Pat Barker - Another World

PENGUIN BOOKS

ANOTHER WORLD

One of the best things she has ever done, surely the most moving Ruth Rendell, Sunday Times

Masterly with scenes of tremendous emotion that surpass the intensity of the Regeneration trilogy Although her subject matter is always serious, often dramatic, Barker has never been sensational. Facts and implication are enough for her and she uses them to great effect, leaving us to wonder, what if? Rosemary Goring, Scotland on Sunday

Gripping never less than compulsively readable Margaret Forster, Literary Review

This subtle and beautifully written story of a discordant contemporary family shows how the violent past still has power to thrust out its distorting tentacles P. D. James, Sunday Times

Simple, strong and devastating Few writers are willing to brave the deep waters that Barker enters. In spite of her humour, she is a serious writer, tackling the mystery of evil and showing the past repeating itself compulsively Carol Birch, The Times Literary Supplement

[A] compelling, moving and disturbing novel Michele Roberts, Independent on Sunday

Intensely feeling Geordie is a beautifully realized character, tough, humorous, and finally enigmatic Helen Dunmore, The Times

Compelling Rachel Cusk, Express

Keenly observed and sympathetic an exquisitely detailed portrait of family relationships Stephanie Merritt, Observer

A fine writer at the peak of her form Another World can be regarded as an epilogue to the Regeneration trilogy David Robson, Sunday Telegraph

An electric, disturbing novel This is outstanding fiction, chilling and honest about the real struggles in family life Barkers best book yet Womans Journal

[Barker] makes us feel we know these people, care about them and their concerns [Geordie] is a wonderful creation who dominates the narrative and whose concerns are echoed throughout the book Glasgow Herald

Pat Barker was born in Thornaby-on-Tees in 1943. She was educated at the London School of Economics and has been a teacher of history and politics. Her books include Union Street (1982), winner of the 1983 Fawcett Prize, which has been filmed as Stanley and Iris; Blow Your House Down (1984); Lizas England (1986), formerly The Centurys Daughter, The Man Who Wasnt There (1989); the highly acclaimed Regeneration trilogy, comprising Regeneration, The Eye in the Door , winner of the 1993 Guardian Fiction Prize, and The Ghost Road , winner of the 1995 Booker Prize for Fiction; Another World ; and her latest novel, Border Crossing . A single-volume edition of the Regeneration trilogy is also available in Penguin.

Pat Barker is married and lives in Durham.

PAT BARKER

Another World

PENGUIN BOOKS

PENGUIN BOOKS

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First published by Viking 1998

Published in Penguin Books 1999

Copyright Pat Barker, 1998

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted

Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publishers prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

ISBN: 978-0-14-192883-8

For David, Donna and Gillon

with love

Remember: the past wont fit into memory without something left over; it must have a future.

JOSEPH BRODSKY

Cars queue bumper to bumper, edge forward, stop, edge forward again. Resting his bare arm along the open window, Nick drums his fingers. The Bigg Market on a Friday night. Litter of chip cartons, crushed lager cans, a gang of lads with stubble heads and tattooed arms looking for trouble and this is early, it hasnt got going yet. Two girls stroll past, one wearing a thin, almost transparent white cotton dress. At every stride her nipples show, dark circles beneath the cloth, fish rising. One of the lads calls her name: Julie! She turns, and the two of them fall into each others arms.

Nick watches, pretending not to.

What is loves highest aim?

Four buttocks on a stem.

Cant remember who said that some poor sod made cynical by thwarted lust. Nothing wrong with the aim, as far as Nick can see just doesnt seem much hope of achieving it any more. And neither will these two, or not yet. The boys mates crowd round, grab him by the belt, haul him off her. Jackie-no-balls, the other girl jeers. The boy thrusts his pelvis forward, makes wanking movements with his fist.

Lights still red. Oh, come on. Hes going to be late, and he doesnt want to leave Miranda waiting at the station. This is her first visit to the new house. Fran wanted to put it off, but then Barbara went into hospital and that settled it. Miranda had to come, and probably for the whole summer. Well, he was pleased, anyway.

The lights change, only to change back to red just as he reaches the crossing. Should be easier in the new house more space. In the flat Gareths constant sniping at Miranda was starting to get on everybodys nerves. And Miranda never hit back, which always made him want to strangle Gareth, and then it was shouts, tears, banged doors: Youre not my father So who was? he wanted to ask. Never did, of course.

Green thank God. But now theres a gang of lads crossing, snarled round two little buggers whove chosen this moment to start a fight. His fist hits the horn. When that doesnt work he leans out of the window, yells, Fuck off out of it, will you?

No response. He revs the engine, lets the car slide forward till its just nudging the backs of their thighs. Shaved heads swivel towards him. Barely time to get the window up before the whole pack closes in, hands with whitening fingertips pressed against the glass, banging on the bonnet, a glimpse of a furred yellow tongue, spit trapped in bubbles between bared teeth, noses squashed against the glass. Then, like a blanket of flies, they lift off him, not one by one, all at the same time, drifting across the road, indifferent now, too good-tempered, too sober to want to bother with him. One lad lingers, spoiling for a fight. Leave it, Trev, Nick hears. Stupid old fart int worth it.

He twists round, sees a line of honking cars, yells, Not my fucking fault! then, realizing they cant hear him, jabs two fingers in the air. Turns to face the front. Jesus, the lights are back to red.

By the time he reaches the station hes twenty minutes late. Leaving the car in the short-stay car-park, he runs to the platform, only to find it deserted. He stands, staring down the curve of closed doors, while a fear he knows to be irrational begins to nibble at his belly. A few months ago a fourteen-year-old girl was thrown from a train by some yob who hadnt got anywhere when he tried to chat her up. Mirandas thirteen. This is all rubbish, he knows that. But then, like everybody else, he lives in the shadow of monstrosities. Peter Sutcliffes bearded face, the number plate of a house in Cromwell Street, three figures smudged on a video surveillance screen, an older boy taking a toddler by the hand while his companion strides ahead, eager for the atrocity to come.