Finding Davey Page 11

  Chapter Twenty

  Usually Bray avoided train conversations.

  He had suffered down his commuting years, from the woman who showed photographs of her three Charles the Second spaniels that she hoped to “get into films”, to the dour man who preached ceaselessly of ancient steam trains. The only way was to hang back and avoid the yackers.

  Now, though; times were new.

  Computer buffs sat and talked in a cluster, having boarded at Manningtree. They spoke in tongues. Bray had occasionally been caught out, when the train was reduced to four coaches and everybody crammed in willy nilly. Now, though, he made himself sit opposite the grumpiest, youngest computer buff. Uncharacteristically, Bray started to read a newspaper, breathless from apprehension at what he was going to do. Already he had baffled the girl on the newspaper kiosk: “A paper, please.”

  “Yes sir. Which?”

  “Any, thank you.”

  This was Bray’s difficulty. For years he had insulated himself. Emma’s departure had made him even more withdrawn. His quest required a fit man prepared to launch out. Establish contact, speak to strangers if that was necessary. It would take time, but he hadn’t much.

  He went for it, lowering his paper.

  “Morning,” he said to Grump.

  “Morning!” the youngish bloke said, surprised at this novelty.

  From the corner of his eye, Bray saw the surprised look on the manuscript woman’s face. She knew he was never inclined to speak.

  As the whistle sounded and the train pulled out, Grump began a monologue to his friend about pricing. He sat, arms folded. His companion wore a grey suit bulging with gadgets that occasionally bleeped and needed attention.

  Bray had worked it out. Nearing London, he could time his intervention just right. Restrict their explanations to twenty minutes, he might follow the sense. Any longer, and he’d be bewildered. He struck as the train rushed through Seven Kings, starting by giving them a rueful smile. They paused.

  “How on earth do you keep track?” They glanced at each other, ready to take umbrage. “Computers, isn’t it? I need one, but I’ve given up. Can’t understand them.”

  “Given up?” Grump was aghast. “You can’t!”

  “He’s read the wrong things,” Calculator said comfortably. “What’ve you tried?”

  “Oh, everything.” Bray named the paperback. “I’m even more confused.” The manuscript woman was frankly listening, though still pretending to edit her typescript.

  “On the net, are you?” Grump demanded. Bray decided he liked the other man better, for all his fearsome electrics.

  “I don’t know what that means,” Bray said ruefully. “I went to Ogden’s to buy a computer, Saturday. Came home with a headache.”

  “Why go there?” they said as one. “You need an independent.”

  “Independent what?” Bray asked innocently, and they were off.

  Some of their eagerness was familiar, from his reading and Kylee’s grouchy utterances. Try out even the slickest search “engines”, you’d only a 3-1 chance of hitting the right page out of the Web’s available billions. They went into asides comparing firms he’d never heard of. Bray asked which they used, how they paid.

  Small companies struggled, he learned. If you wanted to become noticed – gloomy news, this, Grump warned – you were charged increasing prices. You had to do a deal with some search engine. It’s like, Grump added, sounding really rather pleased about the whole depressing thing, “wanting your postcard noticed in some shop window. You’re on a loser.”

  Bray shook his head and explained he was only a joiner. “I don’t want anything commercial, just learn.”

  By judicious questioning, planned a hundred times, Bray guided their expertise.

  “There was a frightening article last week,” he explained, to their indignation. He’d memorised four instances in the public library. “Pupils in Peril on Internet, teachers going berserk. What if some child —?”

  “That’s balderdash.”

  They enlarged on this. Yes, sure, everything from racist propaganda to pornography abounded, but was that the net’s fault? Computers were education. The Association of Teachers and Lecturers were barmy sods, calling for Government to act against obscene material. Those articles were loony tunes, restrict something that can’t possibly be censored? Bray forced a smile.

  “Common sense,” Calculator told him. “Those sixth formers reported that Sheffield paedophile ring, didn’t they?”

  “The nanny state,” Grump put in. “Computer programmes block unsuitables anyway.”

  “They’re crap,” Calculator countered morosely. “Children write essays on slavery, the Internet innocently goes stat into bondage and perv. Get the point?”

  “Government wants every pupil to have their own e-mail.” Grump’s sour expression relaxed at the thought. “It’s good! Children can e-mail world experts. Has to come.”

  “This ‘firewall’ concept,” Calculator finished, “filters out wrong stuff.”

  “You can’t censor anybody any more.”

  As the train rattled by Stratford they digressed about Internet access while Bray tried to get them back to his elementary level.

  They gave him the summary he needed: Computer expansion was unstoppable. They said, music to Bray’s ears, everybody can reach everywhere.

  Still talking at Liverpool Street, they were disappointed when he had no time for coffee at Ponti’s. He sat alone among crowds in Burger Thing. He felt drained.

  They hadn’t offered their names, but their enthusiasm was profound and rather endearing. They had served his purpose, and could now be discarded. He didn’t want them waiting for him on the platform each morning eager to chat. Nothing malicious; they simply possessed a conviction that the world Out There only needed computers, to move forward singing and joyous.

  Bray’s plan was the only way.

  “May I?” The manuscript woman with a tray holding a cup and sandwich. “Sorry. It’s so crowded.”

  “Please.” He put his drawing away but too slowly and she noticed.

  “Good luck with it.” And explained. “Your book. Sorry again. Couldn’t help noticing. Front cover?”

  He felt sheepish. “Not mine,” he added, then realised she must have seen him adding to an outline in pencil. “It’s, er, my sister’s. She’s not well. I’m trying to help. Publishing seems hard.”

  She sighed. “Don’t I know it. Do wish her luck. Has she published before? I’m an editor. Cannon Endriss, near St John’s Square. Probably not for long, the way things are going.”

  “No. It’s her first try.” There seemed nothing else to say. He rose, his coffee untouched. “Didn’t realise the time. Excuse me, please.”

  She said unexpectedly, “Tell her not to be upset if it gets turned down. Keep going.”

  “Thank you.” He stood, hesitant, wanting to ask, then left, knowing he’d missed an opportunity.

  The Euston walk-in medical unit was crowded when Bray arrived. A doctor was ready to see him within a few minutes. It was satisfactory.

  “Mr Charleston, you are a reasonably fit man for your age. Fifties is nothing.”

  The doctor perused the file, where Bray glimpsed his long form.

  “We found no hint of illness, Mr Charleston.”

  “Thank you. Do I need to come back?”

  “Not unless you want. This clinic isn’t National Health, hence the fee.” The doctor sounded on the defensive. “You can have free follow-up examinations with your own GP.”

  “I particularly didn’t want to go there.”

  “Fine. Just remember the four defences for the ageing man. Smoking, you say you don’t.”

  “Gave a pipe up twenty years ago.”

  “Then shun secondary smoking risks – that means smoky places. Two: fitness. You may have heard of the body mass ratio?” Before Bray could reply he went on, “Your weight in kilogrammes. Your height in metres. Remember the formula W divided by H2. It gi
ves your body/mass value, called Quertelet’s Index.”

  Bray didn’t say he’d already looked that up. Square the height, divide the weight by it, and pray the result is 25 or just a bit less.

  “Your index is ten pounds too heavy. Don’t take dietary supplements, and cut down saturated fat. I’m sure you know the drill. Obesity starts at an Index of 30 plus.”

  The doctor frowned. “Circumference at waist and hips. Your ratio is 1.0 exactly. Get it down to below 0.95. We’re now pretty sure that men who carry larger bellies proportionate to their hips have an increased risk of heart disease. Don’t go frantic, just be sensible.”

  Exercise was the next thing.

  “Walk an hour each day. Work up a mild sweat – mow the grass, gardening, whatever – twenty minutes every other day. The fourth is, no stress.”

  Bray thanked him, took the sheaf of pamphlets, paid and left.

  He was satisfied. Money and health enough to be going on with, and a computer that could reach across oceans, God knows how. Was it enough?

  That night, alone in the house after more sad news about Shirley, he deliberately watched a travel programme about America. He had bought three videos on travel in the USA. He and Buster did a night walk, quicker for better exercise, to Buster’s indignation. Then it was midnight.

  He watched the videos over and over. At four o’clock in the morning he boxed them up and threw them into the dustbin.

  Ready, steady, go.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The party was over. His desk covered with shaving foam, fake whiskers adorning his locker. His place at Poppers was marked by a polystyrene headstone with hilarious inscriptions he’d seen a dozen times in similar farewell laugh-ups. He had one last session.

  She was in when he arrived. “Stairs get to you, Officer Stazio?”

  “Always did, ma’am.”

  “Your medical went well, right?”

  “Olympics next time round.”

  She placed her chin on her linked hands. Young, too young, active in her work, eager to issue data, get the perps. Once too keen, now after six years she was right-on, work any late hour for results. Marva wasn’t pretty, had a stable home life, a kid in junior school. The boys made jokes about her thick legs. She knew all about them, said nothing, all the same refused to wear thick trousers.

  “Sam says you’re taking stacks, huh?”

  “Habit of a lifetime,” Jim said, giving her a laugh. She knew his lateness with reports.

  “You called on some local names lately, Officer Stazio.”

  He was always Officer Stazio to her, Sam Tietze was simply Sam. Why was that? Too late now.

  “Things on my mind.” He felt sheepish. “Retirement. Never thought it’d come.”

  “Here in Data we’re used to retirees doing a little end stitching.”

  “Any clinic come up more times than the rest?”

  “Mentions? Nah. The ones who come up most often get investigated fastest, mostest. It hits the fan.”

  “What about the ones who come up least?”

  She looked her surprise, nodding slowly.

  “It’s a great thought. I did that – both ends of the statistical distribution – last year. Somebody up-state in Walmo County dug into it, came up nada. Want me to go again?”

  “Not if it was no use before.”

  They spoke casually after that, Jim taking his leave and making sure he escaped more goodbyes. He would call in Poppers after meeting with the Union reps, loose ends.

  He’d seen the trailer park home he was doomed to inhabit for the rest of his life. River not far away, walking distance to golf, good bars, nice smiley folk, not too many dogs dirtying the universe out there.

  And one shelf reserved for past papers, old files. Tomorrow, he’d move out and start the rest of his life. Retirement.

  His cup had gone cold.

  The shed’s new-wood scent was an aroma. Reluctantly he admired the beams, the window structure. Good modern job, and heartlessly efficient. He too would be heartless. This place would be the instrument of his search leading to Davey.

  No, he thought, nervously waiting as the screen began to glow, no, wrong word. Not search. That was a word applied to, say, discovering where young Maitland had left Bray’s old wooden folding rule. Quite beyond Bray’s comprehension, for a craftsman’s implements were his special creativity. Seek, then? You sought out something “lost, stolen or strayed” in the nursery rhyme’s words, was it A.A. Milne? No. Altogether too innocent.

  Hunt?

  Hunt, you were a hunter. Hunt, you kept on until you dropped. A hunter never stopped.

  He stared at the screen’s logos and icons, for a moment baffled until he remembered Kylee’s cryptic insolence: “This gadget’s a fucking moron. Can’t do a frigging thing unless you tell it. If it doesn’t do right, then you’ve tellt it wrong.”

  Gingerly he moved the mouse, touched the screen’s arrow to the logo and saw the screen change. He was hunting.

  There was a small screen clock, bottom left, that for some reason told how long he’d been going. Why? Numbers also racked up, seeming to know what they were doing so he ignored them. Several times he had to cancel everything and restart. Foolishly he found himself muttering apologies to the damned thing, the way he did to wood. He knew workshop youngsters laughed at him. They just didn’t understand. Wood was a living creature’s heart. It wasn’t called heartwood for nothing.

  He found the rectangular space and diffidently typed in the term he’d never been able to think. He found difficulty placing the arrow – couldn’t they have made it bigger? His confidence increasing, he made it get there and the screen rolled.

  In an hour he made, for him, stunning progress. It was exactly as Kylee told him, with her usual scorn: “Five minutes on your own, you’ll see computers are right fucking idiots, okay?”

  Bray was amazed when he made the printer, with its peridot light, start shoving out pages of data, the machine chuntering to itself before disgorging the sheets. He worried at first but guessed that something was merely queueing up. Kylee’s other dictum: “Everybody in the effing world logs on, see? So make the other buggers wait. Be boss, see?”

  The information concerned missing children.

  The computer could detail cases. One or two he even remembered. One however was heartening. A little boy had been abducted. The kidnapper had a respectable job, and raised the stolen boy as his own. Nine – nine! – years later, the man had stolen another boy of six. The first lad by then was fifteen. Some dim memory had stirred in the teenager, who had courageously taken the six-year-old to the police station. The kidnapper had been apprehended, and the children were rescued.

  Bray almost wept at that. Okay, lesson one for a hunter: you can’t recover stolen time. Weep if you must, but tears dim a hunter’s sight. Blot your eyes and plough on.

  Famous abductions abounded in literature, in history, in statistics. Some enthusiasts wanted the world to log on to the abducted Helen of Troy. Biblical instances crept in from all sides. He began to spot deceptions in titling. You couldn’t ever be sure, so had to try more out than you actually needed. The computer clearly remembered which titles he wanted more data on, and signalled them to itself by coloured changes. Had Kylee made it do that?

  He made progress. Except that satisfaction was a trick. So often the same feeling had proved treacherous in his early days at Gilson Mather. His first encounter was with the notorious “upsets” in mahogany as a young apprentice. He had wrought a truly beautiful piece of Swietenia mahogani mahogany, only a small discarded chunk but true of the species. The Australian Rosewood or Rose Mahogany, that Bray still called Dysoxylum, were all not true mahogany, though bliss to work. Bray had been so proud to handle a real piece of old Cuban. He had laboured hours, until calamity befell, for its interior had been a mass of thundershakes, still known as upsets among woodworkers. From being exquisite, his work instantly became worthless, the fibre torn to shreds during the tree’s g
rowth. A beginner, he had marvelled too much. He never made that same mistake again. The hardest thing had been throwing it away.

  Thirty years later Bray invented an electronic gadget to detect thundershakes in mahogany. The electrical impedance of wood along a measured length, in line with the xylem and phloem’s line of growth, was different in unaffected mahogany. Were the rips in the wood actually caused by thunder? He didn’t know or care. Mr Winsarls had patented the device in Bray’s name.

  He felt the same now, going into this country of screened words, of guesses. Data everywhere, yes, but on a terrain of surmise and doubt.

  One remarkable story he came across lifted him. A little girl had been stolen. The parents gave up hope. Years afterwards, as an adult, she had incidentally visited the town of her origin even though she retained no memory. In a baker’s shop – a shop – she had chatted with another lady. The baker looked at the two faces before him across his counter, and remarked on their remarkable likeness. This had started a discussion, and the two women realised that they were sisters.

  In a shop! Years after!

  You see, Bray told himself. He had no need of encouragement. He simply wanted evidence of memory. He came across mentions of Little Lord Fauntleroy, who in the eponymous novel accidentally strayed with his gypsy friends cheerily calling that no, this was the way, and so walked home.

  Agents on the screen promised to find lost ones. He printed the list. Kylee said he could sort things alphabetically, in seconds. What if he eventually had to send somebody to America, even? Could a computer system be carried? He knew of small discs, but what if American computers didn’t work the same? He trusted notebooks more. He’d heard that some writers still stuck to handwriting, and understood why.

  Long hours later, he caught himself missing an entry and reluctantly decided to close down. He forgot the routine Kylee had shown him but hoped it would know what to do. The printed sheets he left to sort through in the morning. Buster flopped tiredly along with Bray back to the house for his pint of tea and sleep.