Sputnik Caledonia E-Book

Andrew Crumey

• Herausgeber: Dedalus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

Sputnik Caledonia was awarded the prestigious Northern Rock Foundation Writer's Award and was shortlisted for The James Tait Black Prize and The Scottish Book of the Year Award. Robbie Coyle is an imaginative kid. He wants so badly to become Scotland's first cosmonaut that he tries to teach himself Russian and trains for space exploration in the cupboard under the sink. But the eplaces to which his fantasies later take him is far from the safety of his suburban childhood. In a communist state, in a closed bleak town, the mysterious Red Star heralds his discovery of cruelty and of love, and the possibility that the most passionate of dreams may only be a chimera... 'This a surprisingly moving novel about the impersonal forces - be they political, quantum, temporal or otherwise - that can threaten or shatter the bonds of love, and of family life. Never has astrophysics seemed so touching and funny.' Sinclair McKay in The Daily Telegraph. 'a stimulating read, full of political, philosophical and scientific thought experiments.' Jonathan Gibbs in The Independent. Andrew Crumey was born in Glasgow in 1961. He read theoretical physics and mathematics at St Andrews University and Imperial College in London, before doing post-doctoral research at Leeds University on nonlinear dynamics. After a spell of being the literary editor at Scotland on Sunday he now combines teaching creative writing at Northumbria University with his writing.He is the author of seven novels: Music, in a Foreign Language (1994), Pfitz (1995), D'Alembert's Principle (1996), Mr Mee (2000, Dedalus edition 2014), Mobius Dick (2004, Dedalus edition 2014) Sputnik Caledonia( 2008, Dedalus edition forthcoming in 2015)) and The Secret Knowledge (2013). Andrew Crumey's novels have been translated into 14 languages.

Leseprobe

Andrew Crumey was born in Glasgow in 1961. He read theoretical physics and mathematics at St Andrews University and Imperial College in London, before doing post-doctoral research at Leeds University on nonlinear dynamics. After a spell of being the literary editor at Scotland on Sunday he now combines teaching creative writing at Northumbria University with his writing.

He is the author of seven novels: Music, in a Foreign Language (1994), Pfitz (1995), D’Alembert’s Principle (1996), Mr Mee (2000, Dedalus edition 2014), Mobius Dick (2004, Dedalus edition 2014) Sputnik Caledonia (2008, Dedalus edition 2015)) and The Secret Knowledge (2013). His novels have been translated into 14 languages.

Sputnik Caledonia was a critical and commercial success.

Here are a few comments:

‘During his offbeat and eccentric childhood in 1970s Scotland, Robbie Coyle longed to be an astronaut. Heavily influenced by his ardently socialist father and with an increasingly unchecked imagination, Robbie is drawn towards Soviet space exploration, immersing himself in Einstein’s theories and episodes of ‘Young Scientist Of The Year’. But then, as Robbie’s fantasies become ever more fanciful, we are flung forward to a bleak dystopia that crushes the very idea of impossible desires. Andrew Crumey continues to blend his appetite for science with a gift for conjuring wholly convincing worlds. Yet again he has produced a novel that should bring with it a surge of support for his winning a major literary prize.’

Joe Melia in Books Quarterly

‘The chirpily surreal title of this novel sums up Andrew Crumey’s work, which sites itself at a risky double intersection between physics and comedy, sci-fi and serious contemporary fiction.’ M. John Harrison in

The Times Literary Supplement

‘But the sweep and scope of Sputnik Caledonia should leave you breathless with admiration: not only do we learn, as we often have from Crumey’s novels before, but we also laugh, a lot. The final revelation on which the novel ends is both emotionally powerful and intensely satisfying. Sputnik Caledonia is a quantum leap forward for the Scottish novel..’

David Stenhouse in Scotland on Sunday

‘Sputnik Caledonia is a stimulating read, full of political, philosophical and scientific thought experiments.’

Jonathan Gibbs in The Independent

‘The nature both of writing and reading fiction is that we explore other ways of being ourselves - in this, fiction is like dreaming, or like inhabiting the many alternate worlds of sf and quantum physics. Andrew Crumey’s novels have always been as much about the possibilities of metafiction as about the three-dimensional characters he creates; SputnikCaledonia is at once sensitive about loss and hard-earned maturity, and intelligent about fools’ paradises and the people who fabulate and live in them.’

Roz Kaveney in Time Out’s Book of the Week

‘An ingenious blend of philosophy, physics and fantasy…immensely stimulating and entertaining.’

The Sunday Telegraph

‘You are invited to use your own brain to grasp the links between Goethe and science, the circular thinking of Kant and the inward gravity of black holes, come out with your own answers, your own universe. There are echoes, here, of Alasdair Gray’s Lanark: echoes, oddly enough, of Jonathan Coe’s What a Carve Up! In a way, none of it should work but it does, gloriously. There is some beautiful writing, and quiet fun. Along the way one gets to learn a surprising amount about the historical, near-poetic links between hard science and philosophy. At the end, however, two aspects linger; the deftly drawn parallel world, a real haunting triumph, and the very real, very human, quietly tragic tale, only properly there at the very end, of a good if misguided man, father Joe, given up on competing global philosophies but struggling with something far harder, harder than Einstein or Goethe: to cope, simply, with the loss of his wee boy.’

Euan Ferguson in The Observer

‘This master of making our heads spin has found out how to hit the heart.’

John Self in Asylum

‘I can’t remember the last time I was so reluctant to put a book down.’

The Scotsman

‘Crumey evokes brilliantly a hermetically sealed, paranoid micro-society.’

Steve Poole in The Guardian

‘Crumey writes brilliantly about being a boy… A brio of a book.’

Diana Hendry in The Spectator

‘A warm and moving portrait of Scottish small-town life.’

Doug Johnstone in The Times

‘The balance between these contrasting worlds is handled deftly.’

Edmund Gordon in The New Statesman

CONTENTS

Title

Quote

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Part Two

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Part Three

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Copyright

PART ONE

1

For a long time Robbie Coyle used to wet the bed. On school days he’d be summoned from sleep almost without noticing what he’d done, but at weekends he’d slowly wake to find himself wrapped in soothing clammy moistness. At last his exasperated mother decided they should see the doctor.

In the waiting room you had to take a wee wooden token whose number told you when it was your turn, and whose colour indicated which doctor to go to. Robbie was due to be seen by someone named Dr Muir, who he didn’t like the sound of. He read the magazine his mum had given him until at last his name was called.

Dr Muir was old and bald, and listened patiently while Robbie’s mother explained the problem. ‘Very good, Mrs Coyle,’ he said, as if pleased by her son’s condition, then spoke to Robbie. ‘Do you have bad dreams?’

‘Sometimes,’ Robbie admitted.

‘Do you play sport?’

Robbie said he liked running around playing at spaceships. He wanted to be an astronaut when he grew up.

‘What sort of things do you read? Stories, comics? You don’t buy those awful American ones, do you?’

Robbie didn’t know quite what the doctor had in mind, so he showed him his Look and Learn and this was declared healthy enough. The doctor addressed Mrs Coyle again.

‘Young Robert here strikes me as a nervous lad, though not excessively so. But he’s bright for a nine-year-old, and that’s the real problem. He’s got a vivid imagination, and frets too much. What he needs is fresh air, an interest, good reading. Have you ever heard of Walter Scott?’ he said, turning to Robbie, who shook his head solemnly. ‘Try Ivanhoe, that’s a fine story. I read it when I was your age.’

They left the surgery and went straight to the public library, where Robbie was registered with the same silent formality that had marked his induction into the care of the local health authority. Mrs Coyle then hunted among shelves as crammed as a chemist’s drug counter while Robbie wandered off and pulled down something called Rocket to the Stars.

Mrs Coyle couldn’t find Ivanhoe. Robbie, sitting on the floor with musty books towering over him, peered round the end of the bookcase and saw her go to the desk.

‘I can put it on order for you,’ said the assistant.

‘Actually,’ said Mrs Coyle, ‘I just want something that’ll stop him wetting the bed.’

‘Oh,’ said the assistant. ‘Well, you could try Kidnapped, I suppose.’

As soon as they got home Robbie started reading Kidnapped and found it the most boring thing in the universe. There weren’t even any pictures. In Rocket to the Stars there’d been a V2 painted like a chequerboard, a monkey in a spacesuit and loads of other things. But his mother and the assistant had both agreed that if anything was going to make him wee the bed it was stuff like that, so instead he’d been allowed The Boy’s Book of Facts. Next morning his bed was wet again.

2

On Sunday, while the Coyles took their customary walk, the sky exploded. ‘What was that?’ Robbie asked fearfully, looking upwards.

‘They’re testing a new aeroplane called Concorde,’ his father said.

‘Why are they testing it over Scotland?’

‘In case it crashes.’

A boat moving swiftly through water, Mr Coyle began to explain, kicks up a wave that forms the vessel’s wake; supersonic aircraft do likewise, and the resulting shockwave was what they’d heard as an impressively reverberating thunderclap. Robbie’s father left school at fourteen, worked in a factory in Clydebank and was never to be seen reading anything except a newspaper or a magazine, but he knew how to talk like an expert.

Mrs Coyle and Robbie’s sister Janet were several paces ahead. Mrs Coyle turned and said, ‘I wish they’d do all their sonic booming over the sea instead of over us. Did you not hear about Mrs Farrell’s window cracking?’ Mr Coyle agreed the choice of test area was another example of England’s contempt for the Scots, but felt sure that supersonic air travel was the thing of the future. None of the Coyles had ever been in an aeroplane, but the thought that one could fly so fast was comforting all the same.

Robbie had stopped shaking and was hoping they’d hear another bang since he’d be ready for it this time. He said, ‘If Concorde goes faster than sound, does that mean when the pilot talks his voice gets left behind and nobody in the plane can hear him?’

‘No,’ Mr Coyle reassured him, ‘it doesn’t work like that.’ Then Mr Coyle asked Robbie to imagine a plane that could fly at the speed of a bullet. On board, a hijacker sits patiently waiting in seat 13C, gazing out at white clouds rolling like cauliflower beneath him. At a carefully chosen moment he will stand up, bring out the pistol he carries concealed within his clothing, and point it at an air hostess called Barbara Perkins who happens to be travelling on her very first flight and will subsequently describe the tragic events which follow to the world’s press and television reporters.

Mrs Coyle turned round again. ‘And Elsie Lang says her daughter’s cat died of fright after one o’ they sonic booms.’

The hijacker sees the second hand of his watch reach twelve; he stands, brings out a sleek, black and wholly persuasive firearm and declares, ‘Nobody move. Nobody panic.’

Everyone panics. There are screams, tears, and doubtless a prayer or two. An old lady in seat 10B faints, her neighbour thinks she’s had a heart attack, and the recently trained Barbara Perkins instinctively responds to the pressing of the overhead button whose bleeping summons her assistance.

‘I said nobody move!’ The hijacker’s gun is pointed at the crisp firm breast of Barbara Perkins, who is paralysed by fear yet still heroically motivated by the sense of duty she will subsequently explain as being just part of her job, as she goes to receive an award for exceptional bravery wearing a smart pink outfit bought specially for the occasion.

‘This lady needs help,’ Barbara Perkins calmly explains. ‘I think she may have had a heart attack.’

‘And there are cracks in our close too,’ said Mrs Coyle. ‘I’m sure they weren’t there before all this booming started.’

Far below, the hijacker’s three revolutionary accomplices enter the private office of the French Ambassador, who sits at his desk while his secretary, her tanned legs crossed beneath his ruminating gaze, carefully takes notes. Three guns are aimed at them; one at him, one at her, and a third that swings persuasively between the ambassador’s broad chest and the slimmer frame of the secretary. There’s a noise at the door, someone has followed them; an armed guard enters and shots are about to be fired.

In the plane, Barbara Perkins is moving in a parabolic arc towards the unconscious lady while a male passenger in seat 16D – married with two children, the director of a pet-food company – gets out of his seat some distance behind the hijacker, who hears what’s coming, turns and faces his assailant with gun raised.

The French Ambassador is about to receive a shot to the head issuing accidentally from the weapon belonging to the guard, who is himself collinear with the barrel of another gun in the room, and whose arm has been grabbed as two men struggle to subdue him. The secretary will take a shot in the stomach from which she will die two days later; her funeral in the small village from which she comes will be a scene of national grief. One hostage-taker, stumbling backwards, has his gaze directed towards the ceiling of the ambassador’s office, whose elaborate plaster mouldings now take the form of a cloud-flecked sky and a newly developed airliner on its maiden flight, in which the director of a pet-food company is about to be united in death with a twenty-six-year-old woman below.

‘What the devil are you two on about back there?’ asked Mrs Coyle.

‘I was just going to explain something,’ said her husband. ‘Suppose an aeroplane could fly as fast as a bullet,’ he told Robbie. ‘If you fired a gun backwards from it, what would the path of the bullet look like from the ground?’

Slowly, a round is entering the perspiring head of the French Ambassador; the secretary is taking within herself a projectile of equal calibre; and high above, a third identical bullet is completely stationary. The hostage-taker, gazing skywards through the ceiling, sees the bullet wait, hovering, while the barrel of a gun slides past to leave it apparently suspended in mid-air; yet the hostage-taker, in the last sweet moment of his life, knows this to be an impossibility. The bullet must surely be falling towards him, though in his final mortal instant it will descend no further than all the other bullets within this very room, even the one now parting the flesh of the French Ambassador’s forehead. In the aeroplane, the bullet must descend with an acceleration that is universal and incontrovertible, while the body of a married father of two is carried towards it like a sacred offering. This is the last thing the hostage-taker sees; all subsequent acts of heroism, in which two more armed guards reach the ambassador’s office and Barbara Perkins immobilizes the hijacker with the assistance of most of the passengers between seat rows 12 and 17, belong to a world which none of the terrorists survive to contemplate.

‘So you see, Robbie, it’s all quite simple. If you stand in a flat place and fire one bullet from a gun while dropping another from your hand, both hit the ground at the same time.’

That was all very well, but Robbie still hoped they’d hear another boom. As they walked behind Mrs Coyle and Janet, Robbie asked, ‘Dad, if you were on an aeroplane and there was a hijack, what would you do?’

Mr Coyle looked bewildered. ‘What do you mean? What made you think about hijackings?’

Robbie had been remembering something he saw on TV. A man waving a gun around. A shot.

‘If anyone threatened me with a gun I’d let them do whatever they wanted,’ said Mr Coyle. ‘What’s the point being a hero if you’re dead?’

‘Even if it was to save me or Janet?’

‘That’s different,’ said Mr Coyle. ‘I’d gladly give my life for you or your sister. That’s the duty of any parent.’

‘Why?’ Robbie asked, and Mr Coyle explained that the biological purpose of every creature is to reproduce; though this didn’t answer the question.

Janet and Mrs Coyle had reached the old memorial beside the river, a granite obelisk against whose mute support they were having a rest. ‘I’m fair jiggered,’ she declared. This was one of Mrs Coyle’s customary sayings; she had many, and Robbie assumed such habits to be a general maternal phenomenon. Every night, for instance, she would send Robbie off to bed with a formula inspired by whatever he happened to be doing at the time: ‘You can just Spirograph off to bed now, Robbie’; or ‘Time to Action Man upstairs.’ Once, after the end of a film, he was told he’d better Gregory Peck into his pyjamas, and for the rest of his life would associate the great actor with his tank- and soldier-embellished night attire at the time. On another occasion, following a gruesome documentary which Mr Coyle had insisted the whole family should watch as a solemn warning, Robbie was cheerfully instructed by his mother to ‘Belsen up to bed’, so that the word acquired a warm domestic glow which was not at all what Mr Coyle or the film-makers had intended.

Mrs Coyle and Janet were leaning against the memorial as Robbie and his father joined them. ‘Have you ever read what it says on this thing?’ Mr Coyle asked his wife, who stood away in order that the whole family could follow the inscription:

ON 31ST DECEMBER 1860, DURING SEVERE FLOODING,

JAMES DEUCHAR, 20, A DIVINITY STUDENT AT GLASGOW

UNIVERSITY, LEAPT INTO THE RIVER NEAR THIS SPOT

IN AN ATTEMPT TO RESCUE GEORGE LAIDLAW, 5, AND

MARY LAIDLAW, 7, WHO HAD FALLEN IN. HAVING SAVED THE

YOUNGER CHILD, MR. DEUCHAR RETURNED TO SEARCH

FOR THE GIRL, WHO WAS WASHED UP ALIVE FURTHER

DOWNSTREAM. MR. DEUCHAR, HOWEVER, PERISHED IN

HIS NOBLE ENDEAVOUR. THIS MONUMENT TO HIS HEROISM

WAS ERECTED BY PUBLIC SUBSCRIPTION, 3RD JANUARY 1863.

Mrs Coyle shook her head in sympathy. ‘Poor lad.’

‘They’d all be dead by now anyway,’ said Mr Coyle. ‘You see, Robbie? What difference does it make in the end whether or not he decided to be a hero?’

‘That’s a terrible thing to say,’ Mrs Coyle declared, and Janet agreed.

Mr Coyle shrugged. ‘It may be terrible, but who can deny it? Unless he’s up there now on a cloud looking down at us, it makes no odds what he did.’

Mr Coyle had many times invited God to strike him down for his blasphemies, but had so far survived. His own experiences as a child, he’d told his offspring, had been enough to convince him that the Catholic Church in which he was raised was only another way of controlling people’s minds, along with capitalism, television and golf, the latter being one of Mr Coyle’s pet hates. ‘If God doesn’t like what I’m saying then why doesn’t he send a thunderbolt right now?’ Mr Coyle had told a pair of Jehovah’s Witnesses standing at the front door one evening while Janet and Robbie lay on the floor watching Mission: Impossible. Robbie wanted to go to the door to get a look at the brave souls who dared challenge Mr Coyle’s unarguable logic, but was sent back to the living room for his own protection. ‘At least he was a good socialist, I’ll say that much for Jesus,’ was the comment Robbie overheard from his father. ‘It’s these people who want to bow down and worship him I can’t abide.’

Standing at the memorial, Robbie now said to his father, ‘Don’t you think it was a good thing that man done, jumping in after they children?’

‘No,’ said his dad, ‘I think it was daft. It meant a grown man died instead of a boy, that’s all. And where were the children’s parents? What were they playing at, letting them fall in like that?’

Janet and Robbie had been lying on their tummies on the floor watching Mission: Impossible. A newly developed super-fast airliner was flying high above the clouds, and in seat 13C a man of dangerously foreign appearance was preparing to bring out a gun. Some rows ahead, an elderly actress recently seen in a hospital drama enjoyed by Mr and Mrs Coyle got ready to faint. ‘How can you prove to me there’s a God?’ Mr Coyle was saying to the two neatly dressed Christians at the door. Then the elderly actress swooned theatrically, and the one playing Barbara Perkins went to give assistance but found the sleek barrel of an imitation gun pointed at her crisp firm breast.

Far below, a hostage-taker was falling backwards, his gaze directed through the plaster mouldings of the ceiling to the silver dot in the sky where a bullet, he felt sure, really was held completely stationary in mid-air, in complete contravention of the laws of physics, so that he immediately learned the appalling truth of his situation. Everything around him, he realized, must be an illusion. He had joined the People’s Liberation Army after the gunning down of his brother during a demonstration intended to be peaceful; he had volunteered to participate in capturing the French Ambassador in the full knowledge that he might die, convinced his sacrifice would not be in vain, and this morning he had recited his prayers with a feeling of lightness and ecstasy. But now, in his final moment, he understood that every passenger in the aeroplane was an actor; so too were the French Ambassador and his secretary, who would later remove capsules of fake blood, and crack jokes with the guards whose blank rounds had been so convincing. The hostage-taker watched his life become an airborne speck and knew his death to be futile; so too, therefore, had been his very existence. He was no more than an incidental character in a story he’d been unaware of; and in the final credits – his epitaph – he would be known only as ‘Terrorist # 2’.

‘Galileo stood at the top of the Leaning Tower of Pisa,’ Mr Coyle explained once the family left the monument to continue their Sunday walk. ‘He dropped a cannonball and a wee marble; both hit the ground at exactly the same time. The cannonball was bigger and heavier, which meant gravity was pulling it more strongly; but it was also harder to budge. The two effects cancel out; everything falls at the same rate.’

‘What about a feather?’ Robbie asked.

‘Air resistance slows it down.’ Aristotle believed a feather floats slowly because its natural realm is the sky; a stone hurries to return to the ground where it belongs. Everything has its proper station in the world. ‘But that’s rubbish,’ said Mr Coyle. ‘Like the idea that people should know their place. We’re all equal, Robbie; you and me, we’re as good as anybody.’

‘What are you telling the boy now?’ Mrs Coyle intervened, turning to examine the pair walking behind her.

‘Just teaching him what’s what,’ her husband replied.

Mr Coyle originally came from a part of Glasgow called the Gorbals. It sounded very much like Goebbels, a name that had figured significantly in the documentary after which Robbie had been told to ‘Belsen up to bed’. The Gorbals was a ghetto for Glasgow’s poor, though Mr Coyle always spoke warmly of it, insisting it was never as bad as people made out. There had been sensational books about razor gangs, films showing criminals and drunks, but that was only because the ruling class are afraid of poverty and live in constant fear of revolution.

When they got home Mr Coyle positioned himself behind the raised pages of a camera magazine while Mrs Coyle decided to Paxo off to the kitchen. Robbie and Janet watched a film in which harsh-voiced German soldiers were killed in a variety of ways.

Robbie was troubled. James Deuchar must surely have been a good man; yet what scale or balance might measure and prove it? How to demonstrate, just as Galileo had shown the equivalent descent of all falling bodies, that a man who gives his life for a just cause is worth more than a uniformed actor blown up in an imagined spectacle?

‘Dad,’ said Robbie, ‘why would you save me and Janet if we fell in a river, but not somebody else’s children?’

The glossy cover of Photographer’s Weekly showed a heavily made-up woman on a couch who now descended to reveal the all-knowing face of Mr Coyle. ‘It’s every parent’s natural duty to protect their own children.’

‘Is that all?’ Robbie asked. ‘Just something you’ve got to do, like going to work?’

The magazine sank lower still, onto Mr Coyle’s lap. ‘No, I’d want to save you because I love you.’

The words had the ominous finality of a judicial sentence.

Robbie said, ‘Can’t you love somebody else’s children too?’

‘Not the same way,’ said his father. ‘It’s instinct. It’s how we’ve evolved. It’s why you’re here.’

Mr Coyle then spoke about giraffes, saying they all used to look like horses until one day a giraffe was born whose neck was half an inch longer than usual, so it could reach leaves half an inch higher up the trees. There was a bad year, not much to eat, and most of the regular giraffes starved to death, but not the one who could nibble that extra half-inch. It grew up and had lots of baby giraffes, similarly blessed. That was evolution.

Robbie liked this story; all you had to do was keep repeating it over the generations, and you could see why giraffes ended up with long necks. Except that he couldn’t see why the same thing hadn’t happened to horses.

‘Dad,’ he said, ‘why didn’t the giraffes just get big long noses like elephants, then they could still reach up into the trees?’

‘Because the special giraffe that got born one day had a neck that was half an inch longer than usual, not a nose.’

‘But surely another giraffe could have been born with a long nose?’

‘No,’ said Mr Coyle. ‘Otherwise giraffes would look like elephants now, but they don’t, so it never happened.’

It was fairly plain to Robbie that people could be born with long noses – Mr Connor two doors along being a prime example – so he couldn’t see why the same wasn’t true for giraffes. Come to that, why hadn’t humans evolved giraffe necks, or elephant trunks? Was Mr Connor the advance guard of a new master race? But his father had explained evolution, and there was no more to be said about it.

‘So do you only love me and Janet because that’s the way you’ve evolved?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Mr Coyle, and the reclining woman on Photographer’s Weekly began once more to ascend.

‘If I was bad, would you still love me?’

‘Of course, even if you killed someone. Even if you were Hitler. It’s my parental duty.’

An infernal cycle presented itself to Robbie’s imagination, in which successive generations follow a script laid down for them millions of years previously. On a wild and fierce night in 1860, a man departed from the script by doing something for which there could be no logical explanation, no justification other than pure goodness. James Deuchar defied the gravitational pull of death; therein lay the kernel of his immortality.

3

Next morning Robbie’s bed was wet again. He sincerely hoped his condition would improve before he grew up because he was sure it would count against him when he applied to be an astronaut. The Boy’s Book of Facts included a section on ‘careers’ in which necessary qualifications and personal attributes were itemized for every occupation a young man might care to undertake: plumber, soldier, engine driver. Astronauts, the book declared, would need excellent powers of concentration and a cool head. Peeing the bed wasn’t specified as a cause of automatic disqualification, and Robbie would of course point out to the selection panel that a small bag within an astronaut’s pressurized suit is there to collect every weightless drop of urine passed while waking or asleep; nevertheless he knew it made him look like someone whose head was far from cool, since in all his comics not a single hero ever woke to find his mattress soaked through every intervening layer of bed sheet and folded towel, all because he’d had a drink after seven o’clock the night before.

The problem was that he had a vivid imagination, and his mum said this meant he spent too long in his own thoughts instead of going out and playing. The word sounded like a cross between ‘livid’, meaning angry, and ‘Vivian’, a fat woman in the baker’s who was always laughing. ‘Vivid’ was a confused and insoluble state somewhere in between.

A man on television gave advice to children wanting to go into space, saying they must first work as US Air Force test pilots. Robbie told his dad later that night; Mr Coyle folded his newspaper, looked disapprovingly at his son and said, ‘You’d only end up getting sent to Vietnam.’

In that case, Robbie countered, he’d be a Soviet cosmonaut.

‘You don’t speak Russian.’

‘I’ll learn.’

The Americans and Russians were enemies, but the Russians were better at sending people into space, and Robbie’s father had once said that some of his friends in the Trades Council went on a delegation to Leningrad and found it a very happy place where there was no crime or unemployment, women worked as lorry drivers or mechanics, and people could do whatever they liked, within reason. In America there was segregation and organized crime, and hidden capitalists controlled the lives of millions, helped by the CIA. Anyone wanting to be an American astronaut would wind up dropping napalm on children, according to Mr Coyle, while in Russia the only hard bit was learning the alphabet.

Robbie asked him, ‘Why do some people not like the Russians?’

‘Because the workers there had a revolution against the capitalists, and one day the Scots’ll get the gether and do the same. We nearly succeeded in 1919, until Churchill sent the army into Glasgow to stop it.’ Then Mr Coyle began to speak of a future socialist paradise in which everyone would be equal, dressed in a classless uniform which sounded to Robbie a bit like the costumes of higher life forms in Star Trek. Money would no longer exist. ‘Why should one man get paid twice as much as another for doing exactly the same work?’ Mr Coyle said. And it was true; when did anybody in Star Trek ever open a wage packet, or put his hand in his pocket in search of change? Come to that, did they even have pockets? In the age of socialism, Robbie realized, such things would no longer be needed. It would be a world without competition or strife, his father promised, with no more war, since there would be no capitalists left to encourage hostilities. Every factory and shop would be owned by the state. You wouldn’t have to traipse from C&A to Marks and Spencer and back again to find the best deal, said Mr Coyle; you’d just go by free public transport to the nearest, most convenient shop, and what you’d get there would be exactly the same as you’d get anywhere else. And when you bought a cup of coffee you wouldn’t have to wait and see whether you got it in a big mug or a wee teacup, because coffee would be served in a standard size, for a standard price (they do it with beer, so why not everything else?). Of course, not everyone might be happy in the new utopia. The people who used to run the shops and factories, for example. But they’d be made to realize they’d lived a life of selfishness, sponging off their fellow man, always grabbing and clawing and trying to be richer than anyone else. In a capitalist society, you could only better yourself at the expense of others: if you got richer, it meant someone else was getting poorer, and that’s not fair. Most of the capitalists would accept that in their old ways they were no better than thieves, but if the retraining and education didn’t work then they’d be asked to leave, so that everyone else could get on in peace.

Mrs Coyle, coming out of the kitchen into the living room, decided to chip in. ‘It’ll never work. Do you really want us to live like Russians?’

‘If Russia’s got problems it’s only because there’s half the world agin them,’ her husband retorted. ‘And look what they did for us in the war. We’d never have won without the Red Army. The Americans only joined in when they knew they could be on the winning side, same as they did in the First.’

‘Well, it’s time to Red Army upstairs, Robbie,’ Mrs Coyle announced.

‘I’m still talking to the boy,’ Mr Coyle protested from his armchair.

‘Filling his head with nonsense, that’s what you’re doing.’

Mr Coyle flushed. ‘You call it nonsense to say we should all be equal?’

‘I say you can’t go against human nature. And this lad needs his sleep – you’ve got school in the morning, Robbie.’

Mr Coyle was having none of it. He turned to Robbie, who stood immobilized wondering which parent to obey, and said to him, ‘You see what we have to put up with? The prattle of women.’

Mrs Coyle went out in silence and from the kitchen came the thud of cupboard doors, leaving Mr Coyle to resume his lecture while his face assumed a triumphantly beatific look. ‘It’s not human nature that makes people exploit each other,’ he told Robbie. ‘It’s animal nature, a relic of the beasts we’re descended from. But people progress, the species improves. Capitalism’s the law of the jungle, and we’re evolving beyond that.’ While giraffes had for aeons been putting all their efforts into perfecting their necks, humans were on the way to becoming spacesuited socialists. ‘Are you putting on the kettle?’ Mr Coyle called to his wife, smiling at Robbie with a conspiratorial wink.

‘No,’ she shouted back. ‘I’m having a revolution. If we’re all going to be equal then you can do it yourself.’

4

The Coyles’ next-door neighbours were the Dunbars, who had a telephone, a car, took package holidays in Spain, and would face summary execution come the uprising.

It was Sam Dunbar’s fondness for golf that really seemed to irritate Mr Coyle more than anything. ‘Look at him!’ he said, standing inside the front door staring through the net curtain of the hall window at Sam, in tartan cap and white golfing shoes, depositing a bag of clubs in the back of his car in readiness for a session.

Sam’s two daughters were a few years older than Robbie and seemed to him like grown-ups already, objects of fearful fascination. He’d see them come and go in their secondary-school uniforms, smiling beings from another world.

It was a pity they’d probably be shot, and all because their father thought himself a cut above the rest of the scheme. Sam Dunbar worked for the GPO, from which it was deduced he must get a good salary and cut-price phone calls. The Coyles could afford a phone, but Mr Coyle cited a number of reasons against getting one. He didn’t want to be pestered about union subscriptions, or have to listen to the problems of his older sister who lived in England and existed for the Coyles only by way of Christmas cards inscribed in evenly sloping handwriting. Most of all, Mr Coyle feared installation of a telephone would prompt MI5 surveillance, for being treasurer of the local branch of the ATWU made him an inevitable target for the authorities.

Cars were unnecessary since the public-transportation system was perfectly adequate, and so Mr Coyle had never learned to drive one. As for holidays in Spain, why go there when there was so much to see in Scotland? The Isle of Bute was a lot more interesting than Majorca, and even had a fairly bustling nightlife if that was what you wanted. This left golf, to which the plain objection was that it was totally pointless.

‘Just look at him!’ Mr Coyle said as Sam Dunbar came back out to his car. ‘What’s he like in that bunnet? Chic Murray, eh? The Tall Droll with the Small Doll!’ Pleased by the resemblance he discerned between his next-door neighbours and a famous Glasgow double act, Mr Coyle would for a while call Sam and his petite wife Maureen ‘Chic and Maidie’ when referring to them in private.

‘I think he looks very smart,’ Mrs Coyle ventured. ‘Maybe you should get yourself a hat like that.’

‘I’m not going to the plant in one of those.’

‘I don’t mean for work. And I could do with getting you a new pair of shoes an’ all, for if we go out.’

‘You’re not using the housekeeping to get me shoes. Besides, we never go out.’

‘That’s why you need new shoes.’

Robbie and Janet were in the living room watching the final of Top of the Form, a competition played between teams of strange-voiced English schoolchildren and presented by a man with crinkly hair held rigid by Brylcreem. ‘Forms’ were mysterious things found only in English schools, where boys in smart uniforms played cricket and grew up to be prime ministers or television announcers. Anybody wanting to go to one of those schools had to pay lots of money and then their name was put on a form. If you were top of the form that meant you were the best, and you’d get first choice when it came to deciding between being a politician or a presenter. At least, that’s what Robbie had understood of his father’s explanation, from which he’d also learned that there were schools in England where children didn’t go home at night but stayed in dormitories, and there were some in Scotland too, for the offspring of English lords who owned castles and were only interested in grouse and salmon and forests, decking themselves out in kilts to go to fancy balls, then heading straight back to London as soon as the party was finished.

Mr Coyle didn’t go to parties. He wouldn’t leave his children all alone to go jigging around somewhere like an idiot.

‘But Moira says she’ll come and keep an eye on Janet and Robbie,’ Mrs Coyle implored. ‘When was the last time we went anywhere, Joe?’

‘That’s not the point,’ said her husband, watching the cloud of exhaust left by Sam’s disappearing car. ‘And he needs to fix his silencer.’

The Brylcreemed announcer’s was the next voice Robbie heard. ‘Which King of England signed the Magna Carta?’

‘John!’ Robbie shouted.

‘Show off,’ Janet snorted, as the answer was confirmed. The useless fact was one Robbie had learned from another quiz programme, though whatever was going on in Scotland in King John’s time was a complete mystery to him, since no one had ever asked about it on telly.

‘So do I just tell them we’re not going?’ said Mrs Coyle. ‘And all because you won’t let me get you a decent pair of shoes?’

‘There’s no need to be irrational about it, pet. You may be a woman but we should still be able to discuss things logically.’

The overheard conversation continued while Robbie and Janet gazed at the mounting triumph of St George’s School over Langham Priory.

‘Why do you not want to go, then?’ Mrs Coyle asked her husband. ‘We haven’t been to a dinner dance in years.’

‘I don’t like leaving the children. What if Moira puts her cigarette in the ashtray on the arm of the chair …’

‘She hardly smokes!’

‘… then goes into the kitchen and forgets about it?’

The struggle of Langham Priory was overtaken in Robbie’s imagination by the terrible scene his father proposed. Distracted by thirst and welcoming the opportunity presented by the adverts in the middle of some boring play, Moira decides to go and make herself a cup of tea. She takes a last ladylike drag on her slim cigarette, held between narrow long-nailed fingers, then deposits the fag on the edge of the heavy glass ashtray. She stands, and in the sort of close-up featured regularly in fire-brigade films, the cigarette is seen still smouldering where it lies, its lipstick-smeared end dangling terrifyingly over the arm of the highly inflammable armchair.

Upstairs, we see two children lying together in bed, Robbie and Janet, a convenient wedge of pale light making their monochrome faces clearly visible. Janet clutches her favourite doll; Robbie has dozed beneath Tom Sawyer, unopened and unread but recently checked out of the library by his mother, her faith in Dr Muir’s prescription still not dashed. The next scene shows the dinner dance, Mr and Mrs Coyle sitting at a table with unknown friends. Mrs Coyle raises a sherry glass to her smiling, painted lips; Mr Coyle silently eyes his pint on the table, his face showing sudden doubt.

The cigarette is toppling. The burning of its tip has caused an imbalance, wholly in accord with the law of leverage discovered by Archimedes and explained at great length by Mr Coyle one Sunday afternoon. The cigarette, the ashtray and the chair arm fill most of the screen, but beyond them, in the background, we see an illuminated kitchen doorway where Moira pauses, lost in fluffy-headed feminine thought. It’s exactly as Mr Coyle feared, sitting gazing at his flattening pint. Moira’s wondering about a nice dress she saw in Arnott’s, or her next haircut. She’s forgotten the kettle, never mind the cigarette, and it’s just as well the former is electric or else the stupid woman would be blowing up the entire street. Our next view of the fatal fag has it starkly presented in silhouette, falling, nestling comfortably among the synthetic fibres of the seatcover like a slain bird tumbling onto heather. The swirling smoke thickens and becomes a flame.

In the pub, Mr Coyle turns to his daft wife. ‘I think we should go home.’ And in a rain-slicked street, another hopeless female screams for help, pointing up at the smoky bedroom where two suffocating children lie trapped. ‘Remember,’ the film concludes, ‘fire kills.’

‘So can I tell Moira we’ll be going, then?’ said Mrs Coyle.

‘Aye, all right,’ her husband conceded.

Robbie and Janet watched St George’s romp to victory. ‘And thank you to Langham Priory for being such good sports, just bowled out in the final innings,’ the Brylcreemed announcer cryptically concluded.

Robbie later contemplated, over his tea, the forthcoming destruction by fire of himself and his sister while his mum and dad went off jigging like idiots somewhere.

‘You’re very quiet, Robbie,’ said Mr Coyle.

‘I was wondering if you really could move the world with a lever.’ This was what Archimedes had claimed he could do.

‘You just need the right place to stand, that’s all,’ Mr Coyle explained. ‘And a very big lever.’

On a golf course somewhere, Archimedes was swinging a club. Archimedes became Chic Murray, the golf ball became the earth, and the Coyle family were launched along with everyone else into outer space.

‘Robbie,’ said his mother after tea, ‘can you nip next door with these things for Mrs Dunbar?’ She handed him the dress-making paraphernalia she’d borrowed from her neighbour.

‘Is the Small Doll in?’ Mr Coyle asked his wife from behind the dog-eared cover of Modern Photographer.

‘She’s a doll now is she?’ The nickname would not survive for long. ‘I’ve no reason to think she’s out. Off you go, Robbie.’

A moment later he was standing outside his house clutching the sewing box, feeling like astronaut Ed White when he made the first space walk. Four paces separated him from the Dunbars’ front door, where he managed to free a hand and reach for the doorbell. Within the house a mellow two-note chime was heard, and the figure who opened the door was young Sheena Dunbar, fair-haired, rosy-cheeked, inhabitant of another planet. She looked disappointed but amused. Without saying anything or acknowledging his existence, she looked over her shoulder and with raucous confidence called, ‘Maw!’

Sheena was made of plastic from a faraway galaxy. Robbie wondered if she had a button you could press that made her hair grow. Her mother appeared.

‘There you are, Mrs Murray,’ Robbie announced, immediately realizing his mistake. ‘I mean, Mrs Dunbar.’ He tried to be casual about it, but errors of speech aren’t the sort of thing you can rub out so nobody will ever notice them. The two dolls, mother and daughter, were gazing at him as he held out the stuff Mrs Coyle had borrowed. Sheena was smirking.

‘Thanks ever so much, young man,’ said Mrs Dunbar, stooping to pat Robbie on the head while on a golf course her husband stood frozen in post-swing, shielding his eyes and watching the earth retreat into space. ‘My, what a big lad you’re getting. Here, come on in and I’ll gie ye a wee treat.’

Robbie followed them into the doll’s house. He’d been here once or twice before, but never without his parents, and it was like the question on telly once about how to change a left-handed glove into a right-handed one. Answer: turn it inside out. Built to the same pattern as the rest of the scheme, the Dunbars’ was nevertheless a mirror image of the Coyles’, so that instead of going left into the kitchen you went right, which was where Robbie was led while Sheena returned to join her sister in the living room, the two of them erupting into big girls’ laughter.

The kitchen was like the flight deck of a spaceship, very white with lots of cupboards, and with the smell of a hostile life form issuing from something simmering on the stove. ‘Here y’are, son,’ said Mrs Dunbar, selecting from a jar brought down off a shelf a bright red sweetie wrapped in cellophane. ‘Still doing well at school, are you? Aye, you’re growing. Won’t be long before you’re taking lassies out to the dancing, I’m sure.’ The thought made Robbie feel instantly sick – or perhaps it was just the alien smell of the Dunbars’ evening meal. ‘You run along now and tell your mother if she wants the sewing machine she can have it any time.’

Then Robbie found himself in space again, with the airtight hatch of Number 24 closing behind him. He drifted back to the safety of his own craft, quite forgetting about the sewing machine but thinking instead of Sheena and Louise laughing in the living room. Would there still be smiles on their faces when the Revolutionary Committee sentenced the whole family to death? At the last minute, Robbie would intercede to save them, and they’d realize he wasn’t such a wee squirt after all.

‘There he’s there,’ Mr Coyle announced to his wife later when Sam Dunbar returned in his timber-trimmed Morris Traveller, a puttering Tudor cottage on wheels. Robbie briefly stood up to look out of the window. ‘No need to stare,’ Mr Coyle told him, but Robbie had time to see Archimedes in his bunnet, coming home after moving the world with a golf club.

5

The combined efforts of Stevenson and Twain having done nothing to stop Robbie from wetting the bed, when he next visited the library with his mother she allowed him to exchange Tom Sawyer and The Boy’s Book of Facts for Russian In One Month and Rocket to the Stars. The woman at the desk eyed him with some incredulity as he checked them out. ‘He’s going to be an astronaut,’ Mrs Coyle explained.

In Russian some letters are written back to front and others are completely made up. Robbie mastered the equivalent of ‘good morning’, but felt the phrase would be of limited value during a solo mission into the endless night of space. The only place in the phrase book where the Moon was mentioned was in a section called Making Friends, whose chattiness sent shivers of revulsion down his spine. Do you like opera? Are you married? Surely astronauts didn’t have to say stuff like that. But the numbers from zero to twenty were useful, and Robbie recited them in reverse order while training in his flight simulator. Really it was a cupboard under the sink that smelled of Pledge and dead beetles, and he could only just fit inside if he took the boxes out first; but by overcoming his fear of getting stuck in it he felt sure he could attain an astronaut’s obligatory coolness of head, and when he pulled the door closed the darkness was no simulation; it was the true blackness of space, the loneliness of the grave, as he counted down to blast-off from a windswept cosmodrome in Central Asia.

In space there’s no air and no gravity. You wear a helmet like a goldfish bowl (or in Robbie’s case a balaclava and his dad’s welding goggles), and things float around if you let go of them.

‘Why’s there no gravity in space?’ he asked his father, who was mending a watch.

‘Because gravity can’t go on forever, it runs out after a while, and space is a long way off.’

But Robbie knew that tides are caused by the gravity of the Moon. ‘Dad,’ he said, ‘if the Moon’s gravity can get to Earth then why can’t the Earth’s gravity get into space?’ His father, peering by the light of a table lamp at a gleaming, lifeless mainspring, said it was all a wee bit complicated. And for the first time, Robbie glimpsed the shoreline of paternal fallibility.

Apart from his cupboard simulator, Robbie’s other main piece of training equipment was the radiogram in the living room. A great four-legged box of veneered chipboard whose teak finish matched the G-plan dining table, the radiogram was receiver and gramophone combined, a melding of parts and ideas into a single word that was new and modern, like ‘electromagnetism’ or ‘Politburo’, the former being the means by which all the world’s radio stations could be brought into a Scottish living room, the latter the source of a viewpoint more balanced, in Mr Coyle’s considered view, than the sly propaganda of Radio Free Europe or the BBC World Service.

Electricity is like water, Robbie learned. Current is the amount that’s flowing, capacitance is the volume of a flask, and voltage the height of a waterfall. We all of us exist at the bottom of a deep sea filled with invisible particles and fields, rebounding signals made murky during daytime by the heat of the sun, but becoming clearer in the cool of the night, just before bed, when, at the turn of a knob, the endless hidden flux could be summoned into life, of waltzes and jazz combos, whistles and pops, emanating from gold-lettered cities strung out across the dial – Frankfurt, Paris, Madrid – filling the room with monotonous foreign chatter or the distant echoing of an ancient dance band whose music would rise then slowly fade into crackling surf, like an ocean liner battling against a long rolling swell. Such nocturnal voyages were a treat both children enjoyed if there was nothing on television, and in this way Budapest had become more familiar to Robbie than the bus ride into Glasgow; Warsaw for him was a polar island built out of four notes played on a vibraphone each hour and the voice of a woman for whom the world news was a random floe of harsh syllables, out of whose icy depths an intelligible name would occasionally crest like the sudden fin of a whale. By day, when the cosmic signals were kept dormant by the sun’s harsh glare, the radiogram still served its purpose in Robbie’s conquest of space, for then it was his mission-control centre, its every city a planet, and simply by pressing one of the waveband buttons he could transport himself across the galaxy at the speed of light.

His best friend Scott failed to see the excitement of fiddling with the silent radio dial when the two of them played together in Robbie’s house after school one day. Robbie described the alien planets they both could fly to in an instant, but Scott was more keen on going outside to play football.

‘That’s a very good idea,’ said Mrs Coyle. ‘And you could do with the exercise, Robbie.’

‘Can’t we go to the burn instead?’ Robbie pleaded, his opinion of ball games being much like his father’s.

‘We could look for tadpoles,’ Scott suggested.

‘All right, but be careful,’ said Mrs Coyle, fetching two empty jam jars for them from the kitchen. ‘And don’t be too long.’

She saw them out the door, and as the two boys headed along the street towards the waste ground a few hundred yards away where the little burn flowed past slag heaps from a former colliery, Scott said, ‘You’re maw’s dead nice. I’m always getting a leathering off mine for something. Then when my da gets in he leathers me for getting leathert.’ Robbie didn’t know what to say; he was just glad not to be Scott, who began describing how his mother would beat his knuckles with a wooden spoon whenever she got annoyed with him.

The burn was little more than an ankle-deep trickle offering purpose to a crack in the ground, but frogs and newts could be found among its fronds of weed, and soon Scott was on his bare knees, clawing spawn by the handful and dropping gobs of curranty snot into his jam jar, while Robbie, kneeling beside him, took a more cautious approach, scooping his chunky glass container through the turbid water, releasing fat bubbles from his submerged jar but catching nothing.

‘Don’t you ever wonder why they’re so nice?’ asked Scott.

‘Who? My parents?’

‘Aye,’ said Scott. ‘Maybe they’re hiding something.’

‘What do you mean?’

Scott had seen it in a film; a mum and dad who were absolutely perfect, always good to their weans and everyone else. All because they had a secret.

‘What sort of secret?’ Robbie asked him, rising to his feet with a full jar of murky water in his hand.

The perfect parents in the film were spies who told the Russians how to make bombs, and they got caught and put in jail. ‘Maybe your parents are spies,’ Scott suggested.

‘They are not!’

‘Or maybe they stole a load of money and they’re on the run frae the polis.’ The sheer glamour of this scenario was enough to make Robbie dismiss it instantly, but Scott then offered another. ‘Maybe the people you call your mum and dad kidnapped the real ones when you were a baby. Maybe they’re aliens in disguise. How would you know?’

This was an altogether more powerful hypothesis. The thought that aliens might abduct and impersonate one’s parents was eminently reasonable to Robbie, since that was just the sort of thing aliens did. By nature cruel, intelligent and devious, they delighted in subjugating their inferiors in whatever way they could. Somewhere, on a distant planet, the real Mr and Mrs Coyle might now be heaving sacks of glistening toxic dust, in a mine populated by slaves taken from every corner of the universe. Mrs Coyle would be saying, ‘I wish we could toxic-dust back where we came from,’ and Mr Coyle would be telling her, ‘It’s your fault we got here in the first place, woman.’

‘Maybe your pretend parents wear rubber costumes,’ Scott continued, ‘and when you go to bed at night they take them off, and they’ve got horrible ugly faces with big long fangs, and they get their orders off the telly.’

It all sounded so plausible.

‘And maybe they’re just waiting to finish mending their spaceship, then they’ll go away and take you as well.’ From where he knelt, Scott stared up at Robbie, seeing the fear and doubt he’d caused. Then with a loud laugh and a flick of his arm he hurled the frogspawn into the air, launching it on an arc that Robbie barely managed to avoid. ‘Can you no tell I’m only kidding? You should see the look on your face!’

Robbie silently emptied his jar into the burn. ‘I’m going home.’

Scott scowled. ‘Don’t be such an eejit.’

‘You’re the eejit.’

‘Aye, well, mind they aliens in your hoose.’

Angry and upset, Robbie turned and walked pensively home, leaving Scott to continue the spawn hunt alone. ‘Enjoy yourself?’ his mum asked when she opened the door, and Robbie nodded silently. He’d got the whole thing worked out by now.

‘Just going upstairs,’ he said, then went to his room, where he lay down on his bed. His sister Janet wasn’t an alien, he’d decided, but he couldn’t say anything to her in case she gave the game away. His pretend dad was probably behind it all. Robbie would just have to keep quiet and act casual until he could grow up and call in the army to demolish the entire house. His mum came in, and he sat up.

‘Everything all right?’ she asked.

‘Fine,’ said Robbie, feeling tense as he spoke.

‘Did you fall out with Scott?’

Robbie told her about the frogspawn Scott had thrown, but not the rest. His mother sat beside him on the bed, put her arm round him, and immediately he wondered how he could ever have doubted she was human. Then as soon as she left, his fear returned.

She was meant to be just like his real mother; that was the whole point. He could never know for sure that her warmth and kindness were genuine. He couldn’t be certain that he would never wake one night, in darkness except for an orange gleam across the ceiling from the streetlight outside, then leave his bed, go downstairs and enter the living room, there to see two hideous creatures with fangs and tentacles sitting on the settee calmly watching a secret alien channel on the telly. How could anyone ever prove otherwise? It was like God; either you believe or you don’t.

He didn’t know if he truly believed it himself, but just thinking it amounted to a form of belief. And the alien theory explained so much: why he was sent up to bed at fixed hours; why his father couldn’t ride a bike (clearly an extraterrestrial foible); and why, when Robbie had got bored with the telly and wandered into his parents’ bedroom one Saturday afternoon some years ago and found them lying together partly clothed on their bed, there had been a swift awkward fumbling between the two of them as their human disguises were hastily restored.

Surely there must be some way to verify his unique predicament. In every account of alien life forms, he recalled, some trait distinguishes the creatures from humanity, and becomes the weakness which ultimately proves their undoing. But Robbie’s parents weren’t unnaturally sensitive to light, or to diseases such as the common cold (once the downfall of an entire race of invaders). They didn’t retreat at night to a cupboard in their bedroom containing a sleek metallic pod (or did they?), nor devote mysterious evenings to the care and maintenance of an inscrutable electrical device. As far as he could tell, his parents were pretty much like anybody else’s; though it was this false normality that was most damning of all.