35, Life Hacks for a Little Alien

35

T HE HOTEL IS INDEED fun. At least, it is initially. In the room, there is a tiny fridge with tiny drinks. This is fun. Also in the room, there are tiny tea and coffee-making facilities. This is also fun. And the beds are fun too. There is one double bed for your parents and one pull-out bed for you. The pull-out bed comes out of the wall and creaks really loudly when you sit on it, lie down on it, or turn over from one side to the other. This is fun.

You climb in, read the Bible – the only book available to read before bed. In the front of the Bible, someone has written the words Happy Reading, Lots of love, God x . You enjoy this. You also enjoy the Bible’s use of ‘thou’, ‘thee’, ‘thine’, and ‘thy’. From your previous reading, you know that ‘thou’, ‘thee’, ‘thine’, and ‘thy’ are archaic personal pronouns meaning ‘you’ and ‘your’. You know ‘thou’, ‘thee’, ‘thine’, and ‘thy’ fell out of favour even though they were once widely used, and that they were actually more informal ways of saying ‘you’ or ‘your’. For example, you would address a child by using ‘thou’, ‘thee’, ‘thine’, and ‘thy’, but someone more senior in society by using ‘you’ or ‘your’.

You know many other languages have multiple ways of saying ‘you’. You know some languages have a formal and an informal ‘you’. You know some have a singular and a plural ‘you’. You think, as a language with only one word for ‘you’, English might actually be in the minority. You make a mental note to check this.

You find it funny the more formal second-person pronoun reigned triumphant, instead of the informal second-person pronoun. You find it funny that, even though the English language has the most words of any language, it doesn’t have multiple words for ‘you’ – at least not any more. You think you would like it if there were more words for ‘you’. After all, there are billions of people on Planet Earth. How can ‘you’ be you but also she and her and them and him? To address everyone with the same second-person pronoun seems weird. You think you might like it if pronouns didn’t exist. You think you might like it if everyone everywhere were simply called by their name.

The next morning, you speak to your dad about the Voynich Manuscript while he sips a cup of tea. You speak about how small it is, how crazy it is that this small thing has sparked such lively debate for years on end. You talk about how the Manuscript was likely re-bound at some point during its life which confused some people when they went to ascertain its date. You talk about Roger Bacon – the guy who is rumoured to have had it. You chat about the practice of alchemy – how smart people stupidly thought you could turn random stuff into gold. You talk about Bobby, how he has learnt a lot about the Manuscript from you but how he is still far less knowledgeable than you are because you got into it ages ago. You then talk about its ink. How the ink of the Manuscript is brown, but how there is also a lot of green going on. You say this might actually be the focus of your essay – the ink of the Voynich Manuscript – but you fear this might be too narrow. You say you might want to write about some debunked translations instead, or maybe your essay can just be on the life of Wilfrid Voynich himself. You say, whatever you choose, you need to write your essay because it’s due soon.

‘You’re talking about it differently now,’ your dad says.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Just now. When you spoke about how small it is, it was like you’ve held it. Like you’ve held it in your hands.’ Your dad mimics your gesture of holding a small book with his hands. ‘Before, it was all “apparently this” and “apparently that”. Now, it’s like you know this stuff from personal experience.’

He looks at you carefully. It’s like he is waiting for you to speak, waiting for you to explain yourself.

‘I don’t know this stuff from personal experience,’ you say, enunciating each syllable. ‘I have not seen the Voynich Manuscript in real life.’

Your dad narrows his eyes suspiciously. ‘OK, then,’ he says. ‘You’ve got an essay to write?’

‘Yeah.’

He reaches into his pocket. ‘Go to WHSmith. Get whatever you need there. We can always post your essay to the school if the deadline is approaching.’

You look at the note he is handing you. It’s a fifty-pound note. You’ve never seen one before. Its design is pinky-red. On the back, there is a picture of Sir John Houblon, the first governor of the Bank of England. Though you don’t care much for governors, in your opinion, the note looks super mega cool.

‘Wow,’ you say, inspecting the note closely.

‘Get me a few newspapers too, though.’

‘Which ones?’

‘All of them.’

‘All of them? Seriously?’

‘Seriously.’

‘OK, then,’ you say, before putting on your shoes and leaving.

The complex is broadly as you imagined. There is a WHSmith, a KFC, a Burger King, a Starbucks, an M their cheeks are plump. As for laughter and frown lines, they don’t have any. Perhaps their youthful look is what feeds into a non-threatening aura. Perhaps this non-threatening aura is why your mum doesn’t start crying, screaming, or doing anything else that might constitute freaking out.

Instead of doing any of the above, your mum just places her mug of tea to one side, gets up, comes over to you, and pulls you into a tight squeeze. You don’t like the tight squeeze. It’s so tight you can’t breathe. Also, you wonder if the tight squeeze is a sort of goodbye-forever hug – a thought you don’t like.

‘You’re here to take me back to the ward?’ she asks the police officers.

The red-haired police officer nods. ‘Afraid so,’ he says.

‘All right, then.’ She turns to your dad, gives him a peck on the cheek. ‘Thanks for trying anyway, love.’

Your dad nods. ‘Out of interest,’ he says to the officers, ‘how did you find us?’

The red-haired police officer shrugs. ‘Number-plate recognition software.’

‘Right,’ your dad says, nodding thoughtfully.

The blond police officer clears his throat. ‘Actually, um…’ He trails off.

‘What?’ your dad says.

The red-haired police officer points to you and your dad. ‘It’s probably best if you two come along too.’

Your dad looks at him – a look of suspicion or curiosity or hostility on his face. ‘Why?’

The blond police officer shrugs. ‘We just want a little chat with you. You know, at the station.’

‘Well, do we have to?’ your dad says.

‘Maybe,’ the red-haired police officer says.

‘Maybe?’ your dad says. ‘Well, in that case, maybe we’ll come.’

The blond police officer clears his throat. ‘I think you should come. I think it’d be in your interest.’

‘Babe,’ your mum says. ‘It’s OK. You’ll be fine. We’ll all be fine.’

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