The Accidental by Ali Smith

fish in the room. Michael is saying something. He doesn’t know anything. He is pointing at something. Magnus nods. He hopes that this nodding is what they need. He nods several times, as if he is very sure of what he is nodding about. Yes. Yes, definitely. No worries. He takes the knife then the fork from the place setting. He slides them against himself where his back pocket should be. They must have gone in. There is no sound of them hitting the floor. He can feel the cold of them against his back. The cold is astonishing. It is astonishing to feel anything. The feeling won’t last.
    If you don’t mind, I’m going to take this up to my room, Magnus says. Please excuse me. Thank you very much.
    He is polite. He is like her. She was polite, bright.
Les pneus
. His mother says something. It sounds like an exclamation mark. His sister hands him his plate. He takes it in both hands so as not to drop it. The fish on it is dead. It is headless.
    The door swings shut behind him. Ahead of him are the stairs. They are deep in shadow. The door with the word Bathroom on it is at the top of them.
    Magnus walks to the front door. He puts the plate down on the carpet. He opens the door, picks up the plate again. It is so bright outside. It is unbelievably bright. He hunches his shoulders. Any minute now it will darken. That noise is just wind in leaves, the noise of birds. The birds are like a nightmare. They are making the same noises, again, then again, then again. The leaves are hissing. Birds are pointless. They make a noise to reproduce for their own genetic ends. Leaves are pointless. Trees are pointless. They sustain the lives of insects which die almost as soon as they’re born. The leaves help to produce oxygen that keeps people breathing, then people stop breathing. Insects pollinate a third of the food that people who are horrible to other people, people who are going to die because of it, eat. Hologram Boy:
a purpose-bred silkworm moth in caterpillar form can transform the mulberry leaves it eats into half a mile of unbroken silk thread stronger than a steel thread of the same thickness would be
. Information is a joke. It is laughable. It is so meaningful it is meaningless. The other noise is the crunch of his own feet on gravel. It doesn’t hurt enough. He looks down at the ground moving under him. It doesn’t hurt now because he is walking on grass.
    He is on a little bridge. Under it is a clogged river. He leans over, scrapes the fish off the plate with his hand. Most of it lands in the water. Part of the tail-end breaks off, lands in a bush on the bank. He drops the plate in after the fish. Then he gets the knife out of his back pocket, then the fork. He drops them over too.
    The bush is a scratchy one. He leans right into it to reach the bit of fish that got away. When he has it, he goes to the river’s edge. He wades in, then he cups the broken pieces in the water. He lets them float out of his hands. They waver then sink, flaking apart, settling round his feet.
    Magnus sits down on the bank in the litter, the weeds. His jeans are wet up to the thighs from the river. Once last year two girls from school came round looking for him. It was a Wednesday. He was at Chess Club. Astrid told him afterwards. She had been in the garden. Two girls had put their heads over the gate. Was this where Magnus Smart lived. Was she his sister. What girls? he asked her. He couldn’t believe it. It was unbelievable. What did they look like? Don’t ask me, Astrid said. I didn’t recognize them. They were a lot older than me. They were like your age, sixteen at least. One had her belly button done. But what did they want? he said. Hologram Boy. He was all shiny with amazement. They wanted you, Astrid said, but you were out. Why would they want me? (Hologram Boy. He was so brightly shining.) Well duh, Astrid said. She was throwing her powerball at the wall by the Egyptian prints, an illegal thing to do if Eve ever knew, catching it,