The wind raised wisps of the finer ash here and there, so that the green bits of land presently began to look as grey as the rest. He was surprised there was any loose ash left; the blast may not have hit this bit of land, but it had whipped up a wind that was not far short of a hurricane. Two of the tent’s guy-ropes had snapped, and Carson had been within a whisker of being carried off in a tangle of wildly flapping canvas to land who-knows-where.
Mister Fixit, he thought. The notion was more bitter than he had imagined anything could be. If he was going to fix anything now, the only way he’d do it would be with a magic wand. There would be no shops to raid, no abandoned limousines to be driven away, no queues of customers in a thriving black market - not this close to the bomb, anyway. If a sheltered area ended up looking like this, what would things be like downtown?
The smooth loop his mind had been travelling in unexpectedly bumped over something. Not this close to the bomb, he had told himself. Belfast was bound to be devastated, but the rest of the Province might not be. Ballymena might be just the place for a Mister Fixit, if he got there soon enough; and if not Ballymena, maybe Antrim, maybe Coleraine, maybe Derry... He stepped out of the tent, shaking off the memory of all he had lost like some worn-out coat. Life had to go on. Why was he sitting there half-catatonic when there were opportunities to be chased?
Larne, he thought suddenly. If there was going to be a relief effort, it would have to focus on Larne; it would take shiploads of stuff to set things to rights again, and the Belfast docks would be unusable; the town was close enough to Ground Zero to be useful, but far enough away to be safe... and if the ferries were packed with supplies instead of people, pallet-loads could be redirected to the Black Market without too much difficulty or too much danger of being caught.
With a purposeful air, Carson strode across the burnt grass to meet his new future. Opportunity knocks, he told himself again.
Then his eye fell on the animal tracks. The paw prints looked a lot bigger than those left by any dog.
*****
Mark Lindsay, who knew a little first aid, went along to the nearest hospital - in his case, Antrim - to volunteer his services, and immediately found himself press-ganged into riding shotgun with an ambulance driver. The first task he was given was loading medical supplies into the back. Soon the boxes were stacked so high there seemed to be no room for patients. He remarked on this.
“Very observant,” said the paramedic, and kept loading.
“But how are we supposed to bring anyone back?” said Mark.
“We’re not,” said the paramedic. “If we brought back everyone who was injured, this place would be overwhelmed. Too many of the roads must be impassable anyway, because of rubble and breakdowns and refugees and what have you; but because the hospital has its own slip road from the motorway...”
“...We have to set up a field hospital that’ll draw people away from here, so they can deal with the really serious stuff without being swamped.”
“Got it in one,” said the paramedic. “Come on, let’s go.”
They drove Southwards, hoping to meet and stall the columns of refugees that must shortly be about to converge on their area, but had only to travel for a short distance - perhaps a few miles - before the ideal spot presented itself. This close to Belfast, the Northbound side of the motorway was chockablock, and pedestrians were ambling along everywhere there was room to walk. The ambulance had to slow down to a walking pace; despite the whoops and howls of the siren, people simply would not get out of the way.
Then, ahead of them, someone in a sports car - a Porsche, Mark thought - crossed the central reservation and came tearing up the fast lane the wrong way. People could not get out of the way quickly enough; the inevitable happened. Mark saw the body of a young man sail through the air, flapping and spinning, then land amongst a knot of pedestrians, knocking them over like skittles. If it had not been so horrifying, he might have laughed; it was like something from a Wile E. Coyote cartoon.
The sports car came to a stop with its windscreen starred to the point of opacity, and the driver got out, looking more angry at being delayed than apologetic.
The Paramedic pulled the ambulance over. “Okay, son,” he told Mark. “Here we go into the fray. Stay close.”
They shoved their way through to where the injured pedestrian was. The Paramedic made the man as comfortable as he could, and dosed him with painkillers. “Is anybody with this fellow?” he called. No one responded; bystanders just gawped like dull-witted pupils that the teacher has asked a difficult question.
Nearby, another siren whooped as a Police car nosed its way through the crowd to where the accident had happened. The Porsche driver, a middle-aged, business-suited type, began blustering even before the Policemen had opened their doors to get out.
“Shall I go and fetch the stretcher?” asked Mark.
“No,” said the Paramedic. “There’s no point bringing him back. He’s not going to make it. He’d just be wasting space.”
Mark gaped at him, shocked.
“I thought you told me you’d had all this explained to you,” said the Paramedic. “We have to be selective. We can only treat people who have a reasonable prospect of making a full recovery; we can’t afford to throw away our medical resources. They’ll be gone before you know it.”
“Excuse me,” said a woman who’d just pushed her way to the front of the throng. She was trailing a small boy by the hand. “My son’s been hurt. He needs treatment. It’s his head, you see.”
“Let’s have a look,” said the Paramedic. The child had a pretty nasty gash across his forehead, but not so deep as to need stitches. “I think we can help. Let’s go over to the ambulance.”
Mark and his colleague had hardly risen to their feet before the mob was pressing in on them, every last one, it seemed, explaining in a shout about their ailments.
“Get back! Get back! Quiet!” cried the Paramedic. “Look, I can’t deal with everyone at once! If you want to be seen to, you’ll have to form an orderly queue. Please, is there anyone here who knows some basic first aid? We could do with an extra hand or two - stop shoving, you!”
For a minute it looked as if they might actually manage to cope; the ruck subsided, and they were able to get the back doors of the ambulance open.
Mark’s first patient was a tough-looking character who had a long cut on his forearm. Mark hunted around for antiseptic swabs until he was stopped by the Paramedic.
“Save those for the more serious cases. Water and a bandage will do for him.”
There were discontented grumblings. “But I need proper treatment,” said the tough fellow. “I’ve got my rights. I’m entitled to the use of those things.”
“I’m sorry, Sir,” said the Paramedic, “but you have to understand that our resources are very limited. If we use up stuff like that on a whole lot of wee cuts and bruises, there’ll be none left for the really urgent cases that -”
“My taxes have gone to pay for this!” the tough guy interrupted. “Get out of my way!” He grabbed Mark by the arm and threw him away from the ambulance. Uproar broke out behind him as everyone else realised that queueing in an orderly fashion would gain them nothing.
“Police!” shouted the Paramedic, but they were still in the middle of a bawling match with the Porsche driver. A flying fist broke the Paramedic’s nose; he went down gasping and finished up under the tailpipe.
The tough guy began flinging boxes out of the ambulance, provoking a scramble for each one, even though no-one had any idea what exactly was in them.
There was a gunshot as the Police finally twigged what was happening and fired into the air to get everyone’s attention; everyone froze, and in the pause one of the Policemen called out: “Get away from the ambulance now! I will shoot anyone who prevents the medical personnel from doing their job! You!” he added to the tough guy, “Get away from there now!”
The bruiser took two steps forward, then hesitated as another shot w
as fired. The Policeman with the unholstered gun toppled slowly, his eyes rolling, and when he hit the ground someone yelled: “Tiocfaidh ár là!”
Mark scrambled under the ambulance, his ears full of screaming and firing and shoes scuffling. Between the front wheels, he could see the body of the shot Policeman and the boots of the other one as he shuffled and dodged back and forth, obviously uncertain about where the other gunman was, or perhaps under the impression that there were two. Then another bullet ended it. The second Policeman fell with blood pouring from a chest wound; he turned his head, and for a second or two before he died, his eyes met Mark’s. What sort of moment is this for settling old scores? thought Mark, horrified.
Then someone screamed again: “Tiocfaidh ár là! Tiocfaidh ár là!”
Evidently they thought it was the perfect moment.
*****
“Look, son, don’t waste your time trying to describe her to me. Everybody’s looking for somebody, and I can’t be expected to keep track of them all, can I? If she’s alive and well, she’ll be doing the same as you are - filling in one of these.
“ - Yes, all of it. It doesn’t matter if your address isn’t there anymore, fill that bit in anyway.
“- When the lists are complete, all right? We can’t work miracles.
“Thank you. Now, move on to the next desk, and give them the names and addresses of people you know are definitely deceased.
“OK, next, please -”
*****
Marilyn Reeve grimaced and gasped as another contraction seized her, realising she had lost count yet again of the seconds between them. The intervals may have been getting shorter, but then again, it may just have been wishful thinking on her part; she was beginning to feel as if she had never known anything other than lying in this twilight state of continual fatigue, pain drawing her one way and sleep the other.
She called out her husband’s name, wondering why his hand was not in hers, and turned her head to look for him. She expected to see Eric step into her view as he paced the room, or perhaps to be watching her from the wicker chair in the corner; but she was alone.
Then she remembered: he had gone to fetch help. For probably the hundredth time, she tried to make herself believe it was for the best; he hadn’t been coping terribly well here. He didn’t even have the presence of mind to do simple things like mopping her brow, and couldn’t seem to take in any instruction she gave him.
Well; he was doing his best. He might not be a doctor, but he was a hero. He’d gone out with the gun, and was bringing back help by hook or by crook, he’d told her. This would be quite a story to tell the little one when he grew up.
An imaginary picture of the future which had come to be one of her favourites over the last year or so rose up before her mind: Eric and a three-year-old boy playing outside on the lawn under a friendly Summer sun, kicking a football back and forth and laughing at each other. Eric was going to be such a good daddy.
Marilyn cried out as another wave of pain hit her. She had forgotten to keep count again.
*****
Barry had no idea how long he knelt over the dead body. He came to his senses again when he heard another noise like the one which had disturbed them earlier: a handful of broken concrete finally defeating the inertia of friction and sliding off some tilted surface to land with thuds and a gravelly rattle on the ground.
Her jumped to his feet, looking for somewhere to hide. There were plenty of nooks and crannies nearby, but none of them looked safe enough; and amid his frantic casting about for a bolthole, or failing that, an excuse (it wasn’t me, I’ve just found her, she fell and hurt her neck, oh, is she dead? I hadn’t noticed), he found time for self-pity: why does it have to be me? Why? It’s not fair! She was asking for it!
He shuffled about for a few moments making abortive movements this way and that, then stopped and stared helplessly through the doorway, waiting to become a someone’s arrestee.
Part of the way up the lamp post standing half-skewed outside the shop on the other side of the road, something small flapped: the edge of a poster.
Something in his brain clicked into place. Of course, he thought. Of course. It was not only a way to get off the hook, but a means of making money, too. I’ll claim she was a Lemming. Her friend’s dead. No-one will be able to say any different.
*****
Carson Rodden was right about opportunity knocking, but not everyone understood that the opportunities presented by a situation like the current one were double-edged.
A handful of politicians from South of the border (when they had stopped biting their nails and their bowels had begun to return to normal functioning) saw opportunity knocking; a dream which had resided in the province of Cloud Cuckoo Land for decades suddenly landed in their open palms. All they had to do was grasp it.
“We just present it to them as a fait accompli,” said one. “They need help; we haven’t been touched by the bombs. We send in help from our emergency services, and of course they’ll have to be accompanied by our Army. The situation is very volatile up North. By the time it’s all over, we’ll be entrenched too deeply to move, and we’ll be the de facto government. The Brits won’t be able to budge us without a major effort, which is the last thing they can afford at this time.”
“They’ll probably be grateful to hand the Irish problem back to the Irish,” said another. “They’ve been hit very badly.”
A third laughed. “They probably have no idea just how badly. I can just picture them, hiding away in their bunkers - it could be months before they work up the courage to come out!”
A fourth man, who’d been on the telephone, slammed the receiver down bad-temperedly. “I can’t get through to the Taoseach,” he told the others.
They exchanged worried looks.
“If we wait, we’ll miss our chance,” said the first. “This could take up to a day to get rolling. I say we instruct the army to go ahead and deploy.”
Everyone nodded.
*****
The Bureaucrat looked up for a moment from the form he was checking (his last “customer” had filled it in with the bad grace which had become routine here lately, skipping more questions than she had answered, so that it was all but useless for official purposes) and his somebody-give-me-strength glance landed on a sullen-looking man in his twenties. Not another one, he thought.
It wasn’t his sullen expression that betrayed his errand to the Bureaucrat; very few of the people queuing at these desks felt as if they had anything much to smile about - they were there to help compile a list of the missing or deceased, after all. No; the clues were in the way the young man kept fidgeting and quickly looking around him as if expecting at any moment to be denounced for something - in his air of pent-up nervous energy that looked completely out of place in these queues of people who showed only listless despair or vacant shock. It’s true what they say, the Bureaucrat thought: guilty people run away even when no-one is chasing them. He had a fair idea of what was making this one feel guilty. Ten to one it was the posters again.
The Bureaucrat shoved a form across the desk, gesturing towards a pencil stub secured to the desktop with string and sellotape. “Mister -” he began. His tone made it a question.
“McCandless. Barry McCandless.”
“Mr McCandless, would you fill that in, please? I’ll be with you in a moment.”
The young man looked at the form blankly for a few moments, as if it was completely irrelevant to his purpose. “Look,” he said, “the reason I’m here -” He hesitated and glanced about him. There were people pressing closely on every side but immediately in front, where the Bureaucrat’s table was; being discreet seemed impossible.
The Bureaucrat frankly didn’t care about Barry’s discomfiture. He had his orders (more like strongly worded suggestions, actually), and since they apparently came from quite high up in the chain of command, he would do his job and obey them; but that didn’t mean he had to approve of them, or make things e
asy for the vile creatures who were eagerly leaping to (in some cases, literally) stab their neighbours in the back. “You’re here to report the decease of a certain person, I take it?” he said in a voice that caused nearby heads to turn. “A certain kind of person?”
Barry shuffled nervously; his face reddened. “Uh, yeah. A Lemming.”
“A Lemming,” said the Bureaucrat. “And how was this accomplished? You’ll have to put it all down, you know.”
“There’s supposed to be a reward,” said Barry, growing angry. “The posters said about a reward. Do I get it here? How much is it?”
“Well, I don’t have the money on me, son - I mean, Sir - and besides, we won’t know whether you’re eligible until we’ve had a chance to look at your case. We don’t know whether your victim was a Lemming, do we?”
“Are you calling me a liar?” demanded Barry.
“I’m not calling you anything,” said the Bureaucrat quickly. “I don’t know the first thing about you. I’ve never met you before in my life.” Then, in his former tone, he added: “The Government can’t be seen to sanction murder. We have to know the particulars of every case. That’s what the form is for, Sir. Go to one of those tables over there and bring it back to me when it’s filled in.”
Barry scooped the form off the Bureaucrat’s desk furiously, almost leaving nail gouges in the desktop, and stormed away, (somewhat inefficiently, it must be said, since he had to shove his way through a substantial crowd).
*****
Since the general atmosphere in the somewhat euphemistically-named relief centre was noisy in a bustling, businesslike way, the almost theatrical air of conspiracy between Barry McCandless and the man on the other side of the desk made them more readily noticed; so once Barry raised his voice angrily, bystanders had what amounted to a licence to be nosy.
Fanatics: Zero Tolerance Page 6
