‘No, don’t tell me,’ said Fiorinda, ‘that’s right, don’t tell me. Don’t trust me.’
The rock and roll princess had lost weight she could ill afford to lose in the last months. She still looked wonderful on stage, but this morning her sallow, rain-streaked face was haggard and her stubborn jaw oversized. Her eyes were sick-animal. She walked away. She had no business in the Zen Self tent. She was just moving about at random, because it eases the pain; and stealing a moment of truth. Got nothing to say to Olwen Devi, but at least don’t have to put a face on. Nothing to hide.
‘Wait—’
The guru had followed her, and laid a hand on her sleeve. Fiorinda looked at the ring on Olwen’s finger. Could Serendip do anything? Nah. She’s just a computer, dumb bundle of noughts and ones, however you dress it up.
‘What?’
‘Fiorinda, removal of an implant, even if it’s done crudely, need not be a disaster. Ax was supposed to be away for six weeks. That chip should have come out as soon as he got back, it was not in a good state. You may take it from me, if it hadn’t been removed, he would be in worse trouble by now.’
Fiorinda nodded, indifferent, and wandered off into the rain.
There was no question of a violent coup. The remains of the Coalition Cabinet stepped down of their own free will. A cross-party group, drawn mainly from the Green Second Chamber, took over; inviting special representatives from the CCM majority—Celtics, that is—to join them. It was the end of the limping hybrid system (said the advertising); the first genuinely Countercultural Government of England.
The Few were not surprised to find that Benny Preminder, their hateful Countercultural Liasion Secretary, was closely involved in these changes. They were dismayed, but they’d worked with a hostile government before. Keep up the free gigs: they’re a reassuring ritual. Look after the drop-out hordes. Protect the science base.
Fall back. Adjust. We don’t need to be centre stage to keep Ax’s vision alive.
Pray that nothing worse happens.
One night in November Rob Nelson woke up in a hotel, on the motorway somewhere outside Northampton. Felice was asleep beside him. Dora and Cherry in the living-room of the suite with the babies, Ferdelice and Mamba. Members of the Snake Eyes rhythm section snored gently on the sofas and the floor. Room space was tight: the place was half closed-down, much of it unfit for occupation. They’d been on stage until after midnight, playing in a dance venue in town that was icy-cold until the sweat started running, and now it was… He looked at his watch. Two a.m. Shit. He got up, feeling very angry and wishing he’d elected to sleep on the bus. No one comes hammering on my door at 2 a.m., waking my babies. That’s out of order! It was Doug Hutton standing there.
‘What are doing, banging on my door?’
‘I’m sorry, Rob,’ said the Few’s security chief. ‘I had to fetch you, not call you.’
‘What’s wrong with using a phone?’
‘I dunno. You’d better get dressed. I think it’s urgent.’
Rob followed Doug through spooky corridors to the barely lit, dilapidated lobby, his breath puffing ahead of him in the cold air. He was amazed to see Fiorinda by the desk in her old winter coat, her hair wrapped up in a scarf, her pale face bleak and sullen.
‘How did you get here?’ he gasped, as if she’d flown in from another planet.
‘Doug drove me. Come on.’
He felt wrong-footed. Fiorinda could still have that effect on him, shades of his old distrust for Ax’s arrogant rock-royalty new girlfriend. Outside there was a car waiting. He got into the back, thinking, there’s a reason for this, so I’m not going to shoot my mouth off, and was amazed again to find Dilip sitting there.
‘What’s going on?’
‘I don’t know,’ said the mixmaster. ‘Trouble of some kind. She’s not saying.’
They drove into the countryside, along very dark lanes. Fiorinda giving Doug directions, with a penlight and a road atlas. At last they pulled off.
‘You stay here, Doug,’ said Fiorinda. ‘You two, with me.’
There was a white-painted fence, and beyond it an unlit carpark. They were in the middle of nowhere. Trees loomed against a pallid, suffused sky. Fiorinda stood looking round, still telling them nothing.
‘I was nightwatchman,’ said Dilip quietly, ‘at the San. She arrived with Doug, said I had to come with her. Not another word. What d’you think’s going on?’
‘I don’t know.’
Nightwatchman meant Dilip’d been in charge at the Insanitude. The club was very quiet these days, Immix and fx were out of style. But often Celtics would turn up and make trouble, it took one of the Few to talk that down… They both looked at Fiorinda, her head bowed, shoulders hunched and her arms wrapped around herself. It crossed both of their minds that she’d finally flipped. She’d been behaving very strangely since Ax’s chip had come home; or longer. It had shocked everyone when they’d realised she was sleeping with Fergal. Not that they begrudged her any comfort she could find, although it was seriously offensive to the Islamics, but it was so unlikely—
‘Fio?’ said Dilip, cautiously, ‘are you okay?’
‘This is a Roman site,’ said Fiorinda, as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘Or pre-Roman. There’s the remains of a theatre, through the trees. That’s where the pit will be.’
Rob had noticed a display board, traces of ragged laminated surface dimly gleaming. So this was a venue for Celtic ritual. But why are we here? His skin crept. Can she possibly be part of it…? Then he saw the van, dark paintwork, no lights, parked in a corner. A jolt of adrenalin: something rose up from the ground there, bigger than a big dog, blackness visible on darkness.
Fiorinda grabbed his hand. Rob was instantly disarmed. ‘It’s okay, Fio—’
‘We can do this,’ she whispered, intensely, ‘we can win, we can all get safe home, but you have to trust me. Don’t either of you move until I tell you.’
She’d grabbed hold of Dilip too. She let go of them and walked towards the van. Something like black smoke moved to and fro: as if measuring the threat she posed, as if it was thinking of springing at her throat. Rob might have seen reddish eyes, the shine of bared teeth.
Dilip caught his breath. They both started forward.
She turned on them savagely. ‘Stay put. Do what you’re fucking TOLD!’
So they stayed put. Fiorinda walked slowly up to the dark-coloured van: and the black smoke thing was gone. The branches of the trees tossed and sighed, like restless, barely contained wild animals.
‘Okay,’ hissed Fiorinda, ‘we’re in. Come on. Help me.’
She gave Rob a tyre-iron that she had been hiding under her coat. He grasped it with relief. Things began to make sense, some kind of sense. He forced the doors. Muffled shapes shifted and made whimpering sounds inside the naked shell of metal. Fiorinda produced a torch and switched it on.
‘Shit,’ breathed Dilip. ‘It’s started again.’
‘I think it never stopped. I know what the sacrifice was for, now,’ she whispered. ‘I know what bringing on the dark means. Let’s get them free.’
Rob had a pocket-knife, and so did Dilip. While they were cutting the kids’ bonds she kept watch, leaving them the torch. The human sacrifice victims were two boys and two girls, white kids; in their mid-teens. They were skinny and draggle-haired, but clean as butcher’s meat and dressed in thin white linen tunics, tied at the waist with gold cord.
‘Why leave them dumped here?’ wondered Rob.
‘They weren’t left unattended,’ said Dilip.
When the gags came off the kids didn’t gasp or sob, not a sound.
‘Who did this to you?’ asked Rob, gently. ‘Who brought you here?’
But they were drugged, or scared catatonic. There was nothing in the van, not even a tarp to hide the terrible freight. They stripped off their coats and covered the children, one coat between two.
‘This country—’ muttered Rob. ‘Is there a light switch in here?’
‘I can’t see one. We should call the police. Unless Fio already has.’
They heard vehicles approaching. Rob got down to join Fio; Dilip stayed with the kids. A bigger van, still without lights, came into the carpark. It stopped. Dilip thought of the black-smoke creature, which Fiorinda had outfaced. In certain states of consciousness the internal and the external world can change places: the presence of horror can be visible. If this wasn’t the police, then it was trouble unthinkable, very bad trouble—
It was the police. Fiorinda had called them. They took over; the rockstars bowed out.
Later, they debriefed the incident in the Office. Fiorinda had had an anonymous tip-off. She’d called the police and rushed to the location herself, picking up Dilip and Rob on the way. She hadn’t told them what was going on because she’d been hoping it wasn’t true.
Sorry, Rob, sorry, Dilip. Didn’t mean to freak you out.
‘Jaysus fockin’ God!’ said Fergal. ‘An’ what if it’d been a fockin’ ambush, Fiorinda me love? Whut then? Was it yur business to go after these lost kids?’
‘They’re Ax’s friends,’ said Fiorinda. ‘That makes them my business.’
Fergal gave her a fond, gap-toothed grin. ‘Aye, well, that’s a fine broad definition, fair enough. But ye’d be better to stick to yer volunteer work, in future, me darling. T’wud be more fitting.’
There were things that Fiorinda’s explanation did not explain, but Dilip and Rob didn’t want to talk about it with Fergal around.
Nobody could talk to Fiorinda, because Fergal was always around. He was her official boyfriend, he was lording it over the London barmies; he was courted by the new government. The Reich was sidelined, but not Fergal Kearney. The Few didn’t care about their own loss of status, fuck’s sake, but the sight of Fergal taking the place of Ax and Sage was outrageous. How could Fiorinda let this happen? Allie finally cornered the elusive princess in the Office at the end of a working day.
‘Sorry, I’m in a hurry,’ said Fiorinda breezily. ‘I have a gig in Richmond.’
She was still doing lo-key solo spots, though Fergal didn’t like it.
This is where she rips my throat out, thought Allie. But it’s either now, or I ask her secretary for an appointment, and get told Miss Fiorinda’s very busy. My God.
‘You have to give me five minutes. I need to talk to you about Fergal.’
Fiorinda, poised for flight, seemed to change her mind, or relax her guard. ‘Oh do tell. I’m betraying Ax? Fuck it, what do you expect me to do? Turn celibate for the rest of my life? That may be your little bolthole, Allie. It’s not for me.’
‘I wasn’t going to say anything about—’
‘Hey, maybe you think I should committ suttee, only we’d have to burn me with just the implant and a bit of dirty lint, not having a dead body.’
‘NO!’ yelled Allie. ‘Knock it off, Fiorinda! That’s NOT what I think. I think my leader, my ONLY HOPE in a shit situation, has become so infatuated with a deceitful, destructive drink-sodden middle-aged geezer that her stupid choice of play-away fun is ONCE MORE going to rip the country apart—’
Oh no. Didn’t mean to say that. Didn’t mean to say any of that—
Fiorinda said nothing. Her face had gone tallow-pale, her mouth was set tight.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Allie. ‘I’m like a rat in a trap. Screaming pitch.’
‘Me too,’ said Fiorinda. ‘We’re all like it. It’s stress.’
‘About Sage. I didn’t mean to say—’
‘Shut up, Allie.’
Fiorinda sat down, took out her smokes tin, lit a spliff and handed it. ‘Okay, let’s talk about Fergal. I know he deceived us. I know he’s a Celtic sympathiser. But I’m going to keep things going, for Ax, because he’s not dead… and this is the way to do it. I don’t know if you ever noticed, but the Counterculture is very male-oriented.’
‘Ha!’
‘I need a consort. I need to keep hold of the Celtics. He fits the bill. I admit it’s not my greatest idea ever. But until I think of something better, you’ll have to trust me.’
‘It’s er, a marriage of convenience?’ said Allie. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’
The doors to the Office opened. Fiorinda’s secretary (recruited from the Celtic majority) looked in. ‘Oh, Aoife,’ said Fiorinda casually, ‘I was about to buzz you. I’ll be along to my room in a moment, thanks.’
The girl left. Allie stared at Fiorinda, round-eyed, open-mouthed.
‘I’m glad we’ve had this useful talk,’ said Fiorinda, meeting the stare. ‘Now spin this for me. Get the Few, and the staff, to accept what I’m doing—’
‘My God. Does she spy on you? How bad is this? Tell me, Fio.’
‘I’m getting my share of the deal, Allie. I’m fine.’
Allie nodded. ‘You have to talk to Mohammad,’ she said, abruptly. ‘You need him on board too, or the Islamics are going to explode over you and Fergal.’
‘You’re right, I should have done that. I’ll get to it.’
They were silent. ‘What a weird conversation,’ said Fiorinda at last. ‘Do you ever think about the way things used to be, Allie?’
‘Sometimes I get a kind of reverse déjà vu. It doesn’t seem real.’
‘We’ll never get back there.’
‘No,’ The spliff was finished. Unpremeditated, they gripped hands. Allie felt that she’d been dealing with a stranger for weeks, and this was Fiorinda again: but how changed. Like Fio with a deathly illness, hollowed out inside.
‘This is our life,’ she said, suppressing her shock and pity, ‘the only one we’ve got. I can’t stand what you’re doing to yourself. But I believe in the Rock and Roll Reich, and I’ve seen the bloodbath route… I’ll help you all I can.’
Allie talked to people, discriminating carefully. Fergal is a necessary evil, we need him because we have to work with the Celtics; Fiorinda isn’t blind to her lover’s faults, but she respects his differences and he respects hers. He gives us a chance to influence the new régime… Like dealing with President Pigsty; here we are again. Not everyone was satisfied, but it was an improvement. Fiorinda talked to Mohammad. She couldn’t tell from the blunt, yet reserved way he responded whether he understood too much or too little: but whatever he did, quietly, within the Islamic community, it worked. The violence died down. Islamic media went quiet about the ‘Celtic takeover’; although some of the comments about Ax’s faithless wife continued.
The Brixton flat was shut up. Fiorinda and Fergal used Fiorinda’s mother’s house as their pied à terre in London. They lived at Rivermead Palace. The Few had never been invited there: which had been one of the things they’d stupidly failed to understand. When Allie knew the truth, she and the Babes invited themselves: bringing Rob and Doug along to take Fergal out drinking. The babies had been left at home. The women settled round the fire with spliff and wine, on hippy beanbags; dismissing those terrible chairs.
‘I don’t see how anyone can think of God as a human being,’ mused Allie, ‘it’s too much, impossible. God must be an abstract. The colour purple, you know—’
‘You going to smoke that?’ said Cherry. ‘Or philosophise? Pass it over here.’
‘I don’t believe any of that shit,’ said Fiorinda. ‘Never did.’
She should have known the Few would cause her trouble, she should have fed them some plausible line, but now she was glad she hadn’t. Let Allie do it, thank God for Allie. The warmth of wine and cannabis flowed, loosening her grief. Surreptitiously, she wiped her eyes. Felice moved over and hugged her.
‘Hush, baby. You’re among friends. You can cry for those sweet guys tonight; we all miss them too.’
‘Did they really,’ wondered Dora, ‘serenade you with “Stonecold”?’
‘They really did,’ said Fiorinda, ‘They serenaded me with my own music, and then they took me to Tyller Pystri, where they got down on their bended knees and they proposed. It was the most absurd performance I ever h
eard of.’
They cackled and rolled their eyes. ‘You are a jammy bugger,’ said Cherry.
‘Both of them, what a jackpot. Hey, I’ll take Sage,’ offered Felice.
‘Yeah. We know,’ chorused her fellowBabes.
‘I’ll take Ax,’ decided Allie, judiciously. ‘He’s elegant.’
So here I am, reflected Fiorinda. Where I knew I’d end up from the moment the shit hit the fan. Left behind by the heroes, down among the women. Reduced to chattel status, and getting fucked by bastard who took over because I go with the territory. But I don’t care, I will keep the faith. I will bring them all safe home. She closed her eyes and lay with her head on Felice’s cushiony shoulder, thinking of how much she loved her prince, and how proud she was to have known him. She knew Ax was alive and he would come back. Sadly, she was afraid she wasn’t going to survive that long. But one moment at a time. Take it one moment at a time.
Rob had been apprehensive about going out with Fergal and Doug, but it was okay. The Irishman was the same as he’d always been (if you forget the part when he’d saved Ax’s life, and we trusted him). He does the talking. All you have to do is sit there and nod.
Fiorinda had been most afraid for the Heads. She knew she could trust Dilip and Rob to accept that she had a plan, and work with her. The Heads might decide it was their male-animal duty to die in Fiorinda’s defence, whether she liked it or not. She was wrong. George and Bill and Peter had weighed up the situation and resolved that they would do nothing to endanger their adopted princess. They would look at the larger picture, review the options there, and carry on trying to get the boss out of Caer Siddi. It was Chip Desmond and Kevin Verlaine who decided they weren’t going to take this anymore.
The Notting Hill flat had changed after Rox left. First they’d lived around the spaces where hir furniture and books had been, then spaces had encroached until they’d got rid of everything except the fx generators, the home entertainment, a gel-bed, and the pieces Roxane had found it inconvenient to move. They’d lived in an ever-changing virtual world, nothing real but the floor and walls, and been immensely pleased with themselves—until Fiorinda came round and said it felt like being in a tv studio, and where was her autocue? Which had deflated them slightly. Deflated wasn’t the word for it now.
Castles Made of Sand Page 33
