then and be standing on the pavement opposite. The car will veer across the road and it will hit you at a speed of sixty miles an hour, pretty much destroying every functioning thing inside you. And I will have to watch you die all over again. Unless you stay here with me for another... two minutes.”

Mary hesitated. “That's... a pretty specific prediction,” she said. Henry felt tears gathering in his eyes. She saw 245

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

them. “Oh. You really believe this, don't you?”

“I never got the chance to tell you I loved you,” Henry said. “I mean, I told you, but it was too late; you were already gone by then. You left so quick.”

She looked at him. “Oh Henry.” She put her arms around him. “You're completely mad,” she told him in his ear, “but if it calms you then of course I'll stay with you for two more minutes.”

60 seconds remaining. 50. 40. In the distance, Henry could hear a car engine being thrashed. Mary turned to look up the street. “That corner there?” she asked, pointing, alarm starting to show on her face. The corner building was growing lighter, as headlights upon it got closer.

30 Seconds. “Yes,” said Henry. “He takes it too fast, goes right across the road.” The noise was a clear one now. Two other people walking on the other side of the street looked towards the sound, instinctively moved away from the road a little. 20 seconds. 10. Mary tightened her hold on him.

“Oh Henry,” she said.

It all happened in a shatter of sound, and a blur of light and metal. The car shot out of the side road and into the oncoming traffic. In an instant, Henry realised that something else was different. Another vehicle was there in front of it, a white van that had not been there before.

He looked at the crossing they were next to. Mary would have used it, pressed the button, halted the traffic, crossed the road. A car – or van – which might previously have 246

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

stopped for her was now that much further up the street.

The sound of the two vehicles colliding was horrendous. And then, just as suddenly, all the noise was gone. And people were running towards the tangled mess, shouting.

The dream fast-forwarded to three minutes later, at the wreckage. Henry was looking upon the driver in his car, the guy who previously had killed Mary, who had then driven off into the night, never to be identified or found.

And here he was, in front of him, dead; a broken, bloody mess.

But recognisable. For his was a famous face, to those who remembered such things. Even Henry knew this man. In the dream, Henry still had knowledge of all which had previously passed, and he knew who this was immediately.

It was Jon-Luc Pirette.

It was the man who had assassinated Gorbachev.

247

Eighteen

Henry found Gob at his place by the fire. He was sitting by himself.

“Hoppy, my lad,” he said. “Pull up a log.” George looked straight into him, saw for the first time a creased face, white with numbness and exhaustion.

Henry said, knowing suddenly that time was short, “I won't beat about the bush, Gob. I had the most peculiar dream earlier today. I think I know now what it is you actually want me to do.”

Eyes, red. A trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. George said nothing to him in text, but he heard the words in his head, So go and do it. Please.

George said presently, “Soon we won't be able to help you any more, Henry. We thought you'd need more time to get to the point, but you keep on taking shortcuts. So be it. It's not ideal, really. But, in any case, the circle is very nearly at its end, now. We've done almost everything we can. The rest is pretty much up to you.”

“In my dream, it was just a matter of stopping Mary 248

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

from crossing the road in the end... is that what I should do?”

“It ain't just about stopping her from crossing the road, Henry,” said Gob. “Jesus Christ, you have less sense in your head than Yance has sometimes.”

“I don't understand.”

“You think Mary stops in that spot just because you hold on to her more tightly?” said Gob. “Is that how you see it, the man what uses physical force wins the day?

Why not just club her over the head? That ought to do the trick.”

“I thought that was the only way I could make a change stick,” Henry said. He thought to himself, How can it be any other way? Or have I misunderstood the nature of all of this yet again?

“If that was true,” said Gob, “we could have used anyone who lived nearby back then.”

Anyone? Henry found himself surprised by the degree to which that word stung him. These powers I have aren't of my own making? This is only something which has been engineered? Do you know that I can see you, George? he thought. Do you know that I can see you have no hair left, that your skin looks like stretched polythene. Or do you simply permit me to see these things? Or it is that you can no longer stop me from seeing them?

Can I actually see these things at all? he wondered.

Are they merely perceptions that somehow I infer, pictures put together from the places where you choose to 249

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

pause, from the grief in your words or the shortness of your breath? If they are actual, then why can't I see other things? Why can't I see the world behind you? Do you obscure it from my vision? Is there even a world there for me to see any more?

And what about sound? For I know I can hear you.

And what about touch? For I want so much to feel you.

“Then what is it?” he said aloud, finally. “What do I have to do?”

George sighed, looked up at him, the bloodshot eyes longing for a release from the things they had to look upon. “The realities are countless,” he said. “If only you could know the work what's been done; the hours, the pain, the hopeless imprecision. We have to go by what glimpses we get, Henry, and they ain't much more than a momentary glance at something if you're lucky; it's like noticing something for just a second in the corner of your eye and having to measure it, and work out what or who it is and in what direction it's going. There ain't much what we can say about any of them with any degree of confidence; there's no time, Henry; our days, our hours are numbered. But one thing we have seen in each successful outcome is you and her together. You and Mary, Henry; together. That's what has to be.

“It ain't just a question of holding onto her more tight.

Mary,” said Gob, “stops for Henry because of how he asks her. Because of what he shows her. Because, just in that instant, she sees him like she never saw him before, just a little. Can't you get your head round that? Is it too 250

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

hard for you to understand?”

“No,” said Henry. “I understand.”

“Good,” said Gob. “Then there's nothing more to say.”

Henry took one last look at the old man, dying. He walked across to him and put his hand on his head, felt the hairless scalp, stroked it like he sometimes stroked his son's head. Things end. “How... complete is it?” he asked. “I mean, where you are.”

“Soon it will be complete,” said George. “Don't believe what the poets tell you about humankind's prevalance, Henry. The poets don't know what they're fucking talking about. Now go. Meg is waiting for you.”

“I would have liked to have seen the Russian metaverse,” said Henry.

“Maybe in the new world there'll be just the one metaverse,” said George. “with Russians inside it along with the rest of us. Can you imagine what that would be like? Can you imagine the friendships what we'd have?

Can you imagine the unity what we'd create?”

“Yes,” said Henry, “it would be glorious. The world would be a different place completely if such a thing came to be.”

251

Nineteen

“Henry, I'm lost,” Mary said.

“I know you are Mary,” Henry replied. He looked at her, pulled her close, put his arms around her. She felt herself weaken there, within the space he had created for her. She didn't cry. For a few moments, she just lived there with him; after a fashion, she started to return the embrace.

Henry, Henry, Henry. It seemed like he had grown into something slightly different, something slightly bigger and better in the last two minutes or so; but it wasn't as though she had never before glimpsed these aspects to his personality. She knew he was a good guy.

She knew he was thoughtful, considerate; she knew he wanted to do the right things by people. She knew he worried about the things that people should be worried about. There had been occasions since that evening in December when she had reflected on her answer to the question he had asked then, wondered if perhaps some of the things Henry could have given her were things that 252

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

she would have liked to have had in her life from time to time. But those were mostly the thoughts of the lonely moments when she sat by herself, secretly longing for someone to be with her in the there and then, secretly longing for an evening of physical contact and human closeness. Henry was a nice guy, but he wasn't mentally where she needed him to be. And nor would he ever be, in all likelihood. Whatever he could give her, it would be satisfying in the short term only. And guys like Henry, when they got hurt, got hurt badly. And she couldn't do that to him.

Guys like Henry reminded her of David. In fact, it only actually took a couple of similarities for that recognition to happen; she looked for David everywhere.

She had noticed Henry in the first place, as it happened, because from behind his head looked just like that of her brother. One of the stupid, secret yearning things she did was to sit as often as she could behind Henry in lectures, so that she could look down on the back of his head and imagine it was David there. She would ration her glances at him when she did this, as though too long a look would wear the effect out somehow. She would look at him quickly and think, There's David; I bet he thinks this is all pink and fluffy nonsense. She liked to think that by doing this she kept his memory more fresh. And she would get privately angry with Henry sometimes, because he wore the wrong kind of shirts.

Come to think of it, she had a completely different relationship with the front of Henry than she did with his 253

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

back. How odd. When he was facing her, it was someone else entirely – not her brother – that she saw.

What a peculiar thing to notice about oneself.

David. In a few weeks time it would be the first anniversary. One year of grief. One year of trying to make sense of something that made no sense to her whatsoever; his absence was simply inconceivable. One year, and it was no easier than it had ever been, not even a little.

In fact, it had been Henry who had fumbled his way through an impartation of the Time Is The Great Healer® words of wisdom over a coffee in the Babbage Building restaurant, not long after they had met. It had been his response to her nth recounting of the ordeal. He probably had no recollection of it, possibly thought, even, that he had handled the situation quite well. It was a well-used phrase, after-all; the kind of thing people who had never had their hearts ripped out said to the people who had, thinking it made them look experienced and knowledgeable. Poor Henry. How could he be blamed for not being broken? Well, such was life.

She felt guilty about rejecting him, but not that guilty.

She felt guilty because he reminded her of her brother, and she wouldn't have enjoyed seeing David rejected in love like that. But then again, Henry was alive. Henry didn't have his impending death to have to think about.

Henry didn't have to rely on others for attention to his bodily functions whilst he waited for that. Henry would get over it.

254

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

One year of grief. One year of wondering if things could ever be bearable again. One year of trying to forget the specific moments that, when recalled, caused her to loose all control and coherence completely. One year of living the charade of normality for everyone but herself.

One year of waking up longing, longing, longing to be able to see him just one more time. The boy she had grown up with. The boy who had dug holes with her in the garden. The boy whose sweets she'd shared. The boy who had known her thoughts at a single glance and she his in return. The boy who had always been there; the boy who no longer was. Her other half. Her soul. Her twin.

“Let me walk with you a little way,” said Henry, at Mayflower Street. “There's something I need to tell you; something I need to explain. I understand something now that I didn't understand before. I understand why you said no to me, and why it was the right answer.”

“It's ok, Henry,” said Mary. “I was listening. I know you understand.”

Henry paused, as though just remembering something he had forgotten. “Yes,” he said. “What I wanted to say was...” He paused again, realised they had stopped walking and resumed the pace. They walked towards the pedestrian crossing.

“The place that you're in,” he said eventually, “is a place I could stand in with you. There is a path for me 255

THE DAY IS FULL OF BIRDS

now. I don't know why I'm telling you this. I need to tell you this, for me; to know I said the things I needed to say.”

“Henry, what are you talking about?” said Mary.

They were approaching the crossing. “Mary,” said Henry, “if you could go back in time and prevent your brother being born, so that you could wipe from existence the pain of his death, would you choose to do so?”

“No, of course I wouldn't,” said Mary, resenting the question intensely. “What sort of a thing is that to ask?”

“I'm really sorry,” said Henry. “You see, I understand how it could work out. I can see how you and I could be together in that place you stand alone in. Maybe I would forget about my son and maybe I wouldn't, but knowing what I have to do would be enough to make that bridge.

I'm already there, in fact; it's not something which will be, it's already happened.”

“You have a son?” asked Mary. “Henry, what are you talking about?”

“I will have a son,” said Henry. “But he won't live for long. He will die a long, long time before he should. We all will. But he will live. I have to see to it that he does.

For him not to exist in the first place... that's something I can't even contemplate as a father. I just couldn't live with it. Even if I forgot and never knew I did it. I can't do it. I can't even think of doing it. Things have to remain as they are.

“And I'm sorry about that, Mary. I am so, so sorry.”

They stopped by the crossing, Mary pressed the 256

HUCKLEBERRY H. HAX

button. There was practically no traffic about, but habits were hard to break sometimes. Mary said, “Well I'm still none the wiser as to what you're going on about. Is this something you need to talk about? Do you want to come back to my place for a coffee?”

“No, Mary,” said Henry. “It's time for you to go.”

“We'll talk tomorrow, right?”

“You bet.”

“Take care, Henry.”

“Bye, Mary.”

The buzzer sounded. A white van stopped. Mary crossed over, wondering what on Earth all that had been about. She looked back briefly, saw him watching, waved to him and turned to walk up the rest of Mayflower street. In the distance, she could hear some idiot over-revving his car.

257

Epilogue

The alarm went; the day was full of birds.

“Children, it's time for us to go into the hall,” said Miss Beaver, quietly. “We will hold hands when we get there. We will sing a song together, just like we practised.”

258