by James Smythe
The numbers don’t lie.
Attached to the email is a glossily produced PDF file, little more than a glorified spreadsheet holding a series of almost incomprehensible posits and answers. There are questions asked at the top, about Laurence’s virtues and skills, things that are ambiguous but useful.
Is LAURENCE WALKER a good man: 96% chance of occurrence.
Does LAURENCE WALKER care about his country? 93% chance of occurrence.
Will LAURENCE WALKER remain faithful in his marriage? 93% chance of occurrence.
Is LAURENCE WALKER a good father? 82% chance of occurrence.
The list goes on and on. Amit scrolls down quickly, scanning the results for anything anomalous. It’s all good; all stronger than Homme’s. The percentages break Laurence down to predicted emotional responses – and the voting public is more likely to believe that than the words of a man standing on a stage. This will all help back up what they already know about him.
Can LAURENCE WALKER overcome grief? 07% chance of occurrence.
Will LAURENCE WALKER ever commit drug abuse? 28% chance of occurrence.
Will LAURENCE WALKER ever commit sexual abuse? 01% chance of occurrence.
They are all results that work. The Grief one might hurt them, but Amit has an answer for that: nobody ever recovers from the death of a child. It would be worse if it said that he would, he spins, because that would suggest a lack of heart, of basic human empathy. He hears the words from speeches in his head, taking the data and turning it into a portrait of a man who will do his best to honor the memory of his dead son, but who is driven and dedicated to running his country first and foremost. And, if they have to play dirty, there’s the sexual abuse question. Homme had a 3.4% percent chance of committing sexual abuse, which his people spun as a number so small as to be insignificant. Laurence scored better. Amit doesn’t ever want to have to use that – not in the way that some of the dirty political games in the past might have done – but he knows that some of the blogs will run with it themselves. That’s the thing: it paints Homme in a worse light just by virtue of its existence. Nothing wrong with that.
Is LAURENCE WALKER likely to suffer from an emotional or mental breakdown? 51% chance of occurrence.
That’s harder, Amit thinks. That’s a tough one. It’s on the wrong side of the fence, irritatingly; this will mean countermeasures, therapists and counselors on call to make sure that nothing goes wrong. It’s fixable, that’s the thing; an arbitrary number based on his situation. Who wouldn’t suffer that risk? So they’ll address that. A strong Vice President will be the key. Somebody that the country feels comfortable with if they were forced to step up, even though nobody will ever say that. Not Homme, no matter what happens.
He scrolls through the rest of the document, to the section headed POLITICS, and he runs through the likely outcomes of Laurence’s voting habits. Who he will be likely to want as his political advisors, who he will want in key governmental roles, where he will side on certain issues. And, at this quick glance, the report syncs with the discussions that they’ve already had. Hundreds of answers booted out from thousands of questions, using Laurence’s past voting habits, the past results of votes, all to predict a path forwards. The report says that Laurence is liable to be fair to the oil companies, which is good – and slightly unexpected; Amit copies the line and pastes it into a new document, to use over the next few meetings. This is all ammunition. He keeps going, scrolling through page after page of the document, reading everything, trying to take it all in, and then he sees the final two questions, in their own boxed-out section at the very end of the file, printed larger, the answers to the very reasons that they got the survey done in the first place.
He doesn’t parse them the first time. He reads them, over and over.
If LAURENCE WALKER runs for the role of DEMOCRATIC PARTY NOMINEE: 00% chance of success.
If LAURENCE WALKER runs for the role of PRESIDENT OF UNITED STATES: 00% chance of success.
‘What the fuck?’ Amit says. The man next to him tuts at the language, and Amit mutters an apology. He shuts the file and reopens it, but the results are the same. He pulls his phone from his pocket and turns it on.
‘Hey,’ the man next to him says, ‘you can’t do that!’
‘It’s fine,’ Amit says.
‘We’re on a plane, asshole.’
Amit looks around and sees one of the cabin crew staring at them down the aisle, looking at what’s going on. He can’t have his phone confiscated, so he switches it off.
‘Happy now?’ he asks. The man rolls his eyes, smug at his win. Amit goes back to the laptop and opens the email. He hits reply and writes to them, as quickly as he can.
There’s a problem with the results issued. See final two questions. Please address IMMEDIATELY, or we will be forced to take legal action. He hits the screen’s keyboard so hard it stings the tips of his fingers.
‘What’s wrong?’ Laurence asks. Amit looks across at his boss who is sleepy-eyed, rubbing his face.
‘Nothing,’ Amit says. He thinks about telling him – no lies, no secrets, that’s how this works – but he knows that this will be corrected. When it is, this will be something to laugh about. He doesn’t know, right now, how Laurence will react to it. ‘Somebody is wrong on the Internet,’ Amit says. He can hear the shakiness in his own voice, the lie coming through. Laurence smiles.
‘There’s always somebody wrong on the Internet,’ he says. ‘I’m going to try and get another half hour of shut-eye.’
‘Do it.’ Amit shuts the laptop. ‘Me too.’ Both men shut their eyes, but Amit clutches his phone in his hands. As soon as they land, as soon as they can get to the hotel, he’ll be calling ClearVista; and he’ll be getting angry, speaking to somebody directly, sorting this out.
He shuts his eyes and he sees the final results, the numbers flashing behind his eyelids as if they’re afterimages of the sun.
Deanna drives down to the stretch of shops that calls itself the town center. She could walk this easily – their house is at the end of a long stretch that calls itself Main Street, but it has no actual competition for that title, with almost all of the town’s houses either sitting on it or just off it in neat little clusters – but she has a list of what needs doing, and one of the things involves getting the car checked out at the garage. And there’s the shopping from Henderson’s, for food and the new lock and simply walking around to clear her head. She likes living in this place, talking to the people, being a part of life here. They know Deanna, have done since she was a little girl. That sense of belonging is nice; the community feeling like a part of their lives. As they recovered – as they still recover – from Sean’s death, the support of the town has been incredible. They have all wanted Laurence to pick himself up and, in his parlance, brave the rain. They’re all going to vote for him, they say, whether they’re Republican or Democrat, saying that they’ll plant placards in their lawns and spread the word as much as they can. It’s that sort of town.
The garage is at the far end of the street, past everything else. Deanna pulls in, driving onto the forecourt, and Ann runs out. She’s a short woman, older than she looks, hair pulled back into a greasy net, and she perpetually leans, Deanna’s noticed. On everything, resting her hands. She leans on the hood of the Walkers’ SUV as Deanna gets out.
‘Deanna,’ she says, ‘good to see you.’ She adds a J to her pronunciation of the name that makes Deanna think of I Dream Of Jeannie; a classic sitcom vision of small-town America. ‘She playing up?’
‘Not quite,’ Deanna says. ‘There was a clunking coming from under the hood a few weeks back. Thought we should probably get it checked out.’
‘I’d say you should for sure. You want me to do it right now?’
‘Would you mind?’ Deanna asks. ‘I can go do the shopping then come back?’ Everything is phrased as a question, not wanting to assume or put anybody out. Ann smiles and nods, and takes the keys from Deanna.
�
�Give me a half hour,’ she says. Deanna thanks her and walks down the road towards Henderson’s: past the diner, past the church, past the gun store (which does the most trade here of anything, given how close they are to one of the North-East’s major hunting spots), past the liquor store. The owners and customers all stop and nod at her as she passes, all smiling. She goes into Henderson’s and Trent and Martha, co-owners, married for fifty years, as they’ll tell anybody whether they ask or not, and the closest thing to figureheads that the town has, come out and kiss her in greeting and tell her how happy they are to see her. They mean it, as well.
‘Where’s that husband of yours at today?’ Trent asks.
‘Texas,’ Deanna says.
‘Oil money?’
‘Oil money.’
‘That’s politics now,’ Martha says.
‘That’s always been politics,’ Trent counters.
‘As long as you’re all safe and sound, that’s all that matters,’ Martha replies. She goes to the coffee machine in the corner – they had it installed a few years ago, to offer takeout when they started stocking varieties of different coffee beans as well – and makes Deanna a drink that she didn’t even ask for. It’s the way that they do things here; the way that they always have. They know what you want sometimes before you do, even.
‘Not long now until he’ll know, I suppose?’
‘No,’ Deanna says. ‘Not long. A couple more months.’
‘So maybe this’ll all calm down after that.’
‘Maybe. Probably not, the way that Laurence tells it.’
‘Oh my word, we’ll be so sad to see you leave,’ Martha says. ‘I mean, of course you’ll come back for your vacations.’
Deanna thinks about the lake house, how that was the intention of owning it all along. Now, she doesn’t know if she can even go there. It feels wrong to her; as if it’s forever tainted. It will always be associated with Sean, with what happened. No getting past that, and the Hendersons realize that as well, if not too late. Trent and Martha shoot each other looks, not knowing whether to address the faux pas or not. It hangs in the air until Deanna breaks the tension. ‘That’s a long way away,’ Deanna says, meaning in terms of votes and time both.
‘I reckon this is a foregone conclusion,’ Trent says. ‘You can’t call these things, but as much as you can, I’d say that it’s a done deal.’ He nods at the television in the corner, behind the counter. There’s Laurence and the other potential nominees, the newscaster talking about their current vote split, the predicted results, and that 3% head start. ‘Makes it easier when the television’s saying he’s the man, I reckon.’
‘Maybe,’ Deanna says.
‘You got a list?’ Martha asks. Deanna holds it up and Martha snatches it and forces it into Trent’s hand. ‘He’ll do it. Nothing better to do. You can stay here and keep me company.’
‘Oh, no,’ Deanna says, but she knows how this goes. It’s always the same.
Trent looks at the list. ‘What do you need the chain for?’ he asks.
‘We had another intruder. They broke the old lock.’
‘Again? Somebody’s pushing their luck, you ask me. You know who it was?’
‘Laurence thinks it’s the press.’
Trent nods. ‘I’ll hate to see you leave Staunton, Deanna, you know that; but it’ll be better for you. A house with a bit more security, keep you safe.’
‘Maybe,’ Deanna says. He nods and looks at the list, picks up a basket and goes off around the shop. There’s a pain in his movements that Deanna hasn’t noticed before, a slight favoring of one leg over the other.
‘I feel terrible making him do this for me,’ Deanna says to Martha.
‘Oh, don’t, Martha replies. ‘He needs to work it or it’ll fall off.’ She smiles. They watch him go down the aisles, and they talk about the kids, and they talk about the town, the same conversations that they always have, just moved on in time, like updates to the same old information. When every item has been collected, Trent scans them at the till. The calorie counts and nutrition values tick up on the screen, ClearVista predicting the weight gain and exercise needed to counter the richer, fattier foods; and then he brings up the total before adjusting it. They always do a discount for Deanna.
By the time she gets back to the car it’s been turned around, now facing the road. Ann comes out of the dark of the garage, holding something in her hand. It’s shiny and golden, a stub of a thing. Deanna thinks that it could be a bullet for a second but then she gets closer and it’s a screw. No: a bolt.
‘Found this inside her,’ Ann says. ‘Must’ve come loose, but I’m damned if I can find from where.’
‘From the engine?’
‘It’s not a car part, best I can tell. Maybe it got kicked up there one day from the road. Happens, you’d be surprised.’
‘Okay,’ Deanna says. ‘How much do I owe you?’
‘I changed your oil, so just for that. Give me ten and we’re even.’ She leans again on the hood.
‘You sure?’
‘Ayuh.’
Deanna pulls a twenty out of her purse and hands it over.
‘Consider the rest a tip.’
‘Ha! Okay. We’re giving tips, let me give one to you as well. You need to sell this soon, I reckon.’ She puts her hand on the roof of the car. ‘It’s a few years old now, and you’re losing money on it. All the new models, the tech’s much better. That stuff ages a car more’n you’d imagine. You’ll still get a good price for this right now. I ran it for you, if you want to have a look: software says this has got years left in it yet, but that the book value’s gonna plummet.’
‘I think we’re okay,’ Deanna says.
‘Couple more years, it won’t be worth a half of what it’s worth now. Those algorithms aren’t exactly kind to guzzlers like this.’ She pronounces the word as if it’s three: aisle-go-rhythms. ‘They throw up much shorter lifecycles for them then you’ll actually get.’
‘I’ll talk to Laurence about it,’ Deanna says.
‘Especially before you get to DC. Last thing you need is a guzzler. You do a trade-in today, I’ll give you a heck of a deal. More’n it’s likely worth, because I can sell this thing right on. Won’t even knock any off for the nicks and dents you got in this thing. We take care of our own, you know.’
‘Thanks, Ann,’ Deanna says, ‘but another day.’ She gets in and starts the engine and backs out onto the road. Ann waves at her. She’s not looking in her mirrors, and there’s a thud; a crack. The car spins, the outside is a blur of lines and blocks of color, and then there’s another crack, louder this time, and she looks through the window and she screams, because there’s no other possible reaction. She sees a flash of black: another car, the front reared up into hers. This other car hit her, spinning the SUV, and then the front of hers hit it again. And now there’s steam and smoke coming from the hood, filling her vision.
‘The hell are you doing?’ a voice yells from the street. There’s a slam of a door and then hers opens. It’s a man, his features so generic to be almost recognizable, but not quite. Well dressed, well kept. ‘Get out. Jesus, get out of the car.’
‘Oh God,’ Deanna says. She unbuckles the safety belt and climbs down, into the street. She looks at the damage: both cars steaming from their hoods, both dented at the front, and hers at the back as well.
‘Stupid bitch,’ the man says, and then he finally looks at her face and his whole expression changes. He breaks eye contact almost as soon as he makes it, turns and walks to the rear doors of his car. Deanna watches him open them, grabbing papers from a bag; the car is a rental. There’s equipment lying across the back seat: an expensive camera; a collection of lenses; one of those hand-held HD cameras; a distance microphone; sheets and sheets of paper. ‘Give me your number. I’ll let the insurance people fix this. Nobody’s fault.’ Again, he doesn’t look at her. He writes his details down on a piece of paper as Ann runs over to Deanna.
‘You all right?’ she asks
.
‘Yes,’ Deanna says. ‘Shaken.’
‘Well, of course you are.’ She scowls at the man, even though there’s no way of her knowing who is to blame here, not really, and he hands the paper to Deanna, again without looking at her. He looks at Ann, though.
‘You reckon you can see if you can get me up and running? I have somewhere I have to be.’
‘I’ll do a diagnostic. Charge you for it, mind you.’ He nods, and Ann retreats to her garage.
‘I’m sorry,’ Deanna says.
‘Happens,’ he replies. He doesn’t look. He tries his best to hide his face from her. He’s a journalist, she thinks. He’s here to spy on her; or on Laurence. She finishes writing her own insurance details down and she holds the paper out; but not quite far enough. She wants him to take it. He glances at her.
‘You live around here?’ she asks.
‘No.’ He steps forward to take the information. She pulls it close to herself, out of his reach, and he looks at her, surprised. Looks right into her eyes.
‘You’re here to watch my family, is that right?’
He doesn’t answer.
‘You’re disgusting,’ she says, ‘a parasite.’
He snatches the paper from her hand, and he goes back to his car. Deanna waits while Ann uses the diagnostic tool on the engine. She declares it safe, merely overheated. He gets into the driver’s seat as soon as he can and starts the engine, and it chokes but then kicks in, and he pulls away, stopping only briefly as he makes his way back onto the road to wind down his window. He looks at Deanna.
‘Every parasite needs a host,’ he says. He drives off, and Ann comes and puts her hand on Deanna’s arm to soothe her, like maybe she needs the calming down, the influence of somebody who isn’t upset by this.
‘You all right?’ Ann asks.
‘No,’ Deanna says.
‘Sure you don’t want to talk about that trade-in now?’ Ann leads Deanna inside, sits her down and fetches her a glass of water.
