He sat beside her, looking at the ring she had given him, turning the red bevel so the inscription caught the light. This too will pass. ‘We never had a romance, do you remember? We just climbed into bed together and that was it. No fireworks.’
‘I remember plenty of fireworks.’
‘Maybe, later. But I like to remember the way it started—’ He’d better shut up. He was getting maudlin, going to ruin everything. ‘I want to give you something.’ He showed her the bi-loc. It was a clunky early version, but not the standard prototype. ‘This is a tricky kind of satellite phone. It works through my chip; it’s the one we used to hack our way out of the quarantine. I want you to have it, so you can always reach me.’
‘But you’re not leaving Europe.’
‘No, but… Telecoms go down, networks crash. I can’t lose my chip, and you won’t lose this. You don’t need to know anything technical, it’s like a normal bi-loc to use.’ He closed her hands over the handset. ‘Call me if you really need me. But be careful, we don’t want aggravation with the Internet Commisioners. Don’t tell anyone that you have it. Not even Sage. He, well, he’d be happier not knowing I’ve given you contraband to look after.’
‘Okay.’
She tucked the phone in her bag. They stood up, and hugged each other. The veil was very thin. He knew that he had only to say the word, one plea for mercy, and she would pity him. She would be his little cat again. But he had vowed to himself that he would not say that word, and he wasn’t going to break down now.
‘I’ll miss you very much,’ she whispered.
‘Me too,’ said Ax. ‘I’ll miss you. You’ll look after Elsie for me, won’t you?’
‘Yes. I’ll look after Elsie.’
Just before Ax was due to leave Fiorinda and Sage went down to Cornwall by train. Ax had things to do: he followed them in the Volvo the next morning. The visit to the cottage was a last-minute tour de force, but they’d all wanted it. It was November, and the floods were out. The Somerset Levels looked like melted tundra, the once and future landscape of mere and marsh and hilltop towns clearly discernable. He stopped at Wheddon Down in the rain to recharge, bought a sack of damp birch logs for the price of a cup of coffee and heard that the Tamar was threatening to break its banks: but when he reached the river it looked okay. He talked to the Flood Watch, one more patient conversation with the English, and crossed over the Guinevere Bridge one more time.
On Bodmin Moor he stopped the car. He wondered about Sage’s wolves, and thought he would get out and listen for them; but he didn’t. He wiped his eyes, and drove on.
He had been daunted, almost frightened, at the thought of this last night. But it was okay. They stacked Ax’s logs in the hearth to dry, they did the usual Tyller Pystri things; they talked about Ax’s trip. It seemed to Ax there was a painful silence behind every word they spoke, but if his lovers felt the same they made no sign. At midnight they banked the fire. Sage and Ax went out in the dark and rain to take a piss, a little ritual. They’d always liked pissing together. And so to bed.
He didn’t sleep. In the morning he packed the car. Fiorinda was driving back with him, to see him off. Sage was staying at the cottage. Ax couldn’t remember how this arrangement had been made, but it was settled. Separate goodbyes. He walked out to look at the Chy, and then went into the studio. Sage was sitting there staring into space. He jumped up when Ax came in. The words won’t come. The last chance to break the silence is here: and then it’s gone, and the words didn’t come. They hugged.
‘Stay off the smack, okay?’
Ax had been an occasional user, once, long ago. Sage the ex-junkie had hassled him into giving up.
‘Is that all you can think of to say?’
‘It was a joke. Uh, poor taste. I meant, look after yourself.’
Sage thought, if he’d been Ax he’d have an itemised list, covering every reckless thing Ax might think of doing, and he’d extract a promise for every one. Don’t take drugs from strangers. Don’t jump in pits with tigers. Don’t march on Moscow, don’t… Don’t take on the world, fuck’s sake, it’s bigger than you.
‘I just want you to come back safe.’
‘You…same.’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ said Sage.
Ax nearly said, forgetting he’d wanted separate goodbyes, at least you could have come to Dover But he didn’t. Fiorinda was waiting: she and Ax got into the car. Sage came down the track, loping beside them through the rain to open the gates; and this is the last moment. The little Chy roaring, the leaves on the oak trees tattered gold, Sage in the rear view mirror, bluest eyes, there, he’s gone.
The ferry (a massive old thing, rattling empty) left Dover at six in the evening after several hours’ delay. Fiorinda was long gone. He’d told her he didn’t want her to wait around. The rest of the Dacian expedition had settled in the saloon, getting stuck into some merry drinking. They were picking up a chartered flight to Bucharest in Paris. Ax stood by the rail in the stern, guitar-case over his shoulder, and watched the cold, grey water churning away.
I don’t blame you, brother, he thought. I do not blame you.
When had he realised he had to go? After that night at Tyller Pystri in July? Or before that, or later? It seemed to him now that he’d always known that he was living on borrowed time. You can’t give a guy like Sage limited access to the love of his life, and expect him to accept the idea: sit there like a dog with a biscuit on his nose. Not indefinitely. This is Aoxomoxoa, for fuck’s sake. And you can’t go on watching the girl you love tear herself to pieces… They would never have left me, they would have been loyal. He set his teeth at the thought of their loyalty, letting Ax tag along, all three of them knowing the real situation. Fuck that. I had to leave. No more nightmares now. She’ll be happy. She’ll get the sterilisation reversed, she’ll have his baby. Oh, God, have I really kissed her for the last time? Really never hold my darling again?
The pain in his heart—
He’d left his bag indoors, but he’d brought the jade axe out on deck. He took it from inside his coat. The Sweet Track Jade: dropped or laid as a sacrifice by the causewayed road from Taunton to Glastonbury, more than five thousand years ago. A slim, unpolished, leaf-shaped blade of blue-green stone, perfectly crafted, beautiful to hold. What a rare thing to own: my badge of office. One last good look. A swing from the shoulder. There, it’s gone. He didn’t see the splash. Will an arm clothed in white samite rise, to hand his sacrifice back to him, to restore his loss? Nah, no arm clothed in white samite. Nothing.
He watched the water for a while, fists in his pockets, the wind and rain whipping his hair, then he went back into the warm saloon. So that’s that.
SIX
One Of The Three
Ax was in Romania, and having a wild time of it from what they could make out (communcation wasn’t easy). George and Bill and Peter had come back to the van, in Travellers’ Meadow: they were hoping to get the boss to talk about a new album. On a cold Sunday morning Bill and George sat browsing sections of the Staybehind Clarion; drinking tea with condensed milk and whisky chasers. There was no fresh milk. The Rivermead Organic Dairy was having trouble with the wrong kind of grass. Peter lay on one of the astronaut couches, thinking about his latest kaleidoscope. Making kaleidoscopes was his secret vice.
Fiorinda walked in, barefoot and tousled, wearing an ancient blue cashmere sweater, the ravelled hem a couple of inches above her knees. Morning Fio, mm um. As she boiled a kettle and stretched for mugs the fine wool moved, beautifully revealing, over the slender, rounded body beneath—making you realise how very chaste she usually dresses. (Fiorinda in her party frock turns cartwheels on stage, all you get to see is more frills.) She left, giving them a sleepy smile. George drew a breath and quietly, slowly, exhaled.
‘He’d kill yer,’ said Bill, without looking up.
‘Not even in jest, Bill Trevor,’ said George sternly. ‘I’d rather top me’self than do anything to harm that little girl
. Nah… I just feel like her dad, jealous of the boyfriend. Not,’ he added, hurriedly, ‘her particular dad, mind you.’
‘It’ll wear off,’ Peter consoled them. ‘She’s going to be with him all the time now. You’ll get used to it.’
George and Bill looked at each other. Yes. It’s true. Peter Stannen is an alien lifeform. ‘I hope I die first,’ said Bill.
Fiorinda had to get back to London. Sage walked her to Reading station, went to the gym and spent some time at the Boat People’s Welfare Office, embroiled in Town vs Counterculture vs Refugees issues. When he escaped he headed for the North Bank, once a parade of classy riverside residences, now a wilderness frequented only by the kids of the campsite. He needed to think.
When the three of them were first lovers they used to play a game: what does it take for the most perfect, brilliant sex in the universe?
One big cat, one little cat, one animal-tamer
One stud, one babe, one chameleon
Two musicians and an artist (not sure I liked that one)
One white boy, one coloured boy, one yellow girl
One Muslim, one Methodist (lapsed), one Pagan (VERY lapsed).
How about this one? Two cyborgs and a witch.
The anti-science tendency had never kicked up about Ax’s chip, the Zen Self quest; or Sage and Fiorinda’s Rivermead gene-mods. If they’d thought about it, they knew they’d get nowhere. The public, the voters, just didn’t feel negative on those issues… It’s not harming the sacred holy environment, is it? So what’s the problem? If someone managed to unmask Fiorinda as a witch, that would be different. He didn’t know what would happen, but it would be bad. Ax, at the least, would look as if he’d been lying to the country for years, denying the reality of so-called psychic powers. And what if someone outed her while Ax was away, and she didn’t have the protection of Mr Dictator’s personal prestige?
We have to have that conversation, the three of us. The one we never had after Spitall’s farm, soon as he comes home. I’ll talk to her, she’ll see reason…
Ax’s absence was a reality check. Sage and Fiorinda’s secret love affair, which should never have begun, was over: not a word, but they both knew it. They loved him, they would stick by him, end of story. But now he was free of that madness, the problem of her magic emerged in sharp, scary relief. The weird feats he’d seen her perform. That night in July at Tyller Pystri, the things she’d said, unguarded and in the grip of her nightmare. Things he should have said to Ax, the morning after… There’s no such thing as ‘magic’, Ax. All the New-Agey miracles of your reign, fake as the next bleeding Madonna, far as I’m aware. But I know a way, outside chance, that power of that kind could be created, it’s in the Zen Self science, I’ve known about it for years. Trust me, I’m serious. If I’m right about what’s happening we’re under attack, and if Fiorinda is lying about it, to protect us, that’s because she’s afraid there’s nothing we can do—
Failed to tell him any of that. Sidetracked, and there was never a better time.
The situation in Bucharest sounded exhilarating. There was ice and snow. Packs of feral dogs roamed the streets, likewise feral packs of humans. The official CCM of the Danube Countries was at war with its factions, the Gaia-wants-us-to-commit-suicide party was at war with everyone, and oh yeah, the suits were also involved. Mr Dictator said it was hectic, and he didn’t know if he would be home for Christmas. He sounded energised and focused: Ax restored, Ax in his element.
Well, he’ll come back, and we’ll sort the problem, the way we always do.
But oh God, if there was a way to make her mine that wasn’t so tainted. He’s not the same person, I could take her from him now, I know I could. If I could be sure we’d ever forgive ourselves—
He was lurking in a tumbledown summerhouse, looking out on the ruins of someone’s tended lawns; the river glimpsed through branches, dark and full under a frail pall of mist. Two dead leaves drifted, floated, like dancers through the dim air. He watched them, his mind filling up with blank stillness; with sadness. There was a tiny sound, a little sigh. A small girl had materialised beside him: sitting there with her pale brown head bent and fists thrust in the pockets of a homespun woollen frock.
‘What’ you up to, Silver?’
‘Oh, nothing. I’m just thinking.’
No peace for the Minister. He sighed, and caught one of the dancing leaves. It reminded him of Fiorinda: sunburst yellow is really her colour, not green—
‘Okay, catechism for you. What tree’s this from?’
‘Er…beech. I mean oak. What were you thinking about?’
‘None ’er your business. Field maple. Oak are the long crinkly ones, remember? Now tell me why they fall off.’
‘Because the trees are decide-uous and they decide leaves in winter isn’t cost effective.’
‘Fair enough. Describe me the mechanism.’
Silver glowered. ‘It’s done by horseshoes. Why do you know all this stuff, Sage? You’re not a herbalist. Who told you?’
‘I dunno. I think my mum must have told me, a long, long time ago.’
‘How do you know it’s still true?’
‘Good point.’
The child stared at him. ‘What did your mum look like? Was she nice to you?’
Something rapped against the crumbling woodwork, barely missing Silver’s skull. Pearl was astride a branch, bare legs and feet dangling, wonderfully camouflaged by dirt, grinning like a juvenile post-human gargoyle.
‘I stalked you! I stalked you!’
‘Fuck off!’ yelled Silver. ‘You little creep. I found him, he’s mine.’
‘Right,’ said Sage, giving them the skull mask, with menaces. ‘That’s it. Go away, both of you. Get lost.’
The little girls scooted, in fear and trembling. A couple more years, he thought, and that won’t work any more. The over-thirties will be killed and eaten. A chime in his ear.
‘Sage?’
‘Hi, Fee. What’s wrong?’ Not very loverlike, but Fiorinda never calls just to hear the sound of your voice—
‘Sage, the axe is gone. The Sweet Track Jade. I suddenly noticed. It’s gone.’
‘Huh? William must have moved it.’
William was their cleaning person in Brixton.
‘I’ve asked him, and he says no. It’s not here. It’s gone.’
Her voice trembled with dreadful import, Fiorinda of the nightmares, ‘Okay. Don’t cry, baby, I’ll come up. I bet I can find it.’
‘I won’t be in. I’m going to see Gran and Fergal… Could you meet me there?’
Most of the house was shut up. Boarded windows stared from the gloom, over the tall laurel hedge. He found his way to the door of the basement, where Fiorinda’s gran and Fergal lived, in a cosy rat’s nest; stuffed with furniture from the empty rooms above. She let him in, and winced away from his kiss, as if malicious eyes were watching. In the old lady’s bed-sitting room, squeezed full of mahogany, Fergal was cooking supper, cabbage and bacon and potatoes, on an ancient gas stove; refreshing himself with draughts from a pint glass of red wine. Gran sat in bed, wrapped in shawls, swigging home-made elderberry liqueur and flirting shamelessly with her keeper.
Sage kept up his share of banter through the meal, and the old lady glowed: she loved male company. Fiorinda traced kitchen knife marks on the ruined tabletop with her fingertip; hardly spoke and ate nothing. Her gran seemed unconcerned. Fergal kept casting wistful, worried glances at Sage; but he didn’t comment.
They left after the first rubber of whist. Fiorinda closed the garden gate, switched on her torch, and shuddered. ‘I hate this place more and more. The moment I step inside, I feel as if someone’s shoving concrete down my throat. I don’t know how Fergal stands it.’
‘He seems to get on with your gran okay.’
‘Oh, he’s wonderful. I should come and see them more often, but I can’t.’
They went back to Brixton: the Sweet Track Jade could not be found. They couldn’t remem
ber when they’d last seen it. Neither of them had spent much time at the flat since Ax left. Sage tried to reassure her, but they were both unaccountably shaken. The Jade was a potent symbol, Ax’s most precious possession; after his beloved Les Paul (which of course had gone to Romania).
‘We can ask him where it is next time he calls.’
‘No we can’t,’ said Fiorinda. ‘No privacy.’
They couldn’t call Ax, he didn’t have a private number. He had to call them, and the calls from Romania came through to a landline phone in the Office at the San. They hadn’t been paying attention, they hadn’t realised how strange and lonely this was going to feel, because, because… They drank wine, smoked spliff, had incandescent sex: went to bed and had more. Later, Sage woke and found her sitting up, hands pressed to her forehead. Her skin, when he touched her, was cold and clammy with sweat.
‘Fiorinda?’
‘Oh God, shit. Shit, shit… I think I was my mother in that dream.’
She returned to herself. ‘It’s nothing, Sage. Just a stupid dream, caused by having to visit my gran. I don’t want to talk about it, let’s go back to sleep.’ She snuggled down, tugging him with her. ‘Mm, I love waking up in bed with you, you’re so big and warm. Is Ax asleep? I want to be in the middle.’
‘He’s in Bucharest, sweetheart.’
He knew she didn’t get back to sleep, and neither did he.
Constrained by the lack of privacy, they didn’t ask Ax about the Jade. It did not turn up, and suddenly they didn’t want to be together. Fiorinda stayed in London; Sage stayed in Reading. Working as Ax’s deputy, in his office downstairs at Brixton, Fiorinda studied briefing notes he’d left for her. He’d been very thorough. Contingency plans for everything. She looked around and chills went up her spine. This is like a dead person’s room. This room has been cleared.
The office hadn’t changed, Ax was always neat. The knowledge was in Fiorinda.
A week passed. On Saturday it was the Full Moon dance night at the Blue Lagoon; Fiorinda went down by train. The Staybehinds were settling into their fifth winter of principled squalor, unafraid. Things were getting tight but they wouldn’t starve, not yet. Fiorinda would help out from the drop-out hordes rations (date-expired cakes, apricot jam, tinned mackerel); and you can make alcohol out of practically anything. There’s plenty of calories in alcohol. It was a quiet night, no outsiders; only the staybehinds, Sage and the Heads and Fiorinda. She wore the red and gold ‘Elizabeth’ dress. They left early, around midnight. Fiorinda didn’t want to go back to the van, so they walked up to Rivermead Palace, to the official residence where she never resided. Hand in hand, harmonising softly, oh darling save the last dance for me…
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