The Book of Strange New Things(127)

BG bellowed with laughter, his massive body quaking with mirth as he escorted the pastor back to civilisation. Peter laughed too, but even as his mouth made the correct shape and his throat produced the appropriate sounds, he knew what God wanted him to do. He would learn the Oasans’ language. He would learn it if it killed him.





20


Everything would be all right if she only could


And so they began. Pressed close together, Peter and Beatrice could no longer see each other. Their mouths were joined, their eyes clasped shut, their bodies could have been anyone’s bodies since the world was created.

A few minutes later, he was wide awake. Bea was a billion miles removed from him, and he was shuffling to the washing machine, holding his soiled bedsheets bundled in his arms. Outside the window, it was the same sunny afternoon as it had been when he’d fallen asleep. The room was bathed in golden light just as before, as though time itself had been baked by the sun, while somewhere far away, his wife’s days and nights were flickering unseen.

Peter fed the bedsheets into the metallic drum. The CONSERVE WATER – COULD THIS LOAD BE HAND-WASHED? placard teased at his conscience, but he couldn’t recall his semen ever smelling so pungent and he was worried that if he tried to hand-wash the sheets, the odour might permeate his quarters and be instantly noticeable if a visitor walked in. Grainger, for instance.

He scooped some soap flakes into the washing machine from the plastic tub provided. The flakes were waxy, as if shaved from a block of real old-fashioned soap. They certainly weren’t any kind of chemical detergent. Might they be whiteflower in one of its myriad forms? He lowered his nose to the tub and sniffed, but the smell of his own body was distracting. He shut the machine and set it going.

Funny, when he was among the Oasans, he never masturbated or had wet dreams. It was as though his sexual nature went into hibernation. He was male, and male equipment hung from his pelvis, but it was just there, irrelevant as an earlobe. Only when he returned to the USIC base did his sexuality revive. Likewise, it was only when he was in the USIC base that he felt the full weight of loneliness.

He stood naked next to the Shoot. Its screen was cold and dark, though he couldn’t recall switching it off. It must have switched itself off sometime during his sleep, to conserve energy. He hoped he’d managed, before exhaustion overtook him, to send whatever messages he’d been writing to Bea. It was all a bit of a blur. What he’d said; what she’d said. He vaguely remembered something about the carpets in the living room having to be removed and thrown away. Or maybe it was the curtains. And rats. Something about rats. Oh yes: Bea had walked to the kerbside to add a garbage bag to the already overflowing wheelie bin there (collections were irregular these days) and she’d got the shock of her life when a rat leapt out, narrowly missing her face.

The rat was probably as frightened as you, he’d reassured her. Or words to that effect.

Locked in the shower cubicle, he lathered himself clean, while his bedclothes churned nearby. Scalded seeds of his DNA gurgled gently into the drainage pipes.

Sitting at the Shoot, towelled and fresh, he was reaching forward to check for more messages from Bea when he noticed a droplet of blood trickling down his upper arm. He’d washed his hair and, while massaging his scalp, had dislodged a scab from the top of one of his ears. His burns were healing well but the flesh of his ears was rich in blood vessels and needed to be left undisturbed while the epidermal cells did their work. He looked around for toilet paper; remembered that USIC didn’t supply any. He had some Band-Aids somewhere, but a fresh droplet tickled his shoulder and he didn’t fancy searching through his bag. Instead he picked up a pair of underpants and fitted them on his head so that the fabric nestled against his bleeding ear.

Lord, please don’t let Grainger walk in unexpectedly now . . .

Once more he seated himself at the Shoot. A new message had loaded in. He opened it, already visualising the word ‘dear’ before it manifested on the screen.

Peter,

I am so, so angry wiuth you. You’re my husband and I love you but I’m hurt and furious.

In all the time we’ve been apart you have mnentioned NOT ONE WORD about our baby. Are you trying to teach me a lesson or do you just not care? I have dropped a few hints reminding you htat I’m pregnant but I haven’t pushed too hard because it’s really up to you to decide if you’ll engage with it or not.

In the past whenever we discussed having kids, you always found reasons why we shouldn’t – ‘not yet’. You always assured me you would LOVE to do it one day and that it was only a matter of timing. Well I’m sorry if I got the timing wrong but I was terrified you would never come back amd you are the only man I want to have childrenb with. Yes I know I sound confused but I don’t think I’m as confused as you are. I see now that you’ve been avoiuding avoiding avoiding fatherhood all these years. It’s a scary step, everyone knows that but people take that leap imto the dark and that’s how the human race goes on. But your missions were always more compelling weren’t they? So many challenges. Another day amnother challenge. Challenges which are really not too hard at all. Because we can try our best to help strangers, but utimately those strangers are responsible for their own fate, aren’t they? If we can’t help them, it’s sad but we just move on and help somepne else. But a child isn’t like that. Not when it’s your own child. Your own child’s fate matters more than anything. You can’t AFFORD to fail even thoiugh you probably will, and that’s what’s so scary. But you know what? – for millions of years people have been stupidf enough or brave enough to try anyway. I’m feeling that pressure right now carrying our baby inside me.