White Matter

Looking for Graeme

I was on company business, so a taxi was in order. I spent the first part of the ride to the gallery quizzing the driver about Spurious Developments and their plans. If the company was becoming as notorious as Kohei and the Resistance believed, then surely a taxi driver would have heard of them. Instead, he proved as ignorant of the issues as I had been just a month earlier. "That's an odd name for a company. Sounds like somebody's idea of a joke ... Demonstrations? Really? Between fares I often listen to the news on the Indian radio station. I'm sorry, Sir, but they made no mention of it."

"I suppose it wasn't a very large demonstration."

"A mind-reading machine, you say? If it helps convict the guilty then it sounds like progress to me. You want to see some of the troublemakers we get on the night shift. Of course, your problem there would be finding a mind to read ..."

Interesting points, but not a lot of help. When this conversation ran down, I got my phone out to see if Google had anything more to add. I found only two items of any relevance: one a company press statement disavowing evil-doing, the second an equally bland and brief media report, dated today, claiming that the company was part-owned by organised criminals. After first skimming over it, I read this latter article through a second time, searching for clues between the lines. Was this the source of Kohei's assertions? And why had Coriolis failed to pass on this piece of information in between casting aspersions on my friends? My primary conclusion was that there were things people weren't telling me. But then that much, at least, I already knew.

As tactics, these distractions served to keep my mind occupied. Then for a while, I thought of nothing at all. The traffic was heavy for the time of day, our progress through it slow. Or rather, not quite nothing: I believe I thought about Monica, prompted no doubt by her association with the gallery. Not coherent thoughts, just places we'd been, snatches of things she'd said. Ghost thoughts, by which I mean they were fleeting, not haunting. In principle, not the safest of topics; in practice these fragments of memory carried me across the intervening time without perceptible friction.

It wasn't until I was standing on the pavement outside the once-familiar façade of the Cuthbert Gallery that my sense of trepidation returned. I braced myself, then entered. What the hell, I told myself, I am here as Kohei's invited guest. Just brazen it out.

I entered the main hall of the gallery and looked around, inviting the ghosts to assail me. None came. I didn't feel anything really; memories certainly, but not emotion so much as its echo, an awareness of what I ought to be feeling, but wasn't. Was this a sign of age, I wondered? This detachment? The thought left me perplexed – now there was an emotion I could get to grips with – surely I was too young to be getting old. Partly, I decided, it was the work hanging on the wall; none of it in a style to which I could put a name. This season's new big thing, I assumed. As a one-time big thing myself, from a few seasons before last, I offered up a metaphorical doffing of the cap, wishing him or her enjoyment while it lasted, whoever they may be. Hoping they didn't mess things up the way I had. For a pursuit said to spring from man's desire for immortality, the visual arts can be a surprisingly ephemeral business.

An unfamiliar sales lady came across the room to greet me. She addressed me as "Sir", suggesting she had no idea who I was. I told her I was here to see Kohei; that, yes, he was expecting me; and that I knew where to find him.

After letting myself through to the back office, I flipped a one-word greeting to Jane at her desk then hurried on to Kohei's office before she could react. I walked in without knocking.

I found him reclining in his chair, his hands in his lap, and smiling his usual impish smile. His eyes were on me from the moment I came through the door.