Graham had no idea what he meant, but he liked hearing it.

  “I do,” he said, even convincing himself. “I get it now.”

  Then he joined the rest of the class as they twirled around the dojo.

  Outside the wind and rain bellowed. It carried in its roar, the last scream of a dying writer, scratching on the glass in a desperate bid to scour its way back into the weak and tender parts of Graham’s mind. Neath its roar too, was the great depression that was all that had gone wrong in his life.

  For the moment, though, draped in his warrior’s attire, and neath the spell of his master’s wisdom, none of that mattered. He was not a failed scientist, nor was he an impotent husband or the ire and doldrums of his children.

  All those things waited for him outside but in here, at least for this brief moment, he was whoever he willed himself to be. And it was easy, dressed as he was, to imagine himself as the hero in everyone’s story including his own.

  Track 13 (Red)

  The second and third participants both arrived on the same day. There had been a mix-up in communication but in the end, it worked out well – not for the participants, but for the scheduling. Both participants once again responded poorly to the drugs and were unable to be revived. It was frustrating, to say the least, but a few hitches along the way wouldn’t deter the two scientists – failure was a mark of success. As pressure mounted, though, cracks were starting to show.

  “At least we have the waivers, right?” said The Rector, looking, as he always did, on the brighter side of misfortune. “Some data is better than none.”

  Now, though, he was clearly mocking.

  “We have data,” said Graham. “We have tonnes of it; just….”

  “Not enough to draw any valid conclusions.”

  “Not as much as we would like.”

  “Well, what if you changed the question? I mean, you have the results.”

  “I’m afraid you lost me there.”

  He knew; he knew.

  “What if you take what you have and propose a different hypothesis? What if you change the goalposts? Or hell, what if you even change the sport altogether?”

  “Hand it over to another department?”

  “Either that or change your question. The Stanford Experiment may have failed but the data didn’t. The experiment proved nothing about the abuse of power, poor administration saw to that, but what the results did show was the effect of such power – how to strip a free man of his will to be free. If they’d asked a different question, they could have put good use to that data instead of what it became. What it comes down to then is whether you have the courage to ask a different question.”

  He had spite, scorn, and anger; he had indignation, pride, and fear. All of them inspired him in one way or another like paint to an artist or God to a marauding army; they were what lifted him when his mind was full of doubt and fatigue. What he didn’t have, though, was courage.

  “This is my research.”

  “I understand, I do. Probably nobody understands more than me. I have always been your biggest advocate. At the same time, the board is on my back - enrolments are down. We need exciting research. And we need publishing.”

  “You don’t think this is exciting.”

  “Me? Oh contraire. No, I think it’s riveting. Of course, I do. It’s just the board, and really enrolments in general, are leaning more towards….alternate science.”

  “Grievance studies?”

  “It’s a changing world, Graham.”

  “Is this a university or a thrift shop?”

  “Without students, we’ll be neither.”

  “Look, all I need is one,” said Graham.

  “One what? You mean person to survive?”

  “Yes, exactly. We can lose fifty for all I care so as long as we get one. All I need is to confirm the data we have with a survivor account. That’s it.”

  “What was the term you used? A controlled…”

  “Unresponsive state. And it is that,” he said, adamant. “But, for whatever reason resuscitation failed.”

  “It would be nice to know what that reason was, don’t you think?”

  “We’re working on that.”

  “How are you, Graham?” said The Rector.

  “How am I what?”

  “How ARE you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You haven’t been you lately.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know. You seem distant as all. Different. Not your usual self.”

  “I’m fine,” said Graham.

  “How’s Mary?”

  “She’s fine.”

  “And the kids?”

  “Everyone’s fine, Sam.”

  He could be cruel without knowing it.

  “I miss the get-togethers we used to have,” said The Rector, aloft in a moment of blissful nostalgia. “They were always so much fun. Your boy was just a baby when I saw him last. Geeze, he must be getting on….”

  “He’s seven,” said Graham.

  His face was shaped like a bag of cement.

  “Wow,” said The Rector. “It’s been that long? Feels like yesterday. You think he remembers me?”

  He looked sad and lonely and in need of a hug.

  “Sure,” said Graham, shaking his head as he did. “I mean, why not?”

  There was an awkward silence that followed. It felt like a disinterested kiss.

  “You get one more shot,” said The Rector, his voice cold and sharp.

  “That’s all we need,” said Graham, himself on the back foot.

  “One more death and I’m pulling the plug.”

  Track 14 (Yellow)

  Graham got home with a heavy head that evening. He had no-one but himself to blame really. Failure, after all, was integral to the process. Still, he was disappointed. And in no time, his disappointment turned to frustration and his frustration to puerile anger. After having talked himself up for months, the last thing he wanted was to have to admit to his family that he wasn’t half the man he made himself out to be.

  “How was your day?”

  The question wasn’t asked. It was more or less shouted from just outside the back door. And for all Graham knew, it was probably rhetorical.

  One again the TV was blaring and nobody was watching. There were toys strewn about the floor; along with bedsheets, pieces of ripped cardboard, a bowl full of half-eaten apple pieces that were covered in ants, and a cat – looking shell shocked by something that had probably happened only a minute or two before.

  Graham took an almighty breath and sighed in almost sheer relief and then collapsed on the sofa, throwing his bag full of notes to the far end of the room. It wasn’t the most comfortable sofa, but it was if he could position himself just right. After years of being jumped on by a couple of manic children, the springs had worn out and flopped about like an old man’s testicles, whilst the cushions moulded to whatever weight was put on them. But when he wriggled just the right amount, Graham sank into that sofa as if it was a cloud, a bath, or a tar pit, and he stretched out his legs in absolute bliss.

  “Hi, dad,” said Nathan, running into the room with two guns in his hand. “Missed you.”

  “Did you?”

  “No, just joking,” said the boy, laughing. “Hate you, dad. Love you, dad. Hate you, dad.”

  And then he ran back up the stairs hunting interdimensional space monsters.

  A minute later his daughter came down the stairs and collapsed on the sofa beside him; curling up in his arm while pretending to fall asleep. The TV was showing cartoons that were probably inappropriate but at the same time, it seemed like wasted effort to change the channel.

  “How was school?” he asked.

  “Worst day ever,” said Isabel. “My best friend got in a fight with another girl at school.”

  “An actual fight? Like a fist fight?”

  “No. Louise said the Sofia wasn’t actually good at doing cartwheels, even though yesterday she said she was and then Louise told Sofia that she didn’t really do proper handstands because her feet always touched the wall; and the Sofia got really mad because she can do proper handstands, it’s just that the one time Louise saw her, one of her feet touched the wall; but that was just an accident – I know cause it happens to me sometimes too; but I’m a lot better than both of them, at handstands and cartwheels.”

  “Hold on,” said Graham. “Which one is your best friend? I thought your best friend was Laura.”

  “No, dad. You don’t listen.”

  “Well, then who was over last week?”

  “Ugh, dad. Me and Laura don’t talk anymore.”

  “Well, what happened there? You guys were best friends.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Besides, you wouldn’t understand.”

  “I’m your dad. It’s my job to care or at least to give it a shot. Try me.”

  Then the girl stormed off. She didn’t yell anything; she didn’t have to. The sound of her feet deliberately stomping each step as if each one were a precious hope and dream was enough to explain, more or less, how she really wanted to say.

  Once again Graham exhaled – almost triumphantly.

  He hadn’t for a second thought about work. Even if he wanted to talk, it’s not like anyone would let him. And who could blame them really - all those big words and all that stupid data? The kids would be bored in a second. Not to mention the whole ‘dead body’ side of things. Sure, the kids would dive on that, but if he shared that part of his job, they wouldn’t sleep for a month. Plus, they all had more to share with him so in a way; it was nice to be on the other side of the glass.

  “I got some chickens,” said Mary, plopping herself down on the sofa.

  “Chickens? Can we afford chickens? And what about the cats and the dogs?”

  “They were free. And we’ll get free eggs out of them so we’ll end up saving money. Plus they’ll eat the scorpions.”

  “We have scorpions? Since when?”

  “I told you; I found one in the bathroom behind the toilet. I swear you never listen.”

  “I’d remember if you told me we had scorpions. Jesus Christ. I’m not going to be able to take a shit anymore.”

  “Speaking of that, did you make the appointment?”

  She didn’t need to be specific; he knew just what she meant.

  “You didn’t, did you? Bloody hell, Graham. You know sometimes you’re just as impossible as your son. You may call it stubborn, but I say you’re just scared. And you shouldn’t be; it’s your health.”

  “I was going to do it, I swear. Things got out of hand today at work. The first trial was a balls up – had to spend the rest of the day dealing with all the paperwork and….”

  “Didn’t go well?”

  In the time it could have taken him to say no, he ran through his mind, all the slights, errors, stuff ups, cock-ups, distractions, poor reactions, and in the end, the cadaver of a forty-year-old writer that had to be catalogued and processed and taken to the morgue. There were the arguments that followed and the things that were said that couldn’t be taken back but that would still require a formal apology in the morning. There was also that asshole in traffic who kept flicking his lights behind him, who he knew, were he given the chance, he could kick his ass.

  “It’s just frustrating, is all,” said Graham.

  “You’ll do better next time, babe,” said Mary consolingly. “You always do.”

  Her face was shaped like a silver lining.

  “Are you doing your fighting thing tonight?” she asked as if there were something else she was vying to propose.

  But Graham heard only what played out in his head.

  “That’s right,” he said, and his spirits lifted.

  And before either of them could say another word, from up the stairs came a scream followed by some shouting followed by the sounds slapping and punching and scratching – and it would come as no shock if there was even a bite. Both kids came running down the stairs into the living room, both with their own version of events and both versions being screened at competing volumes at the exact same time.

  “Nathan hit me for no reason.”

  “Well, she pushed me.”

  “That’s because he scratched me first.”

  “Yeah, but she wanted to take my toy.”

  “I was only seeing it.”

  “No, you were gonna take it.”

  “Well, it’s my toy anyway. I’m the one who gave it to you.”

  “You see, dad. She said she took it and….”

  The two children stepped on their soap boxes and stated their cases over and over again. And both of them had compelling arguments so much so that by the end, it didn’t really matter who did what to whom – everyone was a victim, and everyone was in the wrong.

  “Isa, did you take his toy?”

  “Yeah, but he scratched me first”

  “Nathan, did you scratch your sister?”

  The boy slammed his hands onto his ears and stormed off to a corner of the living room and turned his back to everyone. Were he a snail or a tortoise, he’d be inside his shell by now.

  “Fuck this,” said Graham. “I gotta go. Kids, stop being douches to each other. I love you both, but I’ve got class.”

  “Well can I watch cartoons on your computer?” asked Isabel.

  “What’s wrong with the TV?”

  “I prefer on your computer.”

  “Ok, fuck it. Yes.”

  The girl smiled. Her troubles dissolved immediately. The boy, however, would take some effort. Though he looked like a little boy tucked into the corner of a room, were he an animal, there would be hundreds of thousands of sharp quills sticking out of his back urging well-wishers and curious people to keep their hands away. He would come good in his own time; he always did.

  “Don’t get home late,” said Mary, sounding just a little suspicious. “And not too early either, if you know what I mean.”

  Her face was shaped like a garter belt.

  “I didn’t just buy chickens,” she said.

  Track 15 (Blue)

  “I brought you a gift.”

  Isaac sat across from a woman in a bar that was as crowded as it was loud. He was nervous as usual, desperately racing through his mind looking for something to say – anything that would make him look and sound as funny, cool, and interesting as he thought he was.

  The woman’s name was Alice and according to her profile, she was a Gemini, loved nature, cinemas, and bars; was sometimes anti-social yet always anti-fascist, and that she was autistic – but the cool kind.

  “Do you wanna see it?” she said.

  The gift was already in her hands.

  “I didn’t know I should bring something,” said Isaac.

  About now was when the panic set in. The contents of his stomach sloshed about as his thoughts swirled, and with them, the whole world started to spin in nauseating circles. Soon enough his mind felt became a light, noxious gas while his head felt, like a kite made out of bricks, impossible to keep upright. He wanted to vomit all over her.

  “That’s fine,” she said, handing him a small pillow across the table.

  It felt anything but, though. Were this a movie, their roles would have been reversed. He, the romantic male lead, would have showered her with gifts that he himself had tailored, or at the very least, had custom made by some child in Bangladesh. And it would have been she who was caught unaware, faintly protesting the need for gifts but at the same, relishing the devotion and keeping stock of each and every one. Were this a movie, he would have at least brought her a flower.

  “I hope you really love it,” she said.

  Her face was shaped like a night lamp.

  It was a small travel pillow, the kind handed out on long haul flights. The pillowcase, though, had been screen printed. On one side were the words, ‘Hello Moon’. The letters were yellow and luminescent, and they were on the backdrop of a starlit sky. On the other side was a screen print of Lenin’s smiling face, and surrounding him was a circle made out of the words ‘Love’.

  “I’m a feminist,” she said as if presenting a straight flush. “And a communist.”

  “Oh, ok, cool. Yeah.”

  Really he wasn’t quite sure what to say.

  “What about you?” she said.

  “Me?”

  “Yeah. What are you?”

  “Well, I’m a scientist, I suppose. I hadn’t really thought about it. I like to paint but I wouldn’t call myself a painter.”

  “Does that scare you?” she said.

  “Painting? Well, it’s supposed to help with anxiety so….”

  “No. That I’m a feminist.”

  Her face changed all of a sudden; it was shaped like a spine.

  “Most men are threatened by a strong woman,” she said.

  Isaac’s face changed too; it was shaped like watered-down jelly.

  “Real men are turned on,” she said. “Which one are you?”

  In all honesty he had no idea; definitely, though, he was feeling like the former.

  “I love strong women,” he said.

  He hoped that was enough for her not to beat him up.

  “So you’re a scientist?” she said.

  Isaac nodded.

  “You realise straws aren’t the problem,” she said.

  “Straws?”

  “Yeah. You’re acting like banning straws is gonna save the oceans. You realise how few straws are in the ocean? And how does a straw I use here in the city even get to the ocean? Huh? Explain to me that. Plus climate change is total bullshit. The real problem is fat bourgeoisie pigs. Capitalism,” she said, stuffing her face with fried cheese balls. “That’s the real problem. If you want to save the dolphins, first you need to break down the government and seize the means of production.”

  “I think the straw is more of a symbol,” said Isaac apprehensively, already knowing that he had unwittingly stepped into a pit of tar that was moments from being set on fire. “It’s a symbol – of change, of shifting attitudes, of consuming less. I mean really, when you look at it, if you can lift a cup to your mouth, you don’t need a straw. You could make the same argument for transgender.”