Wildlife Read Online Free

here. ‘Seriously,’ he told his friends, ‘it’s actually quite nice.’ He’s here now, Peter Gabriel, he’s staring out of the dining-room window at the lake that lies at the centre of Reel World. Behind him, Janek is pouring himself coffee. The atmosphere is tense.
    Janek Freeman has been waiting his entire life for something to matter. Twenty-five years in total. He’s numb. Numb from all the waiting. Janek’s yet to slip and fall and get soaked from head to toe in reality. Nothing matters, he thinks. So weird that nothing matters! Janek is preoccupied with this idea. He has lived his life with his breath held, waiting to burst and breathe with enthusiasm when something, anything, finally seems important. But this hasn’t happened. It’s incredible. A quarter of a century on earthand you’d expect something to seem important. But nothing has.
    During these twenty-five unimportant years, Janek has been circumcised, schooled and raised in Bristol by his Polish father, a keen Jew, and his mother, a West Country native with very shallow lungs. He was taunted while at secondary school in Bridgewater. The other pupils called his mum ‘the breathless willy-wanger’.
    What else hasn’t mattered? Loads. Janek won a scholarship to study music at Berkeley in California at the age of sixteen. It didn’t matter. By the time he returned at the age of twenty he’d become one of the most sought-after session bass players on earth. This didn’t matter either. While in America, he’d recorded bass lines for Stevie Wonder, Gwen Stefani, Bruce Springsteen, Snoop Dogg and many others. This seemed very unimportant. He’d even released his own record: ‘Twelve Decisions in the Key of Bass’. It had enjoyed critical success, made him a legend in the world of bass guitars and, incredibly, hadn’t really mattered at all. Shame, Janek constantly thinks, shame that nothing matters.
    Janek’s image, which certainly doesn’t matter, comprises a jet-black beanie hat that he never takes off. It fits snugly over his curly brown hair, framing his chestnut-coloured eyes and accentuating his strong, handsome, Polish jaw. Apart from his incredible musical talent, this hat accounts for Janek’s appeal among America’s leading hip-hop artists. It lends him a frisson of unimportant cool and they love him for it; the likes of Snoop and Jay-Z, they pay him for it. He’s wearing the beanie now, of course, in the dining room at Reel World. He’s looking up at Peter Gabriel and smiling. Janek knows full well that, for Peter, loads of things matter:world music, entertainment, performance, African instruments, sex, family, Janek’s career, music technology and probably much else besides. Janek finds this touching but strange.
    Peter is still staring out at the lake. He’s watching as a gigantic swan parades around on the small island, hissing at the reeds that grow there. This swan is as much a feature of Reel World as the antique sound desks and the acoustics and reverberations of the live rooms. Peter smiles, remembering how the swan had once hissed at Brian Eno and petrified him, how the swan had chased Kylie Minogue across the patio, into the games room and then pecked at her through the glass door. Peter sighs. He massages the back of his neck with his hand. He’s bald nowadays, what hair remains has turned grey. But his skin is still smooth, his eyes attentive. He is trim. Still virile somehow. There is life in him. Outside, beside the lake, the vegetable patch is covered in January frost. Inside the air is cold, scented with coffee.
    â€˜Would you like a cup, Peter?’ asks Janek.
    â€˜No. I don’t drink that stuff any more.’
    Janek watches as Peter continues to stare at the swan. Peter’s lips are quivering a little, as if he’s letting out dozens of small inaudible words. Janek places a cigarette into his