“A dozen laces,” said The Old Man.
The Roommate looked at The Old Man oddly. The woman behind the counter did not. She retreated to her room and returned barely a second or two later holding a dozen laces in each hand. “White or black?” she asked.
“It’s not important,” said The Old Man.
The woman handed him his laces and he stuffed them into his pockets. As they walked back along the corridor, The Roommate stared at The Old Man. He had never seen anything like this before. Most people needed a pallet or a trolley at the very least. He himself needed a dozen hands to help carry his things back to his room. In all his time here, he had never seen a man walk away with nothing; nothing but a handful of laces. There was no denying it. The Old Man was parading on one side of mad or the other. He was either a raving lunatic, or a flaming genius.
“What are all these rooms?” asked The Old Man.
“Well, I can show you if you like. Everything is open and free. This room here is…”
He stared at the plaque on the door.
“I.V,” he said.
He looked as unsure as The Old Man, but his was wrapped in curious wonder.
“Last week there were games and the week before that, a wishing well. But I fell in.”
The Old Man turned the handle and peeked inside the room. It was large, with enough empty seats for at least a hundred guests. It sloped downwards from the door to a small stage at the far end. The room was dark. It was impossible to see anything except for a dim patch of light where an actor sat, reading out her lines.
“I hate the theatre,” said The Roommate. “And I don’t like books. It’s ok if you do, though. There’s a library, it’s just… nobody goes there either. There’s a movie room somewhere. I like movies. And there’s the best canteen ever. Do you like duck? The duck is great. The pasta is pretty good too, but don’t eat the mushrooms. They’ll give you the runs.”
The Old Man entered the room and walked slowly down the centre aisle, careful so that the floor wouldn’t creak beneath his shoes. He took a seat somewhere in the middle, close enough so that he could see the stage, but far enough so that he himself could not be seen. The Roommate, at the door, was shouting something. It was a whisper but it was loud and intruding. The Old Man ignored him, though, and sat his eyes upon the stage. There, in the midst of the dull light, a woman lit a cigarette and talked frankly of her adultery, and how it had driven her husband to such an unbearable state that she could no longer feel sorry for him. She talked about her lover too, and how she had had to bear the worst of it all; but she spoke of her lover’s traits – of her strength and her humility - as if they could not have come to fruition were it not for her own acts of cowardice and indiscretion. “I do not ask for an apology,” she declared, “and I do not ask for applause. I disapprove of either one.” She dragged on her cigarette. It was long and its fiery end crackled; and just like that, she was gone, lost in the dull smoky light.
The Old Man sat there for some time, staring at the empty stage with not a thought passing in his mind. “Is death as quiet as this?” he wondered.
And then the door barged open.
“I must have seen that stupid play a hundred times already.”
The Roommate came trampling down the aisle without any care whatsoever. And the sound of his ignorant feet echoed through the empty room. The floor squealed like a pig having its throat cut. “Did I mention I hate the theatre? Ughh. Can’t stand it. Listening to one person go on and on and on and on and…I’m hungry. Are you hungry?”
And then all those heavy feelings returned.
“I could do with some food.”
The Roommate skipped ahead while The Old Man followed along. His stomach grumbled, his body ached and pained, and after every step, he took a dozen breaths. This, though, was not a new condition. This was not something that he awoke to. This was merely how he got about.
“Get ready for the best food in the world.”
It was hard to hear the word food without feeling sick. For as long as he could remember, The Old Man ate merely for necessity and in no way for pleasure – no-one ever did. And then, when he saw the canteen, he almost dropped to his knees.
The smell was overpowering. Instantly, he thought of his mother. He couldn’t see her face, only the dress that she was wearing, and by that, he knew it was her. Her clothes always matched the curtains.
“Look at that spread,” he said.
The Roommate just smiled. He knew exactly what The Old Man was feeling.
“I told you so.”
The Old Man was lost for words. His every sense was being ravaged by the most delectable aromas. He felt weak and overpowered. He felt incapable of making a decision.
There was food that he had not seen in decades, and there were spices that could never be smuggled across the seas. It all looked untainted and unspoilt. And there was so much. Each table was full to brim with plates hanging precariously over the edge. There was enough food for this entire city, but there were only a handful of guests that were dining; and very minute or so, a plate was taken from the table and replaced with another that was fresher and hotter, and far more inviting. And the old plates with perfectly good food were scraped into black bags and incinerated.
“Pizza,” said The Roommate.
He was already on the other side of the room. The Old Man watched as The Roommate went flavour by flavour, taking a bite of each piece before throwing what was left into each of the bins provided. Sometimes he didn’t even swallow. He just chewed once or twice and then spat out the contents before snatching another piece and doing the same. He went table by table – eating and spitting, and eating and spitting some more. The Old Man looked disturbed, and it was maybe a minute or so before his hunger took over and he helped himself to a piece of fruit. By this stage, The Roommate had already defiled the ice-cream section and was snorting lines of caster sugar.
“Better than out there, isn’t it?” whispered The Roommate. “But don’t tell the Doc I said that.”
X
Out there, as The Roommate put it, was a different place indeed. From the foot of The Wellness Centre, all the way to the steps of City Hall, the mood was stark. Those with as much strength has they had bravado were either marching in protest of The Administration or, with just as much vehement, marching in praise and in iron-fisted defence of its democratic right to exist – clinging steadfast to its moderate ideals and looking past the great extent of its failings.
The mood was stark, though, and from both sides of the divide; irrespective of their impassioned songs or their coarse rebuttals. Behind every hoarse voice, and beneath every callous insult and mean spirited rhyme, there was a distinct current of fear. It wasn’t entirely obvious, but it was there, and it reeked of abandon.
Then there were those that did not march, and with them, there were those who simply could not. For whatever reason - be it hunger, illness, apathy, or fear - there were those who either stayed safely locked behind their doors, listening to the drama unfold on their radios, or there were those who had no homes – those who slept in piss-drenched alleys, on beds of old newspaper – who hid away from that which had very little to do with how they lived their lives; those lives which would be no better or worse no matter who was in charge.
Their mood was stark too. It was cold and damp, and it was hungry as all hell. And it was hopeless, crippled, and incapable of being fixed. Theirs was obvious. It wafted from their filthy pores, and it tangled in their knotted, dirty hair. It followed them around like a gaunt and scabby dog. You could smell it on their malodorous breath, and you could see it on whatever stains they left behind. You could feel it and you could hear it too; on both a mother’s kiss and in her promise that everything would be alright.
Their houses were as quiet as their passionless voices. There was always someone home – but you could never tell. Their plates were always empty and their saucepans were home to the worst kind of sickly, black mould. The water t
asted like diesel regardless of how long it was boiled, and it itched, were it ever to touch your skin. The seasons themselves were named after the illnesses they brought; and when it was cold, it was freezing; and when it was hot, most folks just lay there and died. Still, in light of this, in every home, and in every piss-drenched alley, there was not a single hint of discontent. They either had no fight, or they saw little reason for it. Maybe they’d given up, or maybe they just didn’t know any better.
The city was stark, but not nearly as much as the people who called it home.
“Are you nervous?”
“No, sir.”
Marching quietly through dark and winding alleys was The Leader, and by his side, a young lady, dressed from head to toe in black. Only her eyes gave a hint to her being a person, and not the other’s shadow. And they were like two exploding suns. Her stare alone was, on one hand, mesmerising and on the other, absolutely terrifying. But as there were only her eyes, there was nowhere else that one could look, except away; but even that, one could not. And also, she carried an M24, slung over her right shoulder.
“Are you scared?”
“No, sir.”
They continued to creep through the maze of alleyways.
“You will be,” said The Leader.
The Sniper didn’t respond. Her every step was as quiet and calculated as the last. She followed The Leader, barely grazing an inch of concern to how she felt. Maybe she didn’t believe him. Maybe she was terrified or if not that, then her stomach might have been silently twisting and turning, being ringed and riled by the burden of guilt. Or maybe she felt nothing because there was nothing to feel. Maybe she would be scared or set upon by nerves. Maybe she would fall in a crumpled heap, beset by the weight of her weapon or by the consequence of her will. Should she be nervous? Should she be scared? These are not things that she thought. These are things that she could have thought were she someone else or were she given a second to drop her resilient guard.
“Here,” said The Leader.
They stopped at the back door of an old flat. The Sniper kept watch for a moment or two while The Leader picked the lock and quietly slipped inside. The Family who owned the flat were marching in the centre of the city. It was a young couple. They had one child – a boy named Elliot. He was nine and wanted to be an astronomer. And they also had a small puppy that they had only recently adopted, its name was Flex. Their flat was small. There were only two rooms – a large bedroom and a small living room. The kitchen was decent sized, and it was the first point of entry.
The Leader walked in. He did so without any caution or any suspicion whatsoever. He walked in as if the place were his. On his way to the living room, he picked up a large bread knife and a plastic bag.
“Is that you, darlings?”
Slouched in an armchair, the couple’s grandmother muted the radio and put away her lucky pencil. Her crossword was only half-done, but she took the break to eat the rest of her buttered sandwich.
“You’re home early. I thought you’d be back much later.”
There was no response, only the light creak of slow tip-toeing behind her chair.
“Was there any kind of result? Did they get rid of that idiot?”
The Grandmother turned her focus to her sandwich. It didn’t matter if the bread was stale, or if the butter tasted like bleach; she devoured it – in nearly a single bite.
The whole while, The Sniper kept her stern watch. She crouched low by the back door and aimed her rifle towards the end of the alley where, on the adjacent street, scores of people walked side by side, chanting and holding hands; each billowing mouth passing obliviously through her crosshairs.
The flat was small and it was quaint. It was sufficient for a small family with very little other than their love for one another and their will to do the very best that they could. They had little to admire, and even less to steal. But this was not a robbery. And their flat had one thing that the others in this alley did not; vantage.
“They’re saying on the news that The Administrator could be ousted as soon as tonight. Honestly, I don’t care who’s in charge, just as long as they quit making a shambles of everything and start producing some real bloody food.”
She picked at the crumbs that had fallen on her lap.
“Have you gone to bed already?”
The house was as dark as it was quiet. The Leader barely cast a shadow.
“Well,” said The Grandmother, taking her lucky pencil. “Best not leave things unfinished.”
She flicked on the radio first. The volume was loud. It sounded like the two newsreaders were shouting at one another in the next room. Then she went back to biting on the end of her pencil and staring into nowhere – half listening to the radio, and half searching for that damn answer to sixteen-down.
The Leader listened for a moment as the two newsreaders cursed each other’s opinions, and made a specific case for their own. They argued insensibly and made clear differences in their ideals, even though they were both on the same divide. There was no mention, though, of any acts of terrorism or insurrection. There was no mention of any of the wellness centres and there was no mention of machine clad gunmen. Instead, the newsreaders bickered. They both wanted The Administrator gone, but they couldn’t agree on how that should be done; and where that line was between right and wrong.
“They need to just storm the place,” said one newsreader. “If you’re listening,” – which the entire city most certainly was – “and if you’re as tired as we are of the broken promises and all these damn half measures, then get your butts downtown right now. Get off your sofas and get out of your comfort zones. Get down to City Hall right now because change is happening. It’s not a matter of if but when. You can be a part of that change, or you can be that change. The choice is yours. Get down there right now and let your voice be heard, and let your opinion be felt. There are no sides in this debate. There are no Moderates and there are no Literals. We are all the same. We are all at the ass-end of the spectrum, and we all want the same thing. We all want change. Some of us want to be changed. We want to wake up and everything has moved about, and everything is working. While the rest of us want to be that change. We want to feel it in our bones, and perspire it from our pores. But we each want the same result. We all long for the same change. We argue only on how this change should come about. We all dream of the same secular, evidence-based society. And that does not make us different in any way. The Administration wants that difference to exist. They want to distract us and pit ourselves against one another so the fight is not at their feet. I beg and beseech you, each and every citizen of this once great city, come together, lay down your differences, open your hands and your hearts, and be that change.”
“I call bullshit,” said the other. “That weak-willed passive rhetoric is what got us into this mess in the first place. What we need is action. Come together, yes, we’re all in the same place. But hold fast to your ideals and recognise your differences, they are what define you; they’re what make you better than your neighbour. Do not open your hands. Clench them. Make an iron-fucking- fist. Break through the police line. Break down the doors of City Hall, and bring that corrupt bitch to justice. Six years is enough folks. What this administration couldn’t achieve in the first four, they’ve been shamelessly repeating for the past two, and they’ll keep doing so as long as you play into it. What kind of secularism is it that bankrupts its economy trying to find a reasonable purpose for religion – the very irrationality that fucked everything up in the first place? Let us be literal in every way. Let us be rid of confusion in our dialect. Let us rid our speech of metaphors and aphorisms and be direct, clear, and concise poets and debaters and lovers. Let us rewrite our language entirely, and let us burn down churches and then bury the ashes – not just change their purposes. A whore in any dress is still a whore. Kill the whore I say. Pull her apart brick by brick and then pulverise each brick into dust, and shoot that dust into the fucking sun. We cann
ot build a better world until we eradicate the poisoned ideas from our past. If that means shipping people who refuse to change their language or their culture, then so be it. You can call me racist, but religion is not a race. It is an illness. It is an infectious delusion. And yes it may be almost extinct now, but what about every other illness we made extinct and then took for bloody granted. Ebola, plague, measles, polio for fuck’s sake. Aids. I mean, if we leave the bloodied and stained towels of yesteryear just lying about, eventually it’s going to infect one, two or ten thousand people. We have to destroy the whole thing. This means those goddamn wellness centres. Tear them the fuck down. That money can be best spent a thousand other ways. And as for those lucky bastards being fawned over and treated with pristine exception...Fuck em. Throw them in the middle of the fucking desert with nothing but their hope to guide them. There are no half measures, I agree. There is no moderate approach. Sterilise them and throw them in the desert. What we need is someone with the balls to take action, right now. Sort out the right and wrong down the line, but right now….right now…”
The two newsreaders continued their tirade. As they did, The Leader gave his signal, and The Sniper slowly backed through the open door. Her eyes never strayed from her scope as she retreated out of the alley and into the tiny flat.
“House is clear. Take point.”
The Sniper made her way into the bedroom where a set of stairs took her to the roof. There she lay on the edge and looked out towards the centre of the city. With the naked eye, it was hard to distinguish one face from the other. But through her scope, this was not the case. And while The Leader made tea, The Sniper prepared her herself and her weapon.
London When it Rains Page 6
