Marissa was friendly but only professionally. She maintained complete control over their conversation and slashed through the jungle of agenda with a machete-like ruthlessness; when Ricky inquired about her hometown upon noticing a distinctly American accent she chucked it right back at him with a curt ‘I live in London now.’ In fact the only real justification for a claim to her amiability was borne from her choice of wardrobe; her deep cut blouse revealed a most succulent valley of bosom that gaped at Ricky, who had to put in a Herculean effort to lock his eyes instead on her fire red hair.
Nevertheless her efficiency was productive. After discussing administrative details for half an hour Ricky had been promised a wire transfer of the full sum within 24 hours. They shook hands and Marissa apologised for not being able to have lunch together as she had a working lunch. Ricky doubted she was sorry, but nodded and thanked her. He then called Veda, one of the 37th Degree engineers, to inform him about the breakthrough. Once that was done, Ricky decided to stroll through the training complex and grab a bite at the cafeteria.
Inside the cafeteria, Ricky recognised Marissa in the far corner, chattering away excitedly. Her partner was in his forties and sported a pinstripe Brioni suit. Ricky dodged her line of sight and established himself at an inconspicuous table on the opposite side of the room. His pupils grew dilated as he concentrated on Marissa’s lips. He also took the liberty of stealing a few glances at her inviting cleavage.
‘...I’m meeting him tomorrow.’
‘Splendid. Do you think he’ll bite?’
‘If he’s as dumb as he is horny, then yes.’
The man cackled in delight and placed his hand over hers.
‘You really are something, Marissa.’
‘You don’t know the half of it.’
Ed smiled and withdrew his hand, looking around to see if anyone was watching them.
‘Now, let me know as soon as you’re done so I can set the wheels in motion. This Forsythe business must end immediately. I’ve been receiving bad signs from the Saudis. If we can’t clean this mess up they may pull out.’
‘Relax Edward, I won’t allow that to happen.’
‘Good. And you have my word, your contributions will be rewarded generously - in stock. Something that insufferable American doesn’t seem to understand.’
They both looked up to see Tony Barlow crossing the room. Tony held up his hand in recognition and Ed held up his in response, flashed his teeth in a wide grin, and snarled beneath his breath. ‘There’s another idiot. That good for nothing should drop dead already.’
‘One at a time, tiger.’ With that Marissa got up with her tray and left. Ed soon followed suit. On her way to the door Marissa turned her head in the direction of Ricky, who dropped his eyes to his clam chowder in a flash and pretended he was completely unaware of her presence. She did not seem to notice him, however, and promptly walked out.
Ricky finished his lunch and reflected on what he had just overheard. He could gather that the man with Marissa was Ed Percival, the CEO of London FC. The rest of the conversation was beyond him, but though he had no way of knowing for sure, he didn’t like what he heard. He didn’t like it one bit. And he was worried that he’d heard too many troubling things since yesterday. Something somewhere wasn’t right and Ricky’s ears were beginning to itch. But he wasn’t thrilled about that itch; his freak hearing had brought a lot of trouble throughout his life and he was wary of getting in over his head. Ignorance was bliss, not a crime.
He was an early subscriber of that philosophy. His first foray into unintentional eavesdropping came at the age of five. That was his first real memory - not a visual snapshot or a cached slow-motion clip, but rather an audio track that kept replaying itself over and over again.
It was a Saturday morning and little Ricky trudged out to the living room to catch some animation shows on TV. In the next room, his parents had left the door open and were quietly but intensely arguing.
Why all the fuss again? We already ran the tests.
I know but Dr. Wilson said--
Screw Dr. Wilson! What does he know?
But Jack, he said it’s a breakthrough. We might be able to have a baby of our own!
Ricky is our baby!
Of course, Jack, I love our Ricky! But I want a little man of our own. A little man in my tummy. Isn’t that what you want too Jack?
Ricky is our child, and I won’t have any more of this nonsense.
Jack, let’s just give it a try…
Ricky didn’t fully understand, but even at that tender age he felt he had stumbled across something huge. He began to wonder why he didn’t look more like Mom and Dad.
There was another memory, from roughly the same period. He was seven - he knew this because his mother’s tummy had grown very big like a mountain - and his parents were sleeping in. He climbed onto the kitchen chair with his cereal bowl and poured a hearty serving of Alpha Bits cereal. He poured too much and the alphabets spilled over onto the table. As he picked them up he started to spell the letters of his name. C, another C, a K, no not S. Another C, then a Y. He searched vigorously for the I and succeeded. But after a whole ten minutes, he could not find an R. It was the damnedest thing. In his frustration he poured out all the remaining alpha bits from the box and continued his scavenger hunt. But of all the thousands of letters scattered across the table he couldn’t find a single R. Imagine that - he was to be Icky. Not Ricky, but Icky. His name was wrong. Like he was wrong. Maybe his mother had hidden the R because she wanted to save it for the thing inside her tummy.
Naturally Ricky grew up hearing secrets and schemes. He was also extremely sensitive to all sorts of sounds, and there was never a day when his ears left him in peace. It was like living in a bad death metal concert with no intermission.
His parents tried their best to understand him and took him to many, many doctors. There was no drug specifically designed for hyperacusis, but he tried pretty much everything - anticonvulsants, anti-depressants, antiemetics, antivertigo medicine, and ginko extracts. In the end, it was none of these pharmaceutical efforts that saved him from going overboard; his own psychological training of blocking out and picking out sounds finally bore fruit sometime in the senior year of high school. His study of music helped calm him and he began regarding his condition from a deeper, philosophical perspective. Once he could shut out noise, he was able to savour the beauty of sound.