London When it Rains

by C. Sean McGee

  “Any nightmares?”

  “Not last night. I had good dreams, sir – the colourful kind.”

  “Well go on, don’t keep me in suspense.”

  The Doctor didn’t at all look or even sound patronising. It was like he was genuinely interested. The Old Man watched The Doctor, while The Doctor watched The Roommate.

  “I dreamt I was unwrapping a birthday present, except it was not my birthday. There were a cake and some candles, and there were streamers and balloons that were taped and pinned to the ceiling and also walls. And the icing on the cake said ‘Happy Birthday’, and so did writing on the balloons. But it was not my birthday. I didn’t know any of people there. Maybe they know me, but they didn’t say. Maybe they just wanted to spy on what I was doing, or to see what I got. My sister was there, but she didn’t say a word. The dream was just me unwrapping the present. Unwrapping and unwrapping. I never got to end. Every time I removed one piece of coloured paper, always there would be another colour below. I thought that maybe, if I was careful to remove the coloured paper with no ripping, maybe I would get to the present.”

  “Did it work?”

  “No. It hurt my fingers less, but it was more frustrating. At end of the dream, I forgot about the present and just tried to guess what colour would come next.”

  “How did you do?”

  “It was hard because I only know the names of simple colours. I didn’t learn the rainbow so most of them were green and purple. And then I woke up on the blue paper, and then I ate the cheese.”

  “Wow,” said The Doctor, still sounding so damn genuine. “That’s amazing.”

  “It’s just a dream,” said The Roommate.

  “It is. And do you know what it means?” asked The Doctor, winking to The Old Man.

  “My dream?”

  “Yes. Do you know its significance? What does your dream mean? Why do you never get to the present? Why are you always stuck on blue? What does it mean?”

  He barely needed a second to think or respond.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? How can you be so sure?”

  The Doctor turned and smiled at The Old Man as if he were showing off his prized bitch.

  “It’s only a dream, Doctor. Dreams have no hidden meaning or purpose. Dreams have nothing to decipher, correct?”

  The Roommate looked certain, but it was still his nature to feel unsure and to question himself. He was only human after all, and he was an educated man at that. As an infant, he had always looked to his mother and father for each and every one of his giant conquests – from lifting and tilting his head, to his first steps, his first words, and pissing in his musical potty. And then as a child, answering every question that his teacher asked - knowing too well that one and one equalled two, but always needing and waiting for her tick of approval before there was cause for bragging. It was his nature then, to tag every statement and fact with just a dash of insecurity.

  “What do you think?” asked The Doctor assuring.

  The Roommate concentrated. He looked less unsure now.

  “Dreams are the result of my conscious mind rebooting.”

  The Doctor looked at The Old Man and patted his back.

  “You’re making remarkable and terrific progress. Soon I think we will have to say goodbye.”

  “I’m ready to move?”

  “It seems so.”

  “Up, down, or out?”

  “We’ll see. But definitely with that improvement in attitude, you definitely won’t be moving up.”

  The Roommate grinned manically.

  “We are all very proud of you and proud of the better person you have become. Soon, you will be as good, if not better, than all of the good secular citizens out there making for a better society right now.”

  The Roommate blushed. He couldn’t help it. He imagined himself being driven along a magnificent red carpet that stretched down Main Avenue while bucket loads of streamers and confetti were being thrown on his motorcade from windows and rooftops. He imagined hundreds of thousands of people, lined up behind barricades; cheering and wooing, and clapping and chanting his name. He imagined jet planes flying overhead, and some type of grand ceremony where he would be presented with a large medal and a golden sash. His dreaming, though, was cut short by The Doctor.

  “Now, I trust I can leave our new friend in your better hands.”

  “Oh, of course, Doctor.”

  “If you could explain how things work around here – what is expected and such – I would be very grateful. Take him to collect his belongings too. I’ll check in with you both after games this evening. I’d best be going, and you too have therapy very soon, so you’d best be getting ready I can see you two are going to get on splendidly.”

  He pushed The Old Man forwards so both guests stood awkwardly close to one another. The Old Man could feel every one of his muscles tightening up. He could feel all of his senses closing off. His body was reacting to close proximity.

  And The Roommate hugged him. He wrapped his arms around The Old Man and squeezed him as hard as he could. He squeezed the awkward fear out him and he didn’t stop until he squeezed the defensive and sexually oppressed bigot out of him too. He squeezed long and hard, ignoring each twist and turn and each push and shove. He hugged and squeezed until The Old Man gave up and hugged him back. It took a long time, and in the end, it may just have been exhaustion and old age that turned the favour.

  “Therapy’s after lunch,” said The Roommate letting go. “I like a tidy room but you can keep your side messy if you like. I haven’t had a roommate in a couple of weeks. It can be kind of dangerous, but I’m good at dying – I barely need anyone to watch over me. The nurses only come in because they have to, otherwise they probably wouldn’t. They all know I’m good at dying – everyone does. You heard the doc, I’m better enough to move soon. Maybe this move will be the last move. No, I know it will. This is my eleventh move. There’s not much left for me to give up.”

  “Move where? Give up what?”

  “We move out, eventually; when we are better enough to be like everyone else. But we have to move down first. I’m not sure how many levels or how many floors; but every time we get better we move, and when we move, we give up some of the things that made us comfortable or rich or whatever on this level. This is your first level?”

  “I don’t know what you mean?”

  “Did you come down or did you go up in the elevator?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well if you’ve never been anywhere else then this is your first level. And if it is, you’re lucky.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s hardly anything wrong with you. You’re almost already better, like me. So you’re lucky.”

  He looked as if he were waiting for some kind of affirmation; maybe a nod or a pat on the back –something to approve of or validate his belief. It was an awkward minute or two.

  “Are you hungry? There’s a snack machine.”

  “I have no money,” said The Old Man.

  “Well let’s get your belongings then. You have lots of money, we all do. Do you like clothes? You have fancy clothes too.”

  The Old Man stared at his brown loafers and khaki pants.

  “What’s wrong with what I have on?”

  “There’s blood on them for one; on the side there.”

  The Old Man tried to look but it was too much bother.

  “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

  “Is it yours?” asked The Roommate.

  He was on his knees picking dried clumps from The Old Man’s leg.

  “No, it never is.”

  The Old Man kicked his leg and The Roommate quickly scuttled off.

  “There’s nothing wrong with my pants. They’re fine.”

  “Everything can be better, even pants.”

  “Forget the pants. Tell me, what’s the deal here?”

  “This is the best place on Earth, but it’s no way near as good a
s out there.”

  As if he were leaning into a seashell, The Old Man could still hear - ever so faintly - the endless echo of screams and sirens. He could still hear wave after wave of bottle and rock, smashing into balls of fire, and shattering police shields and shop vitrines; and he could hear the protestant chants, from both sides of the divide.

  “Have you been outside? Have you seen the state of things?”

  “I’ve seen pictures,” said The Roommate, “and I have a star map.”

  “I’m not one for politics but I can tell you straight off the bat. It’s a lot quieter in here than it is out there. And a lot more well-off it seems.”

  He was staring around the room; at the horde of possessions that The Roommate kept on his shelf above his bed, and had stuffed into his drawers, tucked between his bed and sticky taped to the wall. There were pornographic magazines and crossword puzzles, and there were imported chocolates, beauty products, and rings – of every precious metal. There were keys for cars – many of whom The Old Man could not pronounce – that hung from a golden chain, and there was a file, in the centre of it all, that was full to brim of deeds to properties and companies, and half of it was made up of foreign bonds and promissory notes.

  “I had other things too,” said The Roommate, sounding sullen.

  The Old Man watched The Roommate stacking his magazines, affixing his table, and rolling back one corner of his bedsheet.

  “I don’t miss them, not one bit. I swear I don’t.”

  The Old Man could feel a fever in his blood. His hands shook, so much that he had to force them into his pockets just to keep them from ringing that poor man’s neck. And because of it, his heart thumped louder than The Roommate’s voice, who by now was declaring which of all his things was his most precious and dear.

  “You look sick,” said The Roommate. “Do you need something? Do you want something? If you need or want something, you only have to ask. You’ll always get what you need.”

  The Old Man closed his eyes and imagined that his mind was atop of the highest mountain on Earth. It was dark at this point. There was no sun, there was no moon, and there were no stars. There was, though, an incredible wind the blustered about, scattering every thought as it formed – decimating them; breaking each thought into a hundred billion fragments, and then each of those into a hundred billion more, and then blowing them all in different directions.

  The Old Man exhaled loud and heavy. With every breath, his shaking hands and thumping heart started to settle, and so too did his feverish blood. It was maybe a second or two before the feeling passed and he was able to open his eyes again.

  “I’m fine,” he said.

  “That’s great. Come on then, come with me.”

  The Roommate had an empty sack in his hands and a stupid grin on his face.

  “We’ll go get your things,” he said. He sounded like a giddy child. “I wonder what you’re gonna get. Oh my golly, I wonder what you’re gonna want. Getting things is the best!”

  As they walked along the corridor, The Old Man read the little plaques on each door. “How many people are here?” he asked.

  “Lots,” said The Roommate.

  He was skipping now.

  “As many come – as many goes,” he said.

  “How long have you been here?”

  “I can’t remember. It’s funny that, isn’t it? But I started with a lot of things and now I have not so much. Pretty soon I will have nothing at all, and then I’ll be ready to leave. But you heard the Doc, that’ll be real soon. They’ll send a terrific car to come and get me; like a limousine, but something where I can stand up and see all the people waving. They’ll be coming soon. You’ll see.”

  VIII

  The first of the armoured buses arrived at the very first of the wellness facilities. It was not a large centre – it housed maybe seventy guests – but in terms of relevance, it made sense to begin here.

  Outside, an entire street watched on as masked gunmen stormed the building. Some of them recorded what they were witnessing while others just smiled and swore they would never forget a thing. And it was not as testimony or evidence for any judge or jury; this was for their own record – as a part of their own personal history. This was not an act of espionage; these were not vigilantes. This was an act of celebration. It was one of joy and retribution, just as it was, one of relief and timely justice.

  The street merely huddled together in silent awe. Little was said; but then again, little needed to be. The looks on their faces said a great deal more. Any cheering that there was, went on inside. Even the children, who could barely stand a second inside their own skins, stood in still and silent wonder.

  And it was not out of fear. They did not assume that they too were at threat – that they would be loaded into the buses with bags over their faces; and their wrists and ankles bound like pigs for the spit. They did not see themselves as part of the equation. They did not see themselves as points of subtraction. Neither of them looked at the masked gunmen as anything other than what they were – liberators.

  There was no smashing of windows; there was no breaking of things. And for all the artillery they amassed, there were no explosions and there no gunfire. The whole affair played out as if were scripted or rehearsed.

  The gunmen entered without much fuss. After securing the facility and preparing the cells, they calmly entered the centre and began rounding up the guests where they were each taken, one by one, under the arm of three or four gunmen, and paraded before the onlookers before being loaded onto the buses and placed into poorly vented holding cells. Though crippled with fear and gasping beneath their black, cotton hoods, the guests looked shaken – that much was true - but neither looked like they had been armed in any way. It was visible, even on the children’s faces that those who lined up on the street outside the wellness centre had been expecting, or at the very least hoping, for a treatment more severe.

  The first bus left as the second was being filled. It went in one direction – under heavily armed guard - while each of the other three buses took a direction of their own. They each had, though, the one destination.

  A small team of gunmen stayed behind. Several were displaced throughout the facility, while a handful stood at the centre’s doors holding assault rifles and flash grenades; two of them were present with shields.

  One of the gunmen approached the onlookers.

  “If you would please like to line up in order of proximity.”

  Neither person had any idea of what to expect, but neither assumed the worst. And neither knew what the gunman meant, so in going with a first served mentality, the closest to the gunman assumed the start of the line.

  “Neighbouring households are first priority – first deserving. Line up in order of proximity. Opposing household first,” said the gunman, pointing to the house across the street, “followed by those households that shared walls with the perpetrators. The line of proximity will extend outwards from the centre. Those households furthest from the centre will take up the end of the line. Please do so in quick and orderly fashion.”

  The onlookers did as such, and they were taken into the facility one household at a time. Those with more hands were capable of carrying more things.

  “One item per person. Take what you will of the gold and treasure, but please, do not take your time. Take your items back to your households. They are your gifts for having had to endure such insult to your way of life – for having had to live so close to those whose modus operandi brought nothing but war and divide – hardship and ruin. These are not spoils. This is not plundering. We have all suffered, but you, who wake to suffering each morning and have to watch it being coddled and cared for until you sleep each evening, you have earned this. This is not an apology from them to you. This is a token of understanding from us who have not been burdened with one of these centres in the middle of their communities. This is from us to you. So please, take what you will but do not take your time, for the autho
rities will be here soon, and it will not be safe for you to be outside of your homes.”

  “Is this a war?”

  “No. This is not a war. We are not an army. We are you. We are all of us. We are this city’s people. This is not a war. This is democracy.”

  IX

  The Old Man and The Roommate stood outside a door labelled ‘Wait’.

  “Welcome to the floor, can I get your things?”

  The woman who greeted them was polite enough. There was something off about her, though. The Old Man couldn’t pick it at first. She didn’t cuss and she wasn’t rude, but there was something about her voice. She spoke as if her jaw was wired shut, spitting words through the cracks in her teeth. It was easy enough to understand her, but the sound of her voice was akin to a room full of strangers, sucking tiny bits of pork from between their teeth. The Old Man stared at her lips. They were red and moist. She looked as if she’d spent the entire day smothering them in lipstick, and he wondered if she had noticed the smear near the crack of her mouth. To him, it stood out. It was unsightly. It was cheap, careless, and little trampy.

  “Anything you want is yours,” she said.

  The woman laid a catalogue on the table and opened to its contents.

  “You can pick anything you want,” said The Roommate, already eyeing an upgrade to his air tickets. “Anything.”

  The Old Man flicked through page after page. It was true. Were there anything that he did want, it would surely be here. There was everything from houseware and haberdashery to bottles of century-old scotch and antique knives. There were cars, boats, and helicopters; and there were whales and lost indigenous tribes too. There were entire cities if that was what he wanted, and there were streets, avenues, museums and even schools – all of which he could have in his name, possession, or in his honour. There were even women; just as many as there were men. There were those with which he could laugh and love, and there were those with which he could quench his lust. There were those dressed in a ball gown and black tie, and there were those in nothing but their glistening cunts and stiffened cocks. There was everything that one could imagine and even more than one could not – from every city and from culture on Earth. And if there was anything at all that was not on the list, he could have that too; he just had to write it in the space provided.