The Other Lives Read online

  ‘In the ’90s you began to write again, publishing searing books about capitalism and the ravages that modern economics were having on the world, filming epic documentaries into rainforests, one of course — The Careless World — winning countless awards. In the last ten years you have turned your attention to activism once again. And your latest cause is called Mindful Child. Professor Sir George Cooper-Wright, a warm welcome to the show and thank you for coming on today.’

  More applause, really warm stuff too, nothing like the blood lust that accompanied poor fat Tracy’s bit. I spot her in the shadows behind and — oh, fuck me! — she goes to clap along, only making a few before her hands fall to her sizeable lap.

  ‘Professor…’ I say.

  ‘George, please,’ he says, to titters.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, yes, really, I don’t use my titles.’

  Titles. Plural.

  George continues. ‘There are too many names for people these days, don’t you think?’

  He looks to the audience, who murmur agreement, despite not having a clue what he is talking about.

  ‘Too many things to set us apart. Did you know that for a brief period during the Spanish Revolution of 1936, the people of Catalonia dropped all titles completely? It didn’t matter whether you were a barber or a general, you were just called by your name. A very old, dear friend of mine was there. He said it was the most freedom he’s ever experienced. Nobody was above or below each other, just Pablo or Esteban…’

  I lean forward and place a hand on his knee.

  ‘Elliot and George.’

  He pats my hand and laughs. The audience laughs. I swear even I get the urge, and I know what’s about to happen.

  ‘Yes, quite! Sorry, Elliot, I’m already rambling.’

  ‘We like the rambling though, George! Don’t we?’

  I turn to the audience, who cheer as welcomingly as they are able.

  ‘Please, don’t ever stop rambling!’

  ‘Thank you, thank you, I intend to keep rambling for some time.’

  ‘Marvellous! Well, George, tell me about your latest project, Mindful Child. It sounds fascinating.’

  ‘Thank you, Elliot and, er…oh good grief, must we keep that picture up there?’

  More laughter from the audience. I swing helplessly between the screen and the production room.

  ‘Ha ha, yes, right, can we? Er…could we lose it? There we go.’

  The screen switches to something more respectable; our national treasure tinkering with a transistor in his youth.

  ‘Thank you, much better,’ says George. ‘There are some things you’d rather not be reminded of.’

  I’m trying not to smile too much, but it’s hard…because ain’t that the truth, Georgy-boy? Ain’t that the truth.

  George blusters.

  ‘Where was I? Oh yes, you wanted me to talk about Mindful Child?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  He scratches his head. A little fidget with his stick. I wonder for a moment what it must be like to view life from his altitude. To stare, windswept, down that tower of years and see how it all fits together — whether it all fits together — the scraps and shreds that flutter from the steep face, the barely held-together snaps, claws and pulleys that connect each second. I wonder which moments he shrinks from, and how many.

  I consider, briefly, finding out. It would only take a few seconds. But no, not today.

  ‘Well now, let me see. I first became interested in the psychology of children back in…1962 I believe, in Harvard, studying for my doctorate in Behavioural Science. Part of my thesis involved a study of how language is taught and learned, and how it evolves. I was particularly interested in crossover languages, Pidgin English in the West Indies, for example. Did you know that in Jamaican Patois, there is no differentiation between “you” or “I”? That’s why they say “I and I”.’

  ‘I’ve often wondered,’ I lie with enthusiasm.

  ‘Yes, yes, and if you believe Fodor…’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Jerry Fodor, American cognitive scientist, a dear friend, sorry…’

  I know who Fodor is, but my hounds do not. I can feel them bristling at this reminder of their intellectual worth. We’re connected, my hounds and I.

  ‘If you believe Fodor, then language is a reflection of how our brain thinks. For the Jamaicans, there really is no distinction between You…’

  He makes a friendly swipe at me with his finger, then turns it on himself.

  ‘Or me. You see? No difference at all. In the mind of that language, we’re all the same, all one.’

  ‘Right, right.’

  I did not enjoy the finger swipe, and the expression ‘all one’ unsettles me beyond words.

  ‘And how does this tie in with children?’

  ‘Well, the other thing I was interested in was how children develop a sense of identity, a sense of self…’

  ‘And you worked with children, didn’t you?’ I say.

  ‘Yes, yes, I…’

  ‘In the ’60s and ’70s, you spent quite a large amount of time studying them at play and in their homes.’

  ‘That’s right, Elliot, and something I would say…to anyone, in fact…is don’t believe the TV adage of never working with children or animals. The hours I have spent with children have been some of the most rewarding of my life. You only have to spend a few minutes in a five-year-old’s company to change your perspective on existence. They are limitless in the freedom with which they view the world.’

  ‘And what did you discover,’ I say. ‘In these rewarding times.’

  George’s beard gives a little quiver of doubt. A solitary stone has loosened at the top of his tower — it is a stumble, but nothing major and he composes himself just as quickly as he was disarmed. He adjusts his seating position, takes a breath and finds a spot on the studio carpet to stare at whilst he considers his next line. Pure theatre, this chap.

  ‘We are all born with an innate sense of oneness with our surroundings. Piaget saw this…’

  ‘Who, sorry?’

  That bristle again in my hounds.

  ‘My apologies, Jean Piaget, one of the trailblazers in child psychology. He saw that children wave at themselves when you wave at them. They see themselves as a part of you. There is no difference, all one, just like the languages I studied. There is only the space between us to differentiate us. Of course, we soon learn otherwise, or rather, we soon unlearn this…truth.’

  He looks at me on the last word, a pulse of enticement in his eye.

  ‘And with Mindful Child you hope to reteach this?’

  ‘Yes, indeed we do. We hope to introduce meditative skills to children and schools and nurseries across the country. Meditation is the single most effective tool we have as individuals to recognise what we are.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ I say, displaying my most amiable smile with another touch of George’s knee. ‘So you could say you’re the Jamie Oliver of the soul then.’

  George throws back his head in laughter. The audience obey with their own dense version of mirth.

  ‘Very good, yes, I suppose that’s as good a way of describing it as any, ha ha,’ he says.

  ‘Right, right, well, we have a short film that shows just what Mindful Child has been doing in schools, just take a look at this.’

  The film starts up on the big screen. Makeup swoop in, padding our faces.

  ‘Am I doing all right?’ asks George.

  ‘Just fine, George. Just fine. Not long now.’

  After the film, we talk some more. I mostly let him ramble, making the right noises at the right moments.

  ‘I mean, Elliot, you see a lot of different people from every walk of life in your job. What do you think we are?’

  He pauses. Clearly he wants me to give him the wrong answer.

  ‘Human beings?’ I say.

  George grins like an uncle hiding a coin.

  ‘That is only a part of the
truth. The truth is that we are all part of something much bigger than ourselves, or in fact something much simpler and broader. A living entity, what you might call a universal consciousness.’

  ‘You think we are all one thing? One consciousness?’

  ‘We are not as separate as we like to think. We are not just little boxes operating alone. My theory, which I first began to develop, albeit crudely, in Be What You Are is that we unlearn this truth far too well. Society — especially in the West, and especially after the self-glorification of ’80s capitalism took hold — encourages us to think of ourselves as uniquely separate individuals, a self-aware unit each out for our own survival. It does very little to remind us of the truth we were born with. Society is, in fact, an evolving beast that relies on us believing in our own separation. It is trying to hijack our beings, to trick us into thinking we are not already a single system — that we should become this other thing, a cruel thing, a perilous thing.’

  ‘You think society is cruel and perilous?’

  George sighs, and some sad or awkward thought announces itself by way of a crumpled brow.

  ‘The, er, people you have on your show,’ he says, turning in his seat. ‘People like the Brannigan family here, they are perhaps not so deserving of your scorn, of or judgement. Or that of your audience. They are real people.’

  He taps the floor with his stick on each word, taking care not to sound too angry.

  ‘With real problems and real challenges to overcome in very hard situations. Perhaps if society hadn’t abandoned them or taught them that the only way to live is by looking after themselves, idealising their bodies and seeking wealth beyond anything else, perhaps if they were treated with more kindness, perhaps if they were encouraged to be more mindful of their own realities instead of being encouraged to parade their perceived problems in front of strangers like…’

  Something in the flourish he delivers on the word parade tips the scale. This has gone far enough.

  YOU

  BEFORE I GO ON, you should know that I hold you in the utmost esteem. Man or woman, black or white, rich or poor, soldier or psychopath. Son to a carpenter, daughter to a god, dustman, CEO, Sunset Boulevard supermodel or a Dubai sewer cleaner; beggar, king, prostitute, chariot racer. Prophet or dictator, Hitler or Gandhi. Whoever you are, the challenges your life has presented to you have — I know — been difficult.

  You have won, lost, failed, succeeded, fallen, risen, cried, laughed, watched the things you hoped for die, faced the things you feared the most, loved and hated in equal measure. And you have accomplished all of this under the weight of one undeniable truth — that you are, one day, going to die.

  And amongst all this, there have been times, I’m sure, when you have been lost in some game or expedition of the mind and — for a few short, blissful moments — utterly forgotten that you were anything at all, that you were, in fact, a you.

  But then you remember that you are. And you think that you have been put here in this strange place, either by divine hand or the twisting snakes of evolution. You have been called to exist as a being amongst other beings.

  It rattles you.

  Sometimes, through dark streets, or from a window wreathed in smoke, or on a crowded bus, or as you pierce the flesh of your enemy, you find yourself asking the same, nagging questions: What is this place? Why am I here? And who are all these other beings, being anything but me?

  Whether you have spent your life in the squalor and shit of a tenement or the breezy halls of a palace, these questions have clung to you and life has been equally hard.

  (Although, I will grant you, it may have smelled differently.)

  But here you are, surviving the years. You’re at the tip of evolution, alive and breathing and reading these words. Well done. Go you.

  So once again, know that I respect you.

  But that doesn’t mean I have to like you.

  ‘This is the part where you tell us, George.’

  My voice enters the studio like a blade through a moonlit drape.

  This is the part. My catchphrase; the trigger that tells the audience, and my guest, that I am about to say something. Something that’s good for the audience, good for me, but extremely bad for the guest.

  George flusters to a breathy halt. You can almost hear the mob’s ears prick up. Lips are smacking, hungry again.

  ‘Wh-what?’

  ‘This is the part where you tell us: Why children?’

  ‘Well it’s like I said.’ George softens and croons. ‘Children are unique in their appraisal of the world and they remind us of how we once saw it too, so…’

  I toss my clipboard on the table beside me.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, but I mean, really. I think we all want to know. Why children?’

  Another quiver of our beloved professor’s beard.

  ‘Er…er...’

  ‘Was Annie Fields unique?’

  An image fades up on the screen behind us. It’s a mottled photograph of a seven-year-old girl with pigtails and a haze of freckles. The picture is at least forty years old. George, now terrified, turns to face the image.

  ‘I…I…what does….what in the hell…?’

  ‘Was she special, George?’

  Photographs flip by on the screen. George working with Annie Fields in a classroom. George showing Annie an old computer. George and Annie playing catch. Tests and smiles, an arm on her shoulder. The final one is of him hugging her close as she paints a kitten. George reels in horror.

  ‘Why was she special? George?’

  George looks back at me. His voice trembles.

  ‘What exactly are you trying to imply?’

  ‘You had many children in your care, George. Children like Annie Fields, George, who made allegations of sexual misconduct against you in the 1970s and 1980s…’

  I have planned this sentence carefully in advance, because the audience hear these words, in order: many…children…George…children…George…allegations…sexual…

  They respond with a low tide of gasps.

  ‘What? This is preposterous! I won’t —’

  ‘Sexual allegations that were buried by you, with the help of your publishers and production company.’

  Tuts, more gasps, warning murmurs. I’m sure I can smell torches being lit.

  ‘They were withdrawn! Annie Fields was shown to be…to be…’

  ‘To be what, George?’

  ‘I can’t say, it’s her family, they would— ’

  ‘Her family?’

  ‘The allegations were withdrawn! I did nothing wrong! They didn’t want this to be made public! How could you…?’

  But it’s already enough for the mob. They have woken from their stupor and moved on from gasping and tutting into full-strength baying. George looks around the room like a terrified rabbit. I stand.

  ‘The truth, Professor, is that you abused your position to gain access to children to satisfy your desires, am I right?’

  George’s eyes are bulging. The audience move in.

  ‘No!’

  ‘And now you’re launching a program to give you more access to children, which you are clearly going to use to your advantage once again. Correct?’

  ‘No! No, no, no, no!’

  I keep on, but it doesn’t really matter what I say now — my hounds have made their choice. I could be reciting the Geneva Convention or the lyrics to ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ — any words I utter are now just slaps to their hinds.

  In the background, shadows move. The Brannigan family are up. The crowd are pulling them in. Anything, perhaps, anything to deflect attention from their own shame.

  ‘The allegations were false! They were withdrawn! Annie Fields was a very damaged child, she was abused by her father, not me! I tried to help her but she was confused, she needed care, but they got to her, they got to her…’

  It doesn’t matter what George says now either. My words are the bait and his are the flesh. Five hundred underworked bodies lift themselves fro
m the seats above in a surge of blind condemnation.

  I am awash with endorphins. Deep, heady bliss engulfs me like a fresh pelt.

  It is so easy, I think. This separation.

  George has given up protesting. He has turned from the baying crowd, trying to collect himself and stand. His microphone wire catches on the chair and he stumbles, almost falling. I do nothing to steady him and he stands for a moment, midway between fall and upright with elbow bent. The noise of the crowd soars. Some of them are making their way to the front. Mr Brannigan — Tracy’s beau — also seems to be making his feelings clear. After all, he has just found out that his father has been abusing his youngest son. It’s only natural that he’s tense. George remains motionless in mid-fall, caught between the forces that pull him down and those he can muster to counter them. I think, idly, that this is fitting.

  The show’s closing music starts and I face the screen. I maintain calm beneath the surge of adrenaline currently having its wicked way with me. A chair flies past, landing somewhere near the band. Security trots on, making a half-hearted barrier around old George. Two men charge the stage, one of whom is immediately taken out by a buff guard with ginger hair.

  ‘Don’t forget to tune in tomorrow,’ I shout up at camera four. ‘When I’ll have none other than politician Callum Hunt on the show.’

  There’s a cheer from some small corner of the audience who have not yet engaged in the action.

  ‘Hunt is of course both praised and criticised…whoa, watch it! Ha!…for the same thing: his unashamed and…yikes! Easy fella!…honest approach to politics. This guy pulls no punches, folks, and that’s what we like on Truth be Told. I’ll be talking with him about his independent campaign and then with activist Mary O’Brien…

  A less enthusiastic cheer at this name.

  ‘…about food banks. That’s all from me, I’ll see you tomorrow. That’s if this bloody rain stops anyway! Gah! And remember, look after yourself, because…’

  I cup my ear as another rabble wades past, jeering the remainder of my second catchphrase — nobody else will.

  ‘Ain’t that the truth! Goodnight folks!’

  I take one last look at the bewildered George, then at the audience, who hate him, and as the music and my blood surge, I exit, stage left.