Like some minimalist design of coat stand, it looked totally out of place next to the knitted cushion covers, embroidered bedspread and lace mats on the table. As did the aluminium bedpan sitting on her bedside table. Now, with face right by the window, he could hear that there wasn't even a radio on; she had been sitting there in silence. Just waiting to die.

  Crouching down by the back door, he checked that the spare key was still under the third pot on the left. Then he moved soundlessly back down the alley and returned to his car.

  As his headlights swept across his front lawn they lit up his neighbour's cat, crouched malevolently over a tiny black form, eyes momentarily flashing silver. The animal stared balefully at him for an instant longer, then darted back into its own garden. He climbed out of the car, removed his shopping from the back seat and went to examine whatever the cat had abandoned.

  The shrew lay on its side, comically long snout poking between the blades of grass, a jet black eyeball standing almost clear from its head. The animal's sides rose and fell with an impossible speed - the movement more of a flicker than a breath. Bending down, he looked more closely at the creature. As a sociologist, his main concern was with humans and society. He didn't actively hate animals: but he didn't feel any affection for them either. The plight of the tiny creature before him only interested him because, if it died, it became an item of litter that he would have to clear up. He looked for any signs of injury. But this was the cruel irony; the cat hadn't been interested in actually eating its prey. Just torturing it to death.

  Tentatively, he extended a forefinger and attempted to roll the rodent back on to its front, hoping it might scamper away. The gentle prod finally proved too much and its sides abruptly stopped moving, as if a switch had been turned off. He watched as the bright black eye slowly lost its lustre. Pursing his lips in annoyance, he picked it up by its stubby little tail, walked over to his dustbin and dropped it inside.

  The microwave whirred as his pizza revolved slowly around inside. Over the years his house had gradually accumulated more and more machines of convenience. In his early career he would religiously visit the laundry, aware of the wastefulness of running a washing machine in a single person household, proud to live in a home with as few luxuries as that of his childhood. But gradually the effort just seemed too much. After the washing machine, he had indulged in a dishwasher, then a microwave.

  Standing by the machine, he studied the television guide from The Observer. Spotting that Blade Runner was about to start, his eyebrows raised and he nodded a couple of times to himself.

  From a social scientist's perspective, Eric loved the film for its vision of what an unbridled devotion to capitalism would lead to. After first seeing it, he had even considered offering a course that analysed the film. It was only the disdainful reaction he was sure this would provoke from the university's 'natural scientists' that prevented him from actually doing so.

  But that didn't stop him, in idle moments, from planning the outline of lectures that took a grim delight in describing a world that had been slowly compressed into a claustrophobic dystopia. A writhing mass of dirty streets where all industry was privatised, where there was no such thing as society, where nature had been eradicated and animals existed solely in artificial forms. And where the only landmarks to rise above the urban skyline were the strongholds of big business such as the Tyrell Corporation's monstrous headquarters.

  Eric pictured himself before rows and rows of rapt students, describing how, unless socialist principles prevailed, privately-schooled executives would soon be gazing down at the streets from the upper floors of these strongholds, market forces reducing the flow of people below them to mere units of consumption. Indeed, when viewed from such a distance, Eric asserted in his mind, ordinary man would appear as little more than a speck: of no more consequence than an ant. What, he asked his imaginary audience, was the role of government in this future society? Pared down to the bare minimum, the state served no purpose other than maintaining law and order - so the corporations could continue wielding their pernicious control over everyone's lives.

  Smiling, he placed a glass of water on his dinner tray. Then something occurred to him and he walked quickly through to his study. Mixed in with the publications on the bottom shelf of his bookcase were a number of videotapes; mostly Cutting Edge documentaries or episodes of Panorama concerned with injustices within the British system of social care.

  Next to a large yellow coloured paperback titled, Mining Memories: An illustrated Record of Coal Mining in St Helens was a video tape with a particularly old report on how the Conservative policy of Care in the Community was turning pensioners with mental problems out on to the streets. He carried it through to his front room, inserted it into his video recorder and turned the television on. As Blade Runner started and the haunting strains of Vangelis' sound track began to fill the room, he pressed 'Record' and went to fetch his pizza.

  Chapter 16

  By now their surroundings and daily routine were familiar. All four birds had grown fully accustomed to the conveyor belt's sudden noise; now it only represented an opportunity to feed. The large forms of the people in white clothes that occasionally passed still caused stress, but they soon disappeared and hardly ever made any noise. However the birds were far from comfortable. Their natural urges to scratch at the ground and bathe in dust were reasserting themselves: but only the hard grid of bars was beneath their feet. The metal dug into the fleshy pads, a continual source of discomfort. The first bird to exhibit nesting behaviour was the largest. Instinctively it sought a dark and secluded corner. There wasn't one. Eventually the egg dropped onto the sloping mesh floor and rolled into the collecting tray at the front of the cage. Often during their nineteen-hour-days the birds wanted to sleep. The cages had no perches and so their roosting instinct was thwarted, too. Frustration levels were beginning to rise. The injured hen was now in considerable pain. The other birds frequently tried to flap their wings, but the confines of the cage didn't allow this. Often their attempts knocked the injured bird over and it was finding it increasingly hard to regain its feet. The width of the cage only allowed three birds to stand at the front with their heads through the bars to feed. To provide relief from the unpleasant feelings the low ceiling created, the three healthy birds preferred to remain there even when they weren't eating. The position had the advantage of allowing them to stretch and shake their necks, behaviour chickens in open surroundings indulge in all the time. Blocked in behind them, the injured bird had yet to eat.

  Chapter 17

  Zoe took off the polythene gloves and dropped them into a plastic bag, careful to avoid touching any of the henna covering them. 'There, leave that on for half an hour and you're done.'

  Keeping her head bent over the edge of the bath, Clare fiddled with the elasticated edge of the plastic cap covering her head. 'Are you sure all my hair's tucked under?'

  ‘Certain. And you can open your eyes too, there's no dye on your face.'

  Clare straightened up and removed the towel draped round her shoulders.

  'Thanks mate. Right, I'll just wash the bath out before it stains.' She picked up the showerhead connected to the hot and cold taps by twin umbilical cords.

  'You weren't bullshitting me in the supermarket? It really is that right on?' asked Zoe, now sitting on the sofa and using the end of a matchstick to prod stray strands of tobacco back into the end of an enormous roll-up.

  'God, yeah. It's a bloody minefield doing that course,' replied Clare, spraying warm water on the dots of red flecking the sides of the bath. 'I hardly dared open my mouth when I started. One wrong step and people would turn on you like a pack of hyenas. But what got me - still gets me - is the sense of righteousness in their voices when they hauled you up. It's as if, by nailing you, they're demonstrating their own PC credentials to everyone else.'

  'You mean they don't really believe it themselves?'

  ‘Absolutely. I don't think half of them really believe what they say. It's just what's expected - and if you're a student, it's the sure way to a decent class of degree.'

  'That's awful.'

  'Yup.’ She thought for a moment and then said, 'There's probably a few students who are really genuine. But you don't hear them spouting off all the time. Amongst the lecturers there's Patricia Du Rey. I've got a lot of respect for her. And at least what she's teaching is relevant and interesting.'

  'What about that Professor from the supermarket?' asked Zoe.

  Clare sat down next to her, 'Maudsley? I think his heart is in the right place. I mean, he lives by what he teaches. Cycles into university to save the planet, only accepts essays on recycled paper, doesn't waste a single paper clip.'

  'Then again, he could just be tight.'

  'True. And his courses are grim as anything. Care of the elderly. Looking after the dying and all that.' 'Oh don't, it's too depressing.'

  'Mmmm. Anyway, most of the department ...' Enthusiasm suddenly flooded her voice. 'Take this little dick-head called Julian. I mean, Julian. Who'd call their kid that if they weren't absolutely loaded?'

  Zoe's shoulders started to shake and Clare, seeing her friend trying to suppress a laugh, said, 'What?'

  'I love it when you get on one,' answered Zoe. 'Remember that time? We must have been eight or nine? You lobbed that cooking apple into the pond where those old men were fishing? We were laughing so much we couldn't even get back on our bikes to cycle away!'

  Zoe began to giggle as she recounted the story. Clare kept quiet, even though she had heard it countless times.

  'That guy came charging across the grass in his wellies, grabbed us by the scruff of our necks and then marched us back to the pond to make us apologise to all the other fishermen.'

  'Oh don't,' said Clare, cheeks now red and head lowered.

  'And you suddenly burst into tears, then turned on him and let rip about fishing being cruel and how nasty they all were to be sitting there trying to catch the poor little fish with their nasty hooks.' Zoe was laughing openly now.

  Clare held a hand over her eyes, as if to screen the memories from her sight, 'Yeah, well it is cruel. I don't care what they say about fish not feeling pain.'

  Zoe struggled on. 'I'll...I’ll never forget the look on his face. He was so shocked by your rant he just let go of us and crawled back into his little green tent.'

  Clare sighed deeply. 'Anyway, if I could carry on now?'

  Zoe sat back, grinning as she twisted the top of the roll-up closed.

  Clare smiled back. 'So, this Julian: he is especially vigilant about correct comments being adhered to. But what really gets me about him is this - he does it all as a sad way of trying to chat up girls on the course. Only, because he's a lecturer, he doesn't dare actually ask anyone out. So he just "nices" his way around them, doing his, "I'm such a sweet, considerate guy, please fancy me," act.' Her voice adopted a pained earnestness as she imitated him, 'I really empathise with women's issues, you know that don't you, Zoe?' She placed her hand on her friend's knee and gave her a sickly smile.

  Giggling, Zoe shook her leg free, lit the joint, inhaled deeply. 'He “nices” around them, you said. Does that mean he doesn't “nice” around you?'

  Clare thought for a moment. 'Not so far anyway. And there's only a few more days to go.'

  'Do I detect a little disappointment?' Zoe replied, beginning to laugh. 'That Julian isn't all "nice" with you? That Julian doesn't try to...'

  Clare cut her short. 'Oh please, I'd rather shag ... I'd rather shag Maudsley.'

  'Eeeurrrr - the living corpse from the supermarket?'

  'Yeah, any day.'

  They chuckled for a while, then Clare tapped impatiently on the sofa.

  'What?' said Zoe, looking at the flutter of her friend's fingers.

  Clare quickly checked the plastic cap on her head and said resignedly, 'I'm just as bad - in my own way.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'The chat lines I work on for a start. In the department I tell them that I'm doing adult literacy courses for Iraqi refugees. In reality, I fleece poor, sad people out of their hard-earned cash. And this crap demo I'm organising. It's all a load of horse-shit. I mean, a £5 per month rent increase? Big fucking deal. It's still peanuts compared to what any private flat would cost me. I'm only organising it so I appear the model student to get this bloody research position.'

  'You do what you have to do, Clare,' Zoe replied, her voice much firmer. 'I've told you that before. Believe me, if you can get a nice cushy position in a big university, grab it. At least you're safe once you're in.'

  'Yeah, you say that. But look at Maudsley. They're making budget cuts and it looks like they're going to push him out end of next year.'

  ‘But he's old, isn't he? He's due to retire soon anyway. You get your foot in the door and then you can apply at other universities, colleges, sixth form places, all that. It'll beat the shit out of any position in the private sector, I can tell you.'

  She held the joint out to Clare, but she waved it away. Zoe shrugged and took another drag. 'You know what the bastards did to me. A piss-poor salary and then, eleven months into the job, they bin me - because they know if I reached a year with them, I'd actually have some rights. As it was I got a “thank you, Miss Webster, here's a week's pay and your P45. Now fuck off.” Left me feeling really appreciated, it did.’ Her voice was now quivering slightly. 'I tell you - they'll shit all over you.' Biting her lower lip, she stared angrily at a fly buzzing against the glass of the living room window. 'That bloody thing has been pissing me off all evening.' She reached for the recruitment section of the local paper on the table in front of her and began to roll it up.

  'Don't kill it,' said Clare, jumping to her feet and opening the window a few inches.

  The insect continued battling against the impenetrable surface, unaware its way to freedom was inches away.

  'Go on, shoo. Get out!' said Clare, nose wrinkling with disgust, pushing delicately at it with the back of one forefinger. Suddenly it flew to the side and disappeared through the gap. Shuddering, Clare closed the window and returned to her seat. 'Anyway, Zoe, you've got a year's experience now, haven't you? Your foot's in the door.'

  'Ha! And there's also the next wave of eager young Graphic Design graduates just entering the job market, too. All of them sussed on the latest editions of Quark, Photoshop and Illustrator, all of them desperate to work for what I started on – or less. You know what really gets me? When I landed that job, I probably bumped out someone just like me. Used is what I feel like.'

  Clare picked up the recruitment section of the local paper and smoothed it back out. It was folded over at the media part, various jobs circled. 'So how's the job hunt going?'

  'Not too bad,' answered Zoe with a sigh. 'I've got a few to call back on Monday. Hopefully to arrange an interview.'

  'That's excellent,' said Clare. 'They won't be able to resist you, you'll see.'

  Zoe smiled, eyes averted, 'Yeah well - fingers crossed.' She reached for the telly guide, dropping ash on the floor.

  Clare put the recruitment section back on the table, picked up their plates and carried them through to the kitchen. She turned on the taps and, as she stood waiting for the sink to fill, she heard the TV go on. The sounds of a chanting crowd filled the tiny flat for a second before the channel switched.

  'Excellent! Blade Runner - have you seen it?' Her friend called through from the other room.

  'Yeah - about five times,' she called back, wiping a cloth over the plates.

  ‘It's a class film,' Zoe informed her anyway. 'Ridley Scott at his best. And the music ... who did it? Someone quite famous ...'

  A rumbling sound outside suddenly increased in volume, higher metallic notes now mixing with the train engine's deeper roar. As it sped past, every window began a minute rattling in the warped wooden frames and Clare actually felt the air shift against her face. And then it was gone and instantly forgotten.

  ' ... do you know what I mean?' concluded Zoe from the other room.

  'You what? I missed all that,' replied Clare, leaving the kitchen. Zoe was excitedly jabbing the last third of the joint towards the screen. The marijuana had heightened her convictions, creating a certainty that her insight was genuine. 'It illustrates my point perfectly. I mean who are the only sorted people in the film? Apart from the ones at the very top of the big corporations, it's the few lucky enough to be working for the state, of course. The cops and that. The old police boss, Bryant, even says it to Harrison Ford. "If you're not cop, you're little people." Everyone else is just scratching out an existence down on the miserable, litter-strewn, rainsodden streets.'

  'Yeah, but Zoe, half the Social Studies Department is probably closing soon. That Professor Maudsley will probably be on the scrap heap in another year.'

  'Maybe,' said Zoe, struggling to make this information fit her theory. 'But with a nice index-linked pension and a fat pay-out too, no doubt. Name me a private company who is expanding their pension schemes.'

  'I don't know.'

  'I'll tell you then. None. They're all closing them to new employees as fast as possible. Too much of a drag on their profits. And that shit-heap place I wasted a year at didn't even have one. I'm telling you there's a lot of people in this country heading towards a poverty-stricken old age. No one I know is saving for their pension, and they say the state one will be non-existent by the time we retire. Get yourself into that Patricia's department and hang on like grim death.'

 

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