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Fade
Lee Battersby
I'm fading.
Cell by cell, I'm disappearing.
Watch. Look at me sitting amongst acquaintances. Not friends. Thirty-seven years in the job and all I have now are acquaintances. Most of them are younger than my children might have been. Watch them, sitting on couches in the canteen. How noisy they are. How colourful. How alive, with their cappuccinos and cheesies and focaccias. There. Me. Somewhere near the middle. Sipping my tea and unwrapping the cling wrap from three wholemeal biscuits. On a good day, they're choc-coated. I am a smudge of grey amongst the riot of movement. Look at how I pale in comparison. How I grow transparent, how I fade into the background. How I cease to exist.
It wasn't always this way. When I started out, when I was young like they are, and strong like they aren't. People valued silence. It was a sign of strength. "The strong silent type" they'd say, and give a wink. Maybe they'd squeeze a bicep, or pat my shoulder. "Good old Nige. Solid dependable silent Nige." Solid, silent, dependable. Like the pylons upon which a bridge rests.
Somewhere along the line, things changed. The noisy ones took over. Silence became withdrawal. These young ones, these... parrots, cover the bridge pylons with guano. I sip my tea while they laugh, and scream, and gesticulate. Parrots. I am a rock in a world of parrots.
Would they notice if I left? Would they pause, as if a cold breeze suddenly blew over them? A gap in the tumult while they rubbed goose-pimpled arms and looked about them in surprise. It would take something cataclysmic. Perhaps if I exploded. Covered them in meat and blood and innards. Then they might stare at the space I had occupied. There's not enough of me left for the task. I'm a ghost, a memory. I can summon up no greater explosion than could a soap bubble. I do not have the courage to be missed. I dunk my biscuit into my lukewarm tea, listening, absorbing. Nobody asks my opinion. Nobody turns in my direction and says, "What do you reckon, Nige?"
Thirty-seven years.
* * *
The room is dark. I lie in the exact centre of the bed, with my head nestled between the pillows. Shadows talk to me from the ceiling. In them, I catch a glimpse of what things will be like when I fade away. The silence is wonderful in the dark: strong and comforting. I can think of anything. I could create whole worlds never before imagined. Instead I populate my dreams with parrots: drinking cappuccinos; eating foccaccias; talking of business plans and BISEP models, compliance pyramids and audit trails; filling the silence with the babble of senseless birds. A cold breeze blows across them. A single grey hair, all that is left of me, floats toward the floor.
"Where is Nige?" a parrot asks. The others pause.
"Who?"
* * *
There is a gap on the couch. One of the parrots is not at work. The rest of the aviary ask each other: Has she called? Does anyone know why/how/where? No one turns to me and asks, "What do you reckon Nige?"
I sit and listen, dunking my biscuit into my tea. Choc-coated. Unless a phone call is received, an excuse offered, today's absence will be recorded as Leave Without Pay. The parrots don't understand. It's only money that drags them in each morning. They have no loyalty towards our employer. Loyalty begins when your career has faded. These ambitious creatures shrug. Money is the important thing. Not them, they say. I would have called. One jokes: even if I was in a car crash I'd still have my mobile. The others laugh just long enough to let him know he isn't funny.
I sip my tea, listening as they gently assassinate the girl's character. It is all part of the game that ambitious young parrots play. I am not called upon to contribute. I finish my tea. I go back to my cubicle, tucked into the far corner of the office. My exit does not cause so much as a pause in their conversation.
* * *
It has been three days. The girl has still not returned to work. There is a meeting. The manager faces us; his eyes fixed on a window opposite. When we have all arrived he begins to speak, still staring through the window, avoiding our faces. He has received a phone call. From the police. A body in the state forest. A shallow grave. A family, bushwalking. Our workmate. Our friend.
There are gasps, sobs. One of the parrots says no no no in a soft voice. I stand at the back of the group. The cup of tea is burning the palm of my hand. The manager is still talking. Counselling will be made available. The memorial service is on Thursday. Miscellaneous leave. A collection for flowers. He runs out of words, thanks us for our attention, rubs a hand along his comb-over and points us toward the psychologist's office in case we would like to make an appointment.
People move away in pairs and groups. Some cry, arms around each other to better spread their grief. Small knots gather to offer comfort and support. I look at their red and puffy faces as they pass. No-one stops to speak to me or reaches out to touch me. No-one asks if I'm okay. I return to my desk and spend five minutes staring into my cup. The surface of my tea has ripples. I concentrate. The tea settles, becomes calm. I take a long sip. My task is incomplete. I have much work ahead.
* * *
I stand in a field full of beautiful coloured birds. I am holding a cup. It burns my hand. I see my face reflected in the liquid. It is the face of a bird. A parrot. Someone calls my name. It is not my name but that of the dead girl. I look up. There is a mirror in the middle of the field. The reflection is faint, almost transparent. It is an old man, holding a cup. I begin to disappear. The old man in the mirror becomes more substantial. He smiles as I fade.
I wake to find I have been crying. My hands are hot and the dark silence does not comfort me.
* * *
There are policemen in the office. They usurp a meeting room. One at a time, all the young parrots flock inside, to emerge again, sniffing, with moist eyes. I stand by the photocopier and listen through the window. I hear "routine questions" and "everyone who knew her well". Someone comes over and I must pretend to copy something or leave. The photocopier drowns out the voices. I wait all morning. The police leave without calling on me.
* * *
Somebody else is missing. There are hushed whispers in the corridors, fears expressed, faces turned away as others pass. When the discovery of the body is announced it is greeted with resignation. Grief is guilty and muted. The conversation on the couch centres not on the victim, but on the identity of the perpetrator. I sit next to the empty space and listen to their theories. I dunk my biscuit and listen. I have nothing to add. No one turns to me and asks, "What do you reckon, Nige?"
* * *
The statue is so large it draws all light towards it. As I draw closer I see that it is not made of stone or brass, but of coloured feathers. A cold breeze sends pieces of the statue skittering away. I catch a feather. It is bright red and quite beautiful. An old man is trying to repair the figure. I hand the feather to him. As quickly as he puts it back the wind snatches it away. No matter how fast he works the breeze is always one step ahead, pulling off more than he can replace. The statue is a self-portrait. The old man talks as he works.
"Not solid enough," he says. "It's just not solid enough."
* * *
The psychologist is a solid woman. Not fat, just tall and fleshy the way my wife was, once. I study her face. There was a time, I believe, when she had cheekbones. I can see them when she moves her mouth. The skin draws tight over her big face. She doesn't look me in the eye. She looks at the window behind me, at the table, at the open manilla folder in front of her, but not at me. Perhaps she can see through me. Perhaps that unnerves her. Perhaps she has never dealt with someone who was disappearing.
She flips through her papers. The silence stretches into minutes. If I should leave, would she notice? I picture myself dissolving into nothingness, save for a single grey hair. It floats onto the paper in front of her. She picks it up, puzzled frown contorting her flesh. I wish I had a cup of tea. She clears her large throat and speaks to the paper.
"You haven't been to see me before."
It takes me some moments to realise that this is a question.
"No." I reply. I am surprised by my voice, solid and strong. I had expected a whisper, a cold breeze.
"Yes. Well. I've been asked to speak to you, to everyone." She corrects herself. "How do you feel? About, well..."
"The murders?"
"Yes. The… deaths." Her hands stroke my file. Her big throat lies under a field of make-up. I can see the pulse beneath.
"I didn't know them."
"You don't have an opinion? Some feelings? They were your workmates."
The young parrot sits on the couch, alight and movement, chattering with the other beautiful creatures. Her voice. Her perfume. The feel of her skin, her hair.
"No." I say. "I have no feelings."
There is more. More questions, more pauses, more prodding and probing. It is all just busy-work, just the crossing of tees and the dotting of eyes. I sit very still while she searches for ways to fill out my allotted time. The pulse in her throat twitches with nervous anticipation. Morse code of the heart. It is with some relief that we hear her watch beep, announcing the half-hour. She presses a thick finger to a button on the watch's side.
"That looks like the end of our time together. Thank you for coming."
I stand. "Will that be all?"
"Yes, yes." She nods. "If you have anything you wish to discuss at any stage..." She leaves the sentence hanging. Her attention is already fixed upon the notes she has made during our conversation. She will pass them to the police. They will tell of passivity, of dulled feelings and responses. They will contain nothing of parrots or dreams, or my fading. I leave her office. She has not once looked into my eyes. The next specimen enter her room to be poked and prodded and reported upon. I have a new task, new work to perform.
* * *
They find the psychologist's body in the boot of her car. The police interview everybody. I expect them to take our fingerprints. I wash my hands in anticipation, but they don't. They take everything from her office. All her files and papers and reports. My file is in one of the boxes, nestled amongst so many others. It will be read by policemen who will see nothing of what is really happening to me. It will become one entry in a pile of discarded papers. The pages bearing my name will turn invisible and disappear, and never be noticed.
* * *
My wife chases me through rows of paper trees. The trees are covered with writing. My name, over and over again, up their boles and along their branches. The trees drop their paper leaves. I grab at them as I run. Each leaf is shaped like a bird. An origami crane, like in a story I once read in a library. Colour falls through me as I lunge with transparent hands. She catches me, turns me to face her. Her thick white throat is pulsing. Her eye sockets are dark, and whorled like fingerprints. I scream her name. I lie in the centre of my wide, cold bed. My head is stuffed between the pillows. In the uncomforting silence, I remember.
* * *
I am fading away.
* * *
Watch. Here I am, on the couch where a beautiful young woman once sat. The others have filled the couch like liquid, expanding to fit the space left by her passing. I am old and grey and faded and worn.
* * *
There has been an arrest. A young man from the office, a temp hired to deal with the filing. Previous charges are discussed. Stalking. Assault. A change of name, a different state. Fake birth certificates. An investigation is under way. Someone mentions a confession; others talk of bodies not yet discovered, connections to crimes in other states. I sit and listen, sipping my lukewarm tea, dunking my biscuits. Choc-coated. They will all be choc-coated from now on. I am retiring. I will work no more.
* * *
My wife has been dead for a long time. She had a big, strong body. The cancer took it away, ate it up until she disappeared into nothing while I watched. My silence and my strength couldn't stop her fading. Children turn their eyes away from the knowledge of death. They do so now, on their couch, with their coffees. I watch them in silence. I will never have another thing to say.
* * *
I am fading. Disappearing. I am an old man who thought he was strong. I cannot even find the strength to break my bonds of silence and rejoin the world. I finish my tea. I get up. A young woman once sat next to me on this couch. I reach up and brush a lost hair from the shoulder of my cardigan. Silent and grey, it falls to the floor.
Lee Battersby is the author of over 40 stories in Australia, the US and Europe, the best of which are collected in Through Soft Air (Prime Books, USA) released in March 2006. Winner of the Aurealis, Ditmar, & Australian Shadows Award, he will tutor at Clarion South 2007, and maintains a weblog at battersblog.blogspot.com. He recently cut his hair, and was disappointed at the resultant lack of plague of frogs and locusts.
