The Digital Dream

by Mike Cartlidge

  “Well, how do you reply to the allegations?”

  Garner straightens his tie and gives another winning smile. “Why do I have to reply? The people of this country can judge for themselves the difference between me and these tired old men. They don’t need well-trodden protestations of innocence. It’s time for the new men. And women, of course.”

  “I’m not sure I follow, Mr Garner.”

  Garner’s smile broadens. Still, he seems relaxed and in no hurry to answer. “Think about it. This is the age of mass-communication. Computers are everywhere. We’ve got satellites in the sky. Reporters in every far-flung corner of the globe, waiting to bring us the latest story wherever and whenever it breaks. The Internet connecting people around the world. But television brings it all together. Television is where people get their news, their entertainment, their opinions, their education even.

  “And in the television age, people trust the images they see on television more than anything else. You should know that, Mr Brazil.”

  Brazil is good: he hides his surprise this time and presses the attack.

  “Will you accept, then, that you have been underhanded in some of your actions during this campaign?”

  “Mr Brazil.” Garner’s hand smoothes his hair: his voice becomes almost condescending. “Who cares about that now? Your viewers? Do I have to remind you that I am now clearly ahead in the opinion polls, despite the fact that I have never issued a formal manifesto and that I have never once said how I will implement any of my policies?”

  ***

  In their various locations around the country, the members of the Dream Committee react to Garner’s words with varying expressions of surprise. Dennis and Wright both assume that there has been a malfunction somewhere and feel the first flush of concern. In the case of both men, this is quickly followed by fear that their expensively laid plans could go awry and, worse, that they themselves may stand exposed.

  Armstrong and Sayer, on the other hand, also share the same first thought: their instinctive suspicion is that Garner’s divergence from the script that they had expected is most likely due to a double-cross.

  Only David Sligo guesses at anything like the truth. He sits stunned in front of the computer terminal that suddenly seems to have developed a mind of its own and a readiness to ignore his instructions. He pounds the keyboard in his frustration, finally slamming it against the front of the processor and trying to push himself up from the chair. The tall black woman impedes him and is sent flying onto the carpet by a swinging right fist, pain compounding the considerable surprise she registered as she felt the first signs of a decrease in his normally impressive sexual performance.

  He reaches for the cell-phone.

  16

  At street level, the cop walks along the dirty sidewalk, wondering what the fuck’s going on. He remembers about the election debate. He wouldn’t have watched anyway. Politicians, he hates and despises them. All bastards and crooks. He’d expect the debate to be taking people off the streets but not, like, all of them. In the last twenty minutes, all the people he’s been watching seem to have vanished. Only sign of life is some figures off in the distance, moving fast. His cop’s instincts are aroused. Heavy shit in the sewer.

  He reaches the door of the office of the rundown hotel. An odd thing. The sign says closed but a window’s open. And it’s peak time for a garbage dump like this, when the whores are starting to work the streets and bring johns back for their quick tastes of paradise on earth. Why would the place be closed now? Probably means the proprietor has taken off to take a dump, Crieff thinks. Still... He tries the door handle. It’s locked. He climbs up onto the step and presses his face against the cracked glass.

  It’s gloomy inside. It’s a while before he can make anything out.

  When he sees the dark shape slumped forward on the desk, he figures the bastard is taking a nap. But there’s something about the way he’s leaning forward. He knocks gently on the glass. No reaction.

  He looks at the lock. Crap. He takes a piece of clear plastic from the pocket of his raincoat and slides it along the doorjamb. He presses the handle and the door swings open. He takes a step inside. He’s been around long enough to recognize the smell even before he sees the pool of blood on the desk.

  ***

  In the second floor “executive suite”, I pause from my work with the laptop as a sound reaches my ears from the corridor outside. It’s a moment before I place the buzzing of a mobile phone.

  Worried, I scramble to my feet and cross to the door. I press my ear against the chipped wood as Kathleen stares at me, puzzled.

  Voices outside, further down the hall. I open the door slightly but do not look out. I hear a murmur again. A whisper. Mention of money. A hundred grand. I think I recognize the voice. My face goes white and I gently push the door closed. Reaching up, I slide the latch across and engage the chain.

  “What?” asks Kathleen.

  I motion for her to keep quiet and walk briskly across the room. I pick up a chair and push it under the door handle. I cross the room again and slide the window open. I look down into the alley. To my relief, it seems deserted.

  “The fire escape,” I whisper. “It looks like it might collapse at any moment but we’ll have a better chance on it than if we stay here.”

  “No,” she says. She points at the computer. “Finish it first.”

  I can’t believe her. Her face is set.

  Outside, I hear footsteps approach the door. A hand knocks. Silently, I return to the laptop.

  ***

  Crieff leans over the blood-soaked body and checks the non-existent pulse as he uses his cell phone. He prays for the requested backup to arrive fast. He moves to the stairwell and stands with one foot on the first step, listening. He tries to work out what he should do. He’s supposed to protect members of the public. On the other hand, he’s too old to be a fuckin’ hero.

  Maybe he’d be better getting his sorry ass out into the street and waiting for the squad cars to arrive.

  Maybe he should check out the surrounding area.

  Yeah. Let the heroes perform the heroics. Much more sensible. He’s not going to get in the way of a shooting match.

  A sound comes to him from the second floor.

  17

  In the studio, Brazil is clearly taken aback. “Yes, I had meant to ask you about that...”

  “Not necessary, Mr Brazil. The nineteen-eighties saw a situation in which an actor became president of our beloved country. He may not have understood the words he was saying, but he said them beautifully. That’s what counts. In today’s world, people want style, not substance, in their political leaders.” Garner waves an elegant hand. “They don’t want to be bored with a collection of policy statements and promises that, firstly, they wouldn’t understand and, secondly, they wouldn’t believe if they did.

  “Nobody expects politicians to keep their promises: so I haven’t really made any. Nobody expects their presidents to be saints. Look at all the Clinton scandals. They rolled off him like water off a duck. Nobody cared as long as he and Hilary looked the part.

  “People are busy. They’ll vote for the person who makes the best impression on them, the person who inspires confidence that they’ll get on with the job without bothering them any more than necessary.”

  Brazil turns from the screen, making a desperate attempt to bring the debate back onto the lines he was expecting. “Mr President, your personal rating has slipped back to third place in the polls, despite a detailed set of policies aimed at taking this country into the future. Do you think that Mr Garner has a point?”

  “Regrettably, I think he has. But the whole thing is rather frightening, isn’t it?” His voice betrays his surprise at the way things are going. He turns to face the screen. “I mean, just what will you do if you gain power in this country, Mr Garner?”

  Garner smiles complacently for a moment. He leans back slightly, taking his time, but then there’s a change and his
expression seems to become vague, unfocused. He leans forward again. His eyes seem to freeze, his face become static.

  “I’m sorry,” he says at last. “What was the question again?”

  Brazil blinks. “The President asked what you will do if you gain power, Mr Garner.”

  “I think that I’ve already answered that question.”

  The answer obviously surprises the interviewer. He cannot understand why Garner’s usual confidence seems to have deserted him. “But you must have some policies in mind, Mr Garner?”

  “Well, of course I do,” says Garner, recovering expansively. “As I’ve said all along, we’re going to tighten up on crime. Hit the criminals where it hurts. We’re going to revitalize the economy and put our people back to work. We’ll get the people of this country pulling together towards common goals. There’ll be moves in the financial area. More deregulation in the financial markets, more loosening up generally in the world of commerce. You see, we have to let our businessmen get on with making money, don’t we? That’s the way the country will grow. And anyone who isn’t prepared to work, in fact anyone who doesn’t support us in our noble aims, will have their private parts surgically removed and made into little party savories.”

  The politician’s voice fades away and his face seems to freeze again, mouth half-open.

  Brazil blinks. He pauses uncharacteristically, lost for more words, clearly waiting for suggestions to come through the discrete earphone in his left ear. “Can you tell us how, for example, you’ll reduce the unemployment statistics?”

  “Statistics, Mr Brazil?” Garner comes back to life, waving a hand dismissively, smiling with patronizing ease. “We all know that there are lies, damned lies and statistics. So, the answer is simple. We’ll rig the statistics just as we have been doing throughout this campaign.”

  “Rig statistics, Mr Garner?”

  “Ah...” Garner’s eyes suddenly flash from side to side and he half-turns and looks behind him as if considering whether to run from the studio. The thought comes to Brazil that a Presidential candidate must be having a breakdown, before his eyes, on prime time television. People will be watching re-runs for decades, even centuries. He tries to remember the questions he has asked, wonders how much he can claim that it was his incisive probing that broke down the man’s composure. His mind computes the dollars on endless repeats. He can hardly believe his luck. He is about to make a brave attempt to re-enter the discussion when the giant television screen flickers again, the whole picture this time freezing.

  18

  The doorframe splinters but the table holds in position, its legs braced against the floor.

  Kathleen climbs through the window and balances precariously on the fire escape. I give the table another push and dash to join her.

  As I step through onto the rusty iron catwalk, there’s another crash from the room behind us. I push Kathleen forward, down the first of the steps. I glance back into the room as I start to follow. A horribly familiar figure, shaggy hair and tattered jacket, starts to clamber over the dislodged table, stumbles and nearly falls, dropping an evil-looking knife, recovering balance and grabbing up the weapon.

  We start down the iron steps, feeling the frail structure shake beneath us. Feeling the vibration of movement behind us.

  In the distance, we hear the first shriek of a siren. The sound seems to galvanize our pursuers and we hear feet clattering on the steps as we drop to the floor of the deserted alley. Kathleen stumbles and I catch her, pulling her upright and pushing her across the dirty concrete. Her arms flail as she tries to keep her balance. We dash towards the street. I risk a glance over my shoulder. The first of the men chasing us—Sammy—is jumping down to the ground, another about to join him. Both men are clutching knives, the weak sunlight gleaming off the long blades.

  Out in the street, a dowdy-looking man in a grubby raincoat starts to move towards us but he’s too slow to intercept us.

  Kathleen is ahead of me. She reaches the street and turns, heading away from the hotel at a sprint. I hear the siren again, closer this time. I pray that it’s the police and not a passing ambulance, and that they’ll be coming this way. I realize that Kathleen is heading towards the sound of the siren. I put my head down and charge after her, hoping that she can run fast enough to keep in front of me. Ten yards on, we pass the boarded-up windows of a closed shop and two bikers emerge from the alley behind us, slowing slightly as they get their bearings and Sammy catches up to them, then turning to chase after us. The dowdy man in the raincoat is breaking into a run now, about thirty yards away from our pursuers. He’s tugging at something under his raincoat. There’s something familiar about him but, in my near panic, I can’t place him. Some crazy passer-by. All I can hope is that this guy will at least distract the bastards behind us and gain us a moment of time.

  We pass an old lady pulling a shopping cart who stands aside in shock. The pounding footsteps seem to be closing. Again, as I did in the park, the previous week, I tense for the feeling of the blade in my back, wonder if I should stop to fight, know I would stand no chance against three of them, wonder again if I should stop and sacrifice myself to allow Kathleen to get clear.

  We reach the end of the street. Behind us, a boot sends the old woman’s shopping cart flying and she screeches indignation and abuse. Kathleen does not hesitate but veers to her right, into another street. The siren is loud now. There is the whine of a second, just below it. I look around frantically but can see no sign of police cruisers.

  As Kathleen rounds the corner, her foot clips the side of a garbage can and she goes down, sprawling to the sidewalk. The garbage can, newly emptied, spins to the ground and lies on its side, the tin lid clattering into the gutter.

  Kathleen pushes herself onto her hands and knees. In desperation, I stop, almost falling over her. Gasping for air, I turn, my body between her and the bikers behind us. The leader, Sammy, stops in front of me, wary, I guess, since the episode in the park. The other two step into the road, breathing hard, fanning out to either side. One of them pulls a gun from the back of his jeans but Sammy waves him back, gesturing with the knife, his meaning clear, the sadism and blood-lust in his eyes. The other biker’s got a knife, too, extended in front of him. The tips of the blades point toward my eyes.

  I stand over Kathleen as she lifts herself and climbs upright. Run, I scream at her. My eyes remain on our assailants. Sammy flicks the knife from his left hand to his right and waves it. He looks down at Kathleen for a moment, then back at me. His lips move, some obscenity, He Hhhhhhhhhface splits in a grin, left hand rises and signals to his companions, spread out, but leave this one to me. His eyes are wide with the anticipation of scores to be settled. He begins to close.

  There is a shout and I see the rain-coated man puffing and gasping for air as he runs up behind us. I recognize the face now. The detective. Crieff. He’s trying to shout something between gasps of air. Nothing coherent is coming out.

  Sammy turns towards the cop. Crieff stops a few feet away from him. His hand emerges from under his coat. He’s holding a snub-nosed revolver but his hand is shaking with the exertion of running. I sense Sammy’s sneer. He gestures towards the biker to my left, who moves towards Crieff, blade extended. Crieff moves back a step, hands gripping the gun and bringing it to bear on the man nearest him.

  There is a screech of tires at the far end of the street. The sirens wail, loud now. Stinging lights flash. I keep my eyes on Sammy, somehow aware of the black-and-whites accelerating towards us, Kathleen standing beside me, disobeying my repeated, gasped instruction to run.

  The biker still standing in the road glances at the cruisers and starts to move, calling to Sammy. Sammy tenses, eyes still wide. Get them, he screams. The detective shifts position, the gun moving between the bikers. He’s trying to speak again, telling them to freeze. The man nearest him lunges with the knife, misses, follows through with a kick that connects on the side of Crieff’s leg. The gun fires but the shot goes w
ide and the cop crumbles to the sidewalk. He drops the gun and scrambles to pick it up. The biker nearest him kicks it away from him.

  Sammy’s eyes are on my face. I try to remember the commands of my tae kwon do instructor. I tense as Sammy lunges, pulling back to let the blade whistle by me, trying for a high kick, jumping from my right foot, the left knee rising then dropping as the other leg comes up in a scissors kick. My foot glances off Sammy’s elbow, not hard enough to do any damage but enough to make the bastard pause and jerk back. I’m aware of the others closing in on me, get ready to kick sideways, desperate to protect Kathleen. I will her to run but she’s standing her ground. Out of the corner of my eye I’m aware of her bending, clutching the handle of the garbage can. Then, to my amazement, she’s rising, bringing the empty can up, raising it over her head and hurling it forwards at the biker in the road. It strikes him in the chest and he staggers back.

  The squad cars have stopped now, twenty feet from us, red-blue-white lights spinning. Cops tumble from both cars. Two bikers pull back, faces turned towards the dark uniforms. They break and run, calling to Sammy.

  My eyes remain on the vicious narrow face. So young, so old with all the venom of the age. He holds his ground. Death and hatred in his eyes. He ignores the rushing policemen from the car. He’s crazed. Holding his free hand in front of him, the knife hand held back, he closes. I kick again and my foot hits his arm, pushing it back, then the knife flashes forward and I push my stomach back so that my body is shaped like a sideways U. The blade passes close enough to slice through the material of my shirt.

  Crieff is on his feet now. He reaches a hand towards Sammy. Almost casually, the biker slices backwards with the knife. It connects with the side of Crieff’s head, drawing a line of blood across his face. His eyes wide, the detective stumbles and falls. Everything seems to be in slow motion, like a space ballet.