She noticed that Fergal was watching Sage with intent, fascinated attention; then she realised why, and felt sick.
‘’Scuse me folks.’
The tent-kitchen was a crowded, shadowy cave: charcoals glowing, ATP slow-cookers hissing. Insanitude management, cooks-for-the-night, were serving out frumenty and junket, marzipan sculptures and a kind of fruit-porridge, on rows of big trays. ‘Not ready for you yet, Fiorinda!’ they shouted. ‘A few more minutes!’ The leaders of the rugrat pack were under a table, running a game of Blackjack. She’d known they’d be out here, getting warm and nicking treats.
‘Silver. No, not you, Pearl, Silver. I want you to do something for me.’
‘What is it?’ said Silver. ‘I’m busy… Hit me, banker.’
‘I want you to bring Sage to me.’
‘Oh, yay!’ Silver grabbed her takings, shot out of the casino and bounced to her feet. ‘What should I tell him?’
‘Don’t tell him, bring him. Lead him to me by the hand. I mean it. I’ll be in the cloakroom. Can you do that?’
The kid’s face fell at Fiorinda’s tone. She nodded, and darted off.
One end of the kitchen had been partitioned off for coats. Fiorinda dismissed the person who was minding them, and waited. It was very cold. ATP patches glowed dimly on the dark walls. A surplus of coats, no room for them on the racks, lay on a trestle table, like a heap of dead animals.
Silver appeared, leading Sage by the hand.
‘Thanks. You’re a good kid. You can go now.’
The skull mask turned towards her voice. ‘Hi, Fee. What’s the problem?’
He stood uncertain, towering in the dim light. She watched him wonder what the fuck to do next for a few moments, then let him off the hook.
‘Can you see anything?’
‘Er…no. Not really.’
‘Oh my God, Sage.’
‘Sssh, hey, it’s okay—’
He stepped forward and located the edge of the trestle table, the gestures of his masked hands so casual you wouldn’t have known anything was wrong: the perfect master of surviving on stage in altered states. From the table to the coat-minder’s chair. He collapsed there, carefully, and took off the mask. ‘It’s nothing. A little bleeding behind the retinas. I’ll be fine tomorrow, promise.’
No one had told her. Sage had not told her what he was doing: but she knew all about it. The fucking media folk couldn’t get enough of the Zen Self project now. The thrilling story of how Aoxomoxoa was killing himself with weird drugs, in the name of science, had equal billing with Ax in Amsterdam.
‘If that’s true,’ she said, trying to keep her voice under control, ‘why are you here? Doing the I’m-so-hard-I-can-saw-my-own-head-off? Why aren’t you lying in a darkened room with a cold compress over your eyes? Don’t tell me Olwen know you’re doing this, because I don’t believe it—’
He was wearing the blue-dyed ‘Mister Blue’ leathers, with a dark red shirt. He’d let his hair grow out since November, and someone had dressed it for him in yellow Celtic corn-rows (she imagined Zen Self groupies). Unshaven beard glinted silver-gilt along his jaw. Shambolic, rail-thin, oversized male megababe: the fucked-up glamorous rockstar, to perfection. Oh, but where’s my Sage, who would never fail me?
‘Uh, didn’t mean to piss you off. I just thought…should make an appearance.’
Three Heads came into the cloakroom, unmasked, worried and guilty; swiftly followed by Dilip, Chip and Verlaine: the whole weird science cabal.
‘You’re a fucking idiot,’ said George to the boss. ‘I’m very sorry, Fiorinda.’
‘You’d better take him home.’
Rob and Fergal, Felice and Allie appeared, pushing through the partition with a waft of kitchen warmth and noise. Felice was holding the baby in her quilted carrier. Roxane, Anne-Marie and Smelly Hugh were close behind them.
‘What’s going on?’ said Rob. ‘Is this a private bust-up, or can we all play?’
‘Nothing,’ said Sage, ‘is going on. I made a…hm. Did something I shouldn’t. I’m sorry, er, Fee. Really sorry. I’ll call you in the. In the—the—’
‘Morning,’ supplied Fiorinda, shaking in fury and terror. ‘Sage, what did I ever do to you? I don’t deserve to be this frightened!’
‘Nah, don’t be frightened… Little glitches. It happens. Fine tomorrow.’
‘Bastard. When did you last inject heroin?’
‘Huh? Um, I dunno. Ten, no, shit, eleven, no, fuck, nearly thirteen. I think, nearly thirteen years ago—’
‘Too good to last,’ said Fiorinda bitterly.
‘This is beyond a joke,’ said Rob. ‘We need you, Sage. Are you out of your mind? You have to lay off the Zen Self shit, at least until Ax gets back.’
Now the battle lines were drawn. It was a stupid venue for it, but this fight had been brewing for weeks, and once they’d started they couldn’t stop. Voices were raised, harsh things were said. The weird scientists quit the scene, taking Sage with them. The mundanes gathered around Fiorinda in silent dismay. The Few had never been divided before. They had been closer than brothers and sisters, closer than a rock and roll band, united against the world.
Fiorinda sat on the coat-minder’s chair. Felice handed the baby (still sleeping, the little angel) to Rob and put her arm round Fio’s shoulders.
‘Sweetheart, can you tell us what’s gone wrong between you two?’
Any of the scientists would have thought that was an irrelevant question. To everybody left in the cloakroom it was crystal clear that Sage, the ex-junkie, had taken to extreme behaviour because he’d bust up with Fiorinda.
‘No. I don’t want to talk about it. We’ll be all right when Ax comes home.’
‘We have to tell Ax,’ said Rob. ‘Right now. Enough is enough.’
‘I heard it’s murder trying to record the new album with him,’ said Dora. ‘That’s from the crew. God, if Heads crewpeople are telling tales, it must be bad—’
‘We don’t have to tell Ax anything,’ said Fiorinda. ‘He’s not on another planet. He knows about the Zen Self. What are you going to say? That Sage is doing weird drugs? For fuck’s sake… I’ll talk to Sage. He’ll tell me why he’s doing this. Sage wouldn’t do this to me for no reason.’
‘Yes he fucking would,’ snapped Allie. ‘He’s poison to you. He always was.’
Fiorinda didn’t react. She just shrugged, and shook her head.
David Sale came through from the kitchen and stood there in his suitish dinner jacket. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’
The Triumvirate had hated David Sale after of the Spitall’s Farm affair. But when you’ve hauled someone back from the brink, and covered up for him, and forgiven his sins: and you were being cynical and pragmatic, but the person believes you sincerely care about him, it turns out there’s the basis for a genuine relationship.
‘No,’ said Fiorinda, getting up. ‘Thanks David, but no. C’mon, folks. We’re on. We have to serve the mediaeval pudding course.’
Two days later Sage was at the Office, perfectly lucid, eyesight fine, doing early work on the Festival Season line-ups with a very frosty Allie Marlowe. Rob and Allie and the Babes still wanted to get Ax home at once, but Fiorinda said no. She said she’d talked to Sage, and he wouldn’t do anything so stupid again; and Ax would be home really soon, anyway.
She’d talked to Sage. He’d come to Brixton to try and explain. They’d stayed up all night: saying terrible things, renewing their hopeless vows, pleading with each other for some solution that didn’t exist. Snapshot abuse hadn’t been a big topic… They pulled themselves together, and did a video-postcard to send to Ax, something the censors wouldn’t deface. They made a big effort, because they were afraid he must have heard rumours. The video said we’re fine, we’re happy, the Rock and Roll Reich is doing great, don’t you worry about a thing. Ain’t misbehaving, saving it all… Love you.
At least Fiorinda wasn’t having nightmares anymore. They’d stopped.
&
nbsp; In the scanner lab, Olwen’s ace neuronaut lay on the recovery couch. She sat beside him, watching his still face. What do you see? she wondered. He never gave reports anymore… She’d dismissed the medical team, they wouldn’t be needed. Sage’s vital signs were fine, considering what he’d just put himself through. She could give him the calcium and potassium herself.
From the first trial, almost from the first time she’d set eyes on the tall young man in the eerie and beautiful mask, she had known that he would be her star. Visual acuity was part of it (he can see the colours of the stars). And his digital art. Even, paradoxically, the hippocampus damage caused by his long, traumatic childhood illness. He had outstripped the others, even Verlaine, long before his breakthrough over the dosage. He had taken wild risks, and she’d been happy to let him. They were two obsessives together, determined to go all the way.
Now she was afraid she’d been complicit in deliberate self-destruction.
He opened his eyes and gazed at the misty-green angled planes of the ceiling.
‘How do you feel?’
‘I’m good.’
‘Keep your head still.’
She checked his eyes. No bleeding this time. No problems on the screens. She unhooked him and sat down again, taking his crippled right hand in both her own. ‘Sage, I have to talk to you. You are getting ahead of my technology. You have to let me catch up. My scanner cannot model what’s happening in your brain now, when you are in phase. Serendip doesn’t have the capacity. You realise what that means? If you lose something when you are out-of-body, I won’t be able to reinstall. You could lose your sight. You could lose your motor control, your power of speech, your proprioception, permanently. It could happen tomorrow.’
‘I know,’ he said, turning his tranquil blue gaze towards her. ‘I understand. I’ve worked without a wire before. Used to do it all the time.’
‘I was willing to help you, for the quest: but don’t think you’re doing this for the Zen Self now. You’re doing it because you are very unhappy, and my darling, I can’t allow that. I won’t assist you to kill yourself.’
‘You’re wrong,’ said Sage. He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed and reached for his shirt. ‘It’s true, I’d sooner dance the night away with my wild best friends. But since I can’t do that, never no more…’ He grinned at her, very sweetly. ‘Some drugs you only take when you’re desperate. It doesn’t make the experience less amazing. I’m not suicidal, an’ if I was, I wouldn’t do it this way. I wouldn’t bring the Zen Self into disrepute. Trust me. I know what I’m doing.’
‘You have to slow down.’
‘I have to speed up.’
She went with him to the lab-exit. Two of her team-mates joined her, Zen Selfers in red and green, to watch him walk away. They’d all taken snapshot in their time; or that drug’s predecessors. They knew the allure. There comes a point when you are told, by some grim physical warning, that you have gone as far as you can go, and then all you can do is serve the ones who will venture on, always a little further. It was a fine day in very early spring, a clear sky: light without heat. Reading Arena, seen through the frame of the exit, had the intensity of the penumbra, the usual after-shock of an experiment. Every blade of grass distinct, every passing face a Rembrandt portrait.
‘Do you think he will kill himself?’ asked one of the Selfers.
‘No,’ said Olwen, ‘I don’t. But I think Ax has lost his Minister. And God knows I love that great boy, but for all of us, that may be the greater disaster.’
‘But Ax is coming home, isn’t he?’
Olwen touched the ring on her finger, the many-faceted golden-white stone that was the Zen Self’s mainframe computer. ‘Maybe.’
The Flood Countries Conference was over, at long last. Finally, a message came: Mr Preston would be flying into Cardiff with some Welsh mediafolk, no reception committee please, he would make his own way to London. This was very puzzling. They told themselves it was a Crisis Conditions fuck-up, crossed wires, and all would be explained when Ax reached England.
Not long now…
Sage sat by the river, where the bank was wide near the Caversham Bridge. His eyes were open, but what he saw was Fiorinda moving away from him, through a crowd of people in evening dress, her silver curls threaded with whimsical strands of copper red. Still walking like she’s got oilwells in her backyard, same as she did when she was fourteen years old. Ax was there too, in white tie and tails. He saw them meet, he saw Ax’s flashing smile, unchanged… But where is that cathedral-roofed hall, with the light-filled windows? Why such a wrenching pang of joy; and how much more of this can my heart stand? He imagined the lump of muscle full of hairline fractures, stress on stress. One day it will just shatter into bloody flinders—
George was sitting beside him (how long’s he been there?).
‘Hi, boss.’
‘Hi… George, what would you say was the prettiest blossom tree, this time of year?’
‘I reckon that would be the wild cherry.’
‘Yeah. I believe you’re right.’
Sage relapsed into silence. George considered the former giant toddler genius with very mixed emotions. You had to respect the way he was keeping going. Doing what he was doing, and still pulling his weight as Ax’s Minister: and all on no drugs whatever, except for the snap. Not a lot to eat, no proper sleep and no sex. Not that the celibacy was an issue, given the amount of snap the boss was pumping into himself… But none of the Heads could forgive the way Sage was treating Fiorinda. They would never have believed it of him.
Partly, George blamed Ax. You can’t fucking treat the boss like that, no matter what he did. Tell him that you love him, and then walk off and leave him. He’s the sweetest-natured bloke that ever breathed, but he’s not the most steady character. You have to know that, and you have to accept it.
Townies and Staybehinds strolled by, oars stroked the water. Silver and Pearl, with their little brother Ruby had got themselves a skiff and were flailing around in mid-stream, a danger to traffic. ‘Those Wing kids,’ said George. ‘They are a liability. I ought to warn you, by the way… Smelly told me he and AM are planning to ask you to take Silver off their hands.’
‘Hnh?’
‘Well, she’s got her periods. She’s coming up on eleven or twelve. They’re thinking, they couldn’t do much better than see her set up as junior wife to the Minister for Gigs. ’Long as Fiorinda approves, of course.’
‘What?’
Ha. That fetched him out of Neverland. But George’s satisfaction was shortlived, the boss looked so utterly horrified, so desolate.
‘This is it. This is the world Fiorinda saw, and we wouldn’t believe her.’
‘Don’t take on. It’s just hippy nonsense. I’m not proposin’ you accept the offer.’
‘Oh, fuck, George. This situation gets worse and worse. I want out of it.’
George sighed. He stood up and reached a hand to pull tall Sage to his feet. ‘Don’t we all. C’m on. Let’s get to London. And thank God Ax is back.’
Ax was in England, but nobody had yet spoken to him, not even his partners. Apparently he’d spent the night in Taunton (according to a garbled message from the Welsh media-folk with the plane), and he’d be at the Insanitude today. But he wasn’t answering his phone, and they hadn’t been able to get through to Bridge House, either. Allie had left several messages, to no avail. Fiorinda came to the Office straight from a Volunteer Initiative hospital shift. The room was empty except for the Few, who were standing together beside those schoolroom tables. ‘Don’t come too close,’ she said cheerfully, feeling so uncertain (oh, what will I say to him?). ‘I’m harmless, but I stink of disinfectant. We have a typhus outbreak on our hands, fucking hell.’
For a moment she saw Ax in the middle of the group of people, but he had changed. His body had thickened, shoulders bulked; his hair was cut short. Something odd about the way he was standing.
The man turned, and it was Jordan Preston
.
‘Where’s Ax?’ she said.
Sage shook his head.
‘He isn’t here,’ said Dilip.
‘He isn’t back,’ said Allie, tight-lipped. ‘We didn’t understand the messages.’
‘He’s gone to America,’ said Jordan. ‘He sent a scrambled video, with that Welsh crew. They delivered it to us: we’ve decrypted it. D’you want to see?’
No intro, straight to Ax on the screen. He was in a room that looked like an open-plan office—worn, grey, utilitarian carpet and ranks of windows—that had been turned into a dosshouse. He sat on the floor, smoking a cigarette, his guitar-case and a backpack beside him, a paper cup serving as an ashtray. He looked very like himself, which was a shock, somehow. His hair in sleek wings, the carnelian ring on his finger, eyes that smiled, but didn’t quite face the camera. Figures crossed in the background, out of focus. ‘Hi,’ said Ax. ‘I’ll make this short. I’ve been offered a meeting with the Internet Commissioners. It means I have to go to the States, undercover. I have to leave at once. I’m afraid I can’t pass this up. If we don’t shift that fucking quarantine soon, the breach could become permanent. I’m not sure when I’ll be back, depends how it goes. I’m glad everything’s okay. I know you’ll be fine, and, well, remember you’re volunteers, you’re always free to quit, and thanks for everything. Sorry about the cloak and dagger stuff.’
Someone off screen said, ‘Hey, Ax—’
He said, ‘Yeah, in a moment.
‘Sorry this is so rushed. I’ll be in touch when I can.’
Something in the recording triggered a wallpaper effect. Briefly, Ax’s face was in every cell of the fly-eye wall, smiling and turning away. Then he was gone.
Castles Made of Sand Page 24
