by Don Hunter
Silas laughed, and stood. “I was the so-called ‘hacker,’ but I didn’t have to hack anything, even if I’d known how.”
Henry or Harvey leaped to his feet. “I can teach you! It’s dead easy!” he yelled. And added, “You great dummy.” He was removed at the chair’s request.
Silas continued. “She told me to wait outside her office—she used to be a teacher. I was waiting to interview her on some civic matters, but I accidentally overheard the conversation that she had made public by having put her phone on speaker.”
Jillian said, “Grandma!” Her brother laughed out loud.
“He was eavesdropping!” Sheila shouted.
“A legitimate exercise for any reporter,” Silas countered. “And anyway, you could have heard her in Nanaimo.”
At this stage Sheila’s phone rang again, and her daughter’s voice boomed, “Mom. Are the kids with you?”
Snickers from the audience.
Ms. Buchanan looked at Sheila and shrugged. Then checked the clock. “I’m afraid we’re running short, time for just one more complaint, and this one from a well-known politician, your local MLA, Mr. Jethro Wallace. This concerns a conversation that apparently had privacy guaranteed but was reported in full and caused the aggrieved Mr. Wallace ‘great embarrassment and damage to my reputation.’”
“There’s an oxymoron,” from the back row.
The case apparently involved a phone call from Jethro to Silas. The MLA was responding to Silas’s questions about something he had heard about a clerk of the legislature questioning Jethro over expense claims he had submitted. These concerned business lunches with a contractor who was seeking government support for a condominium development in another part of Wallace’s riding.
In answer to Silas, asking if the clerk had a case in claiming that it was the developer who had paid for all the lunches, Jethro had said, “Anyone can make a mistake.”
Ms. Buchanan said, “Mr. Wallace claims, ‘I told Cotswold that the conversation was off the record and he broke a sacred confidence in repeating it.’”
Silas stood. “An example of a common misunderstanding of the term ‘off the record.’ Both parties must agree to that being the case beforehand—that it will be off the record, not was, after the fact. If I listen and record what you say, then after you have done the damage you say, ‘What I told you of course was off the record,’ you’re too late. And I did include at the end of the piece that he had said it was all off the record.”
From the back of the hall, a late-arrived Jethro. “To make me look stupid.”
Silas said, “I rest that case, too.”
The press council members politely declined an invitation from Silas for “a spot of tea,” and seemed to be in a hurry as they headed for the ferry.
Find the Artist
The mysterious artwork appeared overnight. No one had a clue as to the artist, though some opinions were offered.
Some of the works were simple stick figures, others fully formed. Some seemingly in charcoal, others in glowing spray paint, heavy brush strokes, light pencil lines, oil, rough acrylic … name a medium.
Drawings. Everywhere.
The one on the cedar-siding wall of Gilbert’s Groceries was an accurate depiction of Gilbert Chen, complete with his shapeless green coverall. One might be forgiven for thinking it comprised his only wardrobe, given that anyone making a social call to Gilbert’s house would find him answering the door wearing the same garment.
The post office wall featured a portrait of lawyer Ezekial Watson, handing out his business card, with one eye closed in a pronounced wink. On the back of the school gym was a flattering and shapely image of former teacher Mayor Sheila herself, reminiscent of when she would step in and take a phys-ed class and change into brief shorts for the occasion. It showed her shooting a basket. The image was svelte, or at least considerably less full than today’s reality, and Sheila was quietly pleased with the effect.
MLA Jethro Wallace appeared on the ferry dock, in one of those clever illusion jobs that made him appear about to step off the edge. The Tidal Times picked up that one and ran a photo of the image on the front page.
The next day the illusion art on the dock had been changed: An upside-down bowler hat appeared, with a few coins and bills in and alongside it. The cash also was illusory, as Willard Starling from the seniors residence discovered when he attempted to pick it up. He almost joined Jethro, who in this version was now nose-down in the bay. The Bell-Atkinson geeks found this one especially amusing, pointing at Willard and howling at his wobbling near miss. Willard waved his cane at them and they strutted off, laughing. One pointed to the Jethro-in-the-water piece and they howled again and swapped high-fives.
The subject of the images dominated the letters page of The Tidal Times: A disgrace, some said. No better than the common graffiti vandals known as “taggers.” It’s time the guilty were apprehended.
“Nonsense,” said another. “Consider what Banksy has done for the world of street art. We could be witnessing a genius among us. Maybe he’s even visiting us on the quiet, or at least has sent a representative.”
This, predictably, spurred Silas Cotswold to offer a challenge in The Tidal Times: “Find the artist. Identify this mystery artist and win a trip to the Pacific National Exhibition, courtesy of your local newspaper.” (The tickets would be freebies provided to news outlets by the annual fair. Silas did not mention that winners would have to pay their ferry fares and any other expenses to get to the East Van celebration.)
The images usually appeared overnight.
Randolph Champion became a suspect when it was seen that he was refreshing some of his standard protest signs (the words “FOR” at the top, and “AGAINST” below, with a blank space awaiting fulfilment between and below them) with a hand-lettered Brush Script font. When Cameron Girard subtly questioned him, Randolph indelicately advised Cameron that he was using Microsoft Word to download any font he preferred and was simply tracing over the lettering by hand. “As even you could do if you tried,” he said.
Others joined in the investigation. Annabelle Bell-Atkinson reported that she had seen an item on Facebook describing how Kiwi exchange teacher Jack Steele, as a young student, had won a national portrait–painting competition with a likeness of then-New Zealand Governor General Sir Michael Hardie Boys.
Jack responded. “I was very young and foolish, and the New Zealand Herald disclosed that I had used a paint-by-numbers kit. The GG himself forgave me and commended me for my initiative.” He added, “I have not touched a paintbrush since.”
Finbar O’Toole, on one of his regular visits to Dr. Daisy Chen’s office, noticed that nurse Patsy McFee’s desk was littered with prescription pads filled with stick drawings.
“Aha!” he said.
Patsy pointed to a partly finished gallows on one of the pads. “Dr. Daisy and I are playing Hangman, you clown,” Patsy said. “And she’s worse at spelling than I am. Now, consider yourself having been checked and found perfectly well, and bugger off.”
Jackson Spinner told a group at the Cedars pub, “I think I have him!”
He described a young man who had checked in to his and Evelyn’s B & B two days before the images appeared. “Checked in as Pietro something. Fancy hairdo, earrings in each side, tattoos from the knees up—he has one of those flat briefcase things that could hold all manner of artist stuff. When I asked him what he intended to paint, he said, ‘Paint? Me?’ Now if that doesn’t sound like a Banksy-type …”
The door opened and a young man with hair down to his shoulders, earrings in each side, and tattoos all over, walked in and said, “Good evening.”
“Petey!” Cedars’ owner Matthew Blacklock, just returned from a week in Victoria, had the young fellow in a bear hug. “You came early!”
Matthew explained to the crowd. “My neph
ew. My sister’s kid. Susie, the one married to the Italian off Commercial Drive. Calls himself ‘Pietro’—actually it’s ‘Peter.’ Creative type. Brought all his own gear.”
He caught the glances, and laughed. “No, no. Not him. Petey is taking over the barbershop.”
The Inlet had been without a barber since Jacques “The Clipper” Bouche had hung up his scissors and retired to Tofino for the surfing.
“Hot shaves a specialty,” Peter announced with a flourish, noting the several stubbly faces in attendance.
Meanwhile, the images had begun fading, as had the enthusiasm for finding the artist.
“No winner, then, Silas,” Samson Spinner said.
“A mystery still,” Cotswold said. “Must be brains behind it, as well as talent.”
No more images appeared, and the PNE closed its doors for another year.
Constable Ravina Sidhu finished her one after-shift glass of the Cedars’ house red and left for home. She figured it must have been the slight buzz from the wine when she heard the geeks arguing as she passed the Bell-Atkinson home, but it sounded as if Henry, or Harvey, said, “No, leave that sonofabitch Wallace in the water.”
At the Ready
“Community Emergency Plan—Public Meeting.” The announcement was across the bottom of the first page of The Tidal Times. “Bring your suggestions on Friday night to the community hall.”
The meeting was the idea of Annabelle Bell-Atkinson, lately returned from a vacation to Florida where an expected tropical storm had turned into an unexpected hurricane, sending thousands running for cover and Annabelle heading home.
Beside Annabelle on the stage was wildly unpopular MLA Jethro Wallace, who announced that due to his particular influence (“Order, please. Order!”), he had managed to arrange for the expert appearance of the second in command to the assistant of the associate deputy co-ordinator of provincial emergency services, whom he expected any moment now. “He has a Ph.D. in survival techniques.”
Annabelle recalled her own experience down south. “It was a lesson in unpreparedness for a hurricane. We should never let it happen here.”
“We don’t get hurricanes,” Evelyn Spinner said.
“Typhoon Freda, October 1962,” corrected Henry or Harvey. “Same thing. Blew Stanley Park to bits.”
“That’s my cousin’s name, Freda!” declared nurse Patsy McFee. “Coincidence, eh?”
“And if we did,” Evelyn persisted, “E & J’s B & B has more than enough rooms ready to accommodate the needy.” She winked at Jackson sitting nearby. He gave her both thumbs up.
“Earthquake, then,” Annabelle countered, becoming a bit testy. “The Big One. Lights out. No power. No water. What then?”
“The shelter!” The geeks chimed in as one.
“Oh, Christ, spare us,” Samson Spinner said, as groans echoed all about.
The geeks’ survival shelter had been under construction for the better part of a decade. The initial hole had been dug with a Caterpillar excavator that the geeks had hot-wired and borrowed one midnight from the site where the high school now stood. They had returned it before breakfast and denied any knowledge of the tractor-tread marks leading from their project to that site.
Most of the population of Spinner’s Inlet had endured a tour of the shelter at one time or another.
When the geeks had demonstrated that once you were inside, there was no way out unless you knew the code to punch in to the keypad that controlled the massive, steel-reinforced door, former community physician Dr. Timothy, a confirmed claustrophobic, had suffered a panic attack while ensuring that he was in between the geeks and the still-open door, and later needed a double Scotch to get over it.
“There’s only room for four in there,” Samson said. “Two bunk beds.”
“And only beans to eat,” added young Alun Clements.
He and Jillian had counted the endless rows of Campbell’s pork and beans on the shelves the geeks had built. The geeks had seen a case-lot sale advertised in a flyer from Nanaimo and had snagged the lot.
“Can you imagine that place closed up and whoever is in there eating all those beans?” Jillian said, and Alun broke into, “Beans, beans, the musical fruit, the more you eat the more you toot …”
“Let’s move on,” Annabelle said. “We could use this very hall, should it remain standing. We could gather here, do a head count, and see who has brought what to help us all through.”
She checked the hall clock and her wristwatch. “Our guest, the second in command to the assistant of the … thingamajiggy … seems to be running a bit late. But as I was saying, we will need …”
“Bottled water, lots of bottled water,” Gilbert Chen offered. “It’s on special this week,” he added. “At Gilbert’s Groceries.”
“We’d be looking for donations,” Annabelle breathed.
“How about toilet paper?” Jillian said. “I was just in the john here and there’s no more left after this roll gets done. Which it almost is. And it’s getting old. When I tore the last three sheets off …”
Her mother gave her the “Enough” signal.
Randolph Champion called out, “I could provide signs for the highway with arrows saying, ‘A new life this way,’ and, ‘Give me your poor, your tired, your huddled masses …’”
“We’re not expecting refugees,” Annabelle said. Then, “Well, not any more refugees,” with a nod to the Hanif family sitting in the front row. Ali Hanif gave Annabelle two thumbs up. Ali’s youngest child, his son, Fabian, offered a different digit signal, product of a growing affiliation with some of his peers at the elementary school. This brought a fierce glare from Annabelle and howls of laughter from the geeks, who responded to Fabian’s gesture with vigorous flourishes of their own.
Ali’s wife, Aila, having come to understand plenty of the baser elements of her new society (she had Netflix and had accidentally tuned in to an occasional rapper), missed her son’s signal, and interpreted the reciprocal responses as Annabelle and the geeks insulting her family. She rose in a snit and left, followed by a puzzled Ali, a grinning Fabian, and the Hanifs’ two daughters, Nadia and Balour, the latter blowing the geeks a loud raspberry because she felt someone should do something to defend the family’s honour, and she too was becoming familiar with local habits.
“Must have been something you said,” Samson Spinner advised Annabelle, who demanded the meeting get back to its purpose.
“Prayer sheets,” the Reverend Amber Rawlings called out. “We will need them if we are going to praise the Lord and hope for His assistance.”
“Or Hers,” Jillian murmured.
“I’m an atheist.” From the back, Erik Karlsson, great-great-nephew of the still-much-lamented Svensen.
“Bless you anyway,” Reverend Amber smiled. “There will always be room for you around our campfires, which we will surely be needing when … er, They send the Big One. We will pray and sing …”
Kiwi exchange teacher Jack Steele strummed an air guitar and broke into, “Kumbaya, my Lord …”
“Hymns.”
Most of the audience joined Jack and heartily sang the four verses down to and through “Someone’s praying, Lord …” etc.
By now the meeting had fallen apart and Annabelle announced above the noise that as it appeared that no one seemed prepared take her seriously, they might as well all go home.
Cameron Girard’s report in The Tidal Times next day said the meeting had ended on a high note but that MLA Wallace’s acclaimed Ph.D. in survival had failed to show.
This was explained to Cameron later that day with a phone call from a colleague at the Victoria Times Colonist newspaper. “The guy was at a seminar in the morning. It was titled ‘Advice to provincial government staff on dealing on-site with our outlying communities, such as Spinner’s Inlet, and their inh
abitants.’ He apparently went straight home from that and phoned in sick for the rest of the day.”
New York
“Student visa.” The young man in the uniform of a US Customs and Border Protection agent sighed and repeated the words, slowly. “Stu-dent vi-sa.”
Charlie Wilson looked at his daughter, Connie. Well? They had half an hour before their flight left Toronto for LaGuardia in New York.
Connie shook her head. She shuffled again through the pile of papers in her hands. No visa there.
“If you don’t have a stamped student visa, you cannot be allowed into the United States as a student, can you? Make sense? We can’t have just anybody and everybody entering the country.”
Charlie thought of the thousands of “irregulars” who had walked across the border from the US into Canada’s welcoming arms in the recent past. Not a visa among them.
They had shown the paperwork from the American Musical and Dramatic Academy (AMDA) that showed that Connie had been awarded a substantial but not full scholarship based on the audition she had given in Vancouver. A portion to be paid, plus travel.
Connie pointed to her folder again. “That’s all I got.”
The young man (“Valadez” on his chest-mounted nameplate) sighed. “I’ll talk to someone,” he left.
Twenty-five minutes to go.
Charlie wondered for a second if declaring themselves refugees might work. He had managed to acquire the funds that would get his daughter to New York and decided that she should not make the first trip alone but needed a street-smart companion. (He put aside the memory of becoming lost at Pike Place Market on his first trip to Seattle and needing help to locate the Space Needle on his second.) The community of Spinner’s Inlet had been generous once it was understood the money was for Connie, and not Charlie.
The Inlet Players had donated all the takings from a three-night run of Playboy of the Western World. Constable Ravina Sidhu had hinted to Cedars pub owner Matthew Blacklock that to donate one night’s takings would be a small thing compared with a surprise visit from a BC Liquor and Cannabis Regulation Branch inspector who might be interested in what was really meant by “last orders.” And Gilbert Chen had stuck small flags onto certain items in the store bearing the words, “Yea, Connie!” and a matching cash box on the counter.
