It’s just chance, isn’t it? Chris said. That’s what makes it fair.
Hobbes had inclined his head, as though only considering the matter for the very first time. He had a way of doing that too. It could have been annoying, but Chris quite liked it. The old man would have made a good father, he thought.
But is it chance? Hobbes said thoughtfully. And does it really make it fair? Because the number you roll was the number you were always going to roll. And it’s still you making the decision, isn’t it? The angle of your arm. The flick of your wrist.
Chris couldn’t think of an answer to that.
It just seems to me, Hobbes said, that you’d be better off making the decision with your head instead. Or trying to.
And so.
“What are you doing?” Chris said.
“Jesus!”
By that point, the man was crouched down barely a foot away, and the surprise made him wobble off-balance; he had to put one palm on the grass to steady himself. When he’d recovered and looked around, Chris held his hands up.
“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“I didn’t realize there was anyone else here.”
“Yeah, clearly. What are you doing?”
The man gestured across the park with the camera, as though the device was his primary means of communication.
“I’m taking photos of the trees.”
“Yeah, I know.” The trees didn’t appear to be anything special to Chris. “I was just wondering why.”
The man looked at him curiously. Up close, he was much younger than Chris had been expecting. He wasn’t sure why—maybe it had been the coat. But now, he registered the jeans the man was wearing, along with what looked like a waistcoat over a … was that a band T-shirt of some kind? He had grandfather glasses that should have been ridiculously uncool on someone their age but actually suited his face. All in all, there was something out of time about the man, Chris thought. It was as though he’d traveled hurriedly through different periods of history and fashion, grabbing a single item at random from each to dress in, and somehow gotten lucky.
“To sketch from,” the man said. “I need something to use as a study.”
“A study for what?”
“A painting I’m working on.”
The man explained he was an art student at the university and that he often took photographs to use as the basis for parts of his paintings. Chris had a hard time wrapping his head around the idea. Surely art was meant to come from your own imagination? James—Chris learned his name quickly—disagreed with him, arguing that most artists worked from models or reference material.
It felt like a cheat to Chris, but he wasn’t sure why. He stared across at the drab little cluster of trees. If you based a painting on a photograph, surely that meant everything was there already? You weren’t creating anything in the present; it was all just snapshots of the past arranged in different formations.
James took the points well but grew exasperated with him nevertheless.
“Everything builds on what’s come before.”
“Does it really though?”
“Yes.” James sighed. “Do you want to go for a coffee? I’ll try to explain a bit better. We can even talk about something else if you like. You maybe?”
Chris sensed the shutters coming down inside him.
“I’m not interesting,” he said. “And I’ve already got a drink.”
“Okay.”
James looked disappointed. He took a step back. Chris found himself fighting a familiar sensation in his chest. He was so used to protecting himself—pushing people away. Keeping safe. But that wasn’t how he had to be, was it? He could be free to make choices with his head. And when he looked at James, he realized what he wanted to do was talk to this person some more.
So Chris held out the carton of coffee.
“But I’m happy to share,” he said, “if you are?”
* * *
This had become something of a joke between them after that.
Whenever Chris made coffee in his apartment, he made only one and they had to pass it between them. Takeout from cafés always consisted of just a single order to share. It was ridiculous on one level—not to mention impractical—but it had become a part of their life together. A ritual neither of them were willing to break.
Chris sipped his coffee now, weighed what was left, then held it out to James.
“You finish it,” he said.
“You sure?”
“Yeah. It’s pretty much gone anyway.”
James took it.
Chris looked across at the stand of trees. At that moment, the clouds broke a little and a flood of sunshine passed over the park. The light caught the edges of the branches, creating a glistening web of complexity. And just for a moment, it was as though he could see a pattern there. The leaves drifting down became black notes fluttering through a mesh of broken musical staves, and as he tried to follow them, there were a few seconds when he could almost hear the music they made.
“What are you thinking?” he said.
James frowned.
“I’m thinking I’m tired,” he said slowly. “I’m thinking that my back hurts.”
“Yeah, mine does too.”
They had been sleeping on the floor of James’s art studio for a few days now. Out of the handful of places available to them, it was the only one that felt safe—the only one where it felt like they wouldn’t be found by whoever was hunting them. It wasn’t great, but he was used to sleeping rough. You were cold and uncomfortable, but you knew you would be and so you accepted it. It was an endurance test. Chris had lived with the mentality that required for a long time, and the mindset had come back to him easily, like an old T-shirt that still fit when he tried it on.
But the fit was far from a welcome one.
Since leaving the clinic, he’d become accustomed to the luxury of having a roof over his head. A hot shower first thing. A comfortable bed. He had even started to take those things for granted. And there was a small, unwelcome voice in his head now—one that had been with him to some extent his whole life—that was telling him he had never deserved any of it.
That a happy life was not for the likes of him.
James passed the coffee back to him.
“Here.”
“I said you could finish it,” Chris told him.
“Yeah, I know. But there’s still enough left for both of us.”
Chris smiled and accepted the carton.
Rituals were important. You had no choice but to go along with them.
That made him think of Alan Hobbes again. The old man had always liked to talk, but in recent months his thoughts had become increasingly detached from reality. There had been more and more moments when he was barely lucid.
It feels like a journey at the time. Step by step.
Oh?
Yes, Hobbes said. But the reality is that all the steps are there at once. Beginning, middle and end—they’re all the same. From above, the whole journey is there.
That had been inscrutable but other occasions had been worse. A few weeks ago, Hobbes had sat up suddenly and grabbed Chris’s wrist, all but screaming into his face.
Oh God, it’s under the bed.
It’s under the fucking bed!