Elias executed the final sardine and looked for something to wipe the oil from his fingers and lips. Seeing nothing suitable, he settled for wiggling them in the sink under hot water before waving them back and forth in the air in a vague attempt at air-drying.
“Elias...”
“Mary! Come in! Don’t be alarmed, I’m not planning to take off and fly!” Elias pulled his arms in as Mary rolled into her routine of putting the kettle on, arranging the tea pot and mugs on the tray, and setting out a small plate of chocolate biscuits.
“Can’t sleep either?” Elias was admiring two sturdy hips and an attractively substantial bottom shaping what was obviously a man’s bathrobe into something distinctly more feminine. “Death take me, Mary, but you’ve got a right beautiful arse!”
“Death will take you and my arse, as you call it, won’t have a thing to do with it.”
They smiled at each other while they listened to the ever-increasing pitch of the kettle whistling to the boil. There was comfort in the simplicity of this long-established pattern for both of them.
A few minutes later, Elias led the way into the little box around the corner from the kitchen which passed as the living room as Mary, laden with the tray, followed. They sat together, side-by-side on the couch, though to all the world it had much the same effect as a massive boulder dwarfing a pebble for Mary, shapely and sturdy at forty-seven years of age, was not tall and Elias’ size had always been truly imposing since she had known him.
Perhaps his obesity was partially responsible for her fascination with Elias, but she also understood that she was seated next to a man whom she truly believed was a good man. Mary sometimes thought that she might marry Elias. Indeed, she often prayed for guidance on the subject, a matter which she kept hidden in her heart. Mary knew what happened to recidivist believers in the Malls. It was a reality which produced strong feelings of uneasiness and an acid taste in her mouth. It was much safer, calmer, and just as interesting to be Elias’ neighbour and occasional lover. She doubted that she could keep her religious beliefs secret if she married him.
“Having one of your nights, Elias?” Mary poured a thin stream of tea into two mugs, one distinctly larger than the other. No fine china teacups for Elias, who could not get even his smallest digit into the handle. The only time she had attempted to employ such an exquisite item, Elias had pontificated that it, however fine, could hold no more than a swallow of tea and was therefore useless in its primary function. He had proceeded to explore the problem further; such objects were demeaning in their pathetic uselessness and were also sexual, in that there was the ritualistic pointing-of-the-extended-little-finger and everyone knew what the hell that meant!
Mary had bristled of course and recited a long list of names which included Limosges, Derby, Spode, Royal Doulton and a dozen other manufacturers who no longer existed but whose wares fell under the umbrella of Mary’s domain. She toiled, for her pains, as the Supervisor of Domestic Supplies (Dry) at Yorkdown Mall where, amid the organization of basic necessities, fine bone china was an example of human ingenuity which Mary alone seemed to appreciate. The fact that Elias was hugely indifferent to her sensitivities in this matter was a source of moderate discomfort but which, in the end, did nothing to change Mary’s feelings for him.
Elias swallowed several quick gulps of tea from his oversized mug and presented it for a refill. Aware of just how hot it was, Mary marvelled at Elias’ ability to ignore that fact altogether. She poured once again.
“I would like a cat, Elias,” said Mary, as she set the teapot on its trivet and popped a little quilted cottage teacosy on top. “A ginger cat with white paws. Or a little grey tabby cat.”
“Cats don’t exist. You might as well ask for a dog or a lemur.”
“I know that. All the same, I would like a cat. I am expressing a wish on my part to have a cat.”
“Wish all you like, Mary, but wishes can’t always come true. Cats were demented animals born with dual purpose and intent, in that they were both good and evil.”
“Hardly,” smiled Mary, “a cat is a cat is a cat, not some sort of feline demigod of polarized persuasions. In any event, you did not take note of the fact that I was merely stating my desire to have a cat without necessarily committing myself to the act of going out to look for one.”
“They’re all dead anyway,” said Elias abruptly. Then, softening, added, “Do you not really want one then, Mary?”
“I would like one but I do not want one.”
“I see.” Elias finished his second mug of tea, one drawn in more slowly this time allowing as the first was solely to prime the pump. Elias expunged a long sigh. Accepting a third pouring, he leaned back into the groaning couch as far as he dared and settled himself. Mary recognized this as a necessary preliminary to Elias’ unburdening of his troubles and, establishing herself adjacent to him without actually entering his physical space, Mary prepared herself to listen.
In the interim, a silence ensued, punctuated only by the odd sigh or clearing of the throat by a thoughtful Elias. Some seven or eight minutes later, he spoke. “Mary, what would you say if I told you that something over which we have no control is happening to us?”
Mary straightened her dress. After all this time, Elias was finally getting around to proposing. It was so unexpected, it was…
“Elias, I…”
“…I had a dream last night, Mary. One I’ve had before, where I’m out fishing on the Digdeguash River in New Brunswick, catching rainbow trout. But this time, while I’m sitting in the boat, a boy…a Wildkid…he’s suddenly sitting right beside me, just as plain as anything. Dark hair, dirty, skinny, and coughing a lot, like he was sick. Maybe a virus but it didn’t seem like it.”
Mary felt the corners of her mouth wobbling, always the sign that she was having difficulty getting her emotions under control. In the space of a few seconds the topic at hand had moved from marriage to mirage. “I…I see,” she said finally, masking disappointment with a brusque tone of voice that Elias failed to notice. “And what…what did this boy in your dream want?”
Elias leaned forward, spreading his hands as if in supplication. “He told me that he was coming to see me.”
“Coming to see you?”
Elias nodded. “Some Wildkid I’ve never seen before comes into my dream and says he’s coming to see me.”
“That’s it?”
Elias nodded.
Mary sighed. “Would you like another cup of tea?”
“Sure. Want to fuck or do you want to see what’s on TV?” (see endnote 7)
EIGHT
Ferria d’Mont unwrapped her long graceful legs and allowed the boy to slip out of her. He remained collapsed on her chest, his bruised, soft mouth against her neck, breathing in quick gasps. The intensity of his orgasm had overwhelmed him and he did not resist as Ferria gently pushed him onto his back beside her. Slowly, he curled into her side, intent now on sleep, slipping a thin arm covered with downy hairs across her chest, his nail-bitten hand coming to rest against the underswell of her plump left breast.
His name was Roy Glyn, he was one month shy of fourteen years of age, and he considered himself extraordinarily lucky to have been chosen by Ferria d’Mont for this unforeseen but highly enjoyable initiation. Here, in this lady’s apartment high in the E.C., Roy was now eight hours into the most incredible day in his life as a Wildkid.
At one o’clock that afternoon, suddenly and without expectation, Roy Glyn’s interest in watching the after-lunch game of Galaxatron on the Jumbotron in SkyDome had been terminated. He was pulled from his chair, B241, shackled, and roughly treated by two Yellowbands who whisked him into a CleanBus for a fast ride through the GoArea to the Pickering Town Centre. On arrival, he was taken upstairs to the TV Studios, where he was deposited in a windowless room, later to be stripped, washed and examined by a nasty woman who put a finger up his bum and then played with his penis until it got hard. She had slapped him when it did.
H
ours later, hungry and thirsty, he was given a sandwich and a drink. When he’d finished, he was given a large box and told to put on what was inside. It was a clown costume, one especially made for his age and size. Another woman, one with purple fingernails who chewed gum, painted Roy’s face like a real clown and even glued on a shiny plastic red nose. Then he had been taken quickly along several corridors only to approach a large steel door where he was told to stop. Three minutes later, the door opened and Roy Glyn, SkyDome ‘Kid, found himself onstage live as a contestant on Countdown to Horror.
Ferria traced a long red lacquered nail along smooth white skin, across the flat pubis, noting the limited response of the limp little penis in its bed of dark blond hairs; the red nail traced higher, across the belly up to a nipple where, pressing harder, a thin line of blood appeared. The boy moved, groaned in protest, but Ferria was already pressing her thumbs into the softness of his throat, sliding the weight of her hips across his pelvis as she did so, absorbing his increasing struggles, loving them, loving him. She released her hands when the panic in the boy’s wide blue eyes dulled and the orbs began to turn upward.
Supporting his neck, Ferria expertly applied mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, watching the blue fade from Roy’s lips and the sudden expansion of his lean chest. In the first moments of his returning consciousness, she held her forefinger firmly against his lips to indicate that he should not speak. Then she released him and sat cross-legged on the bed; the charms of her body relaxed and her face became calm and serious.
“Roy,” she began, her tone light and easy. “I think you know what Arnie the Headsman had planned for you tonight, don’t you?”
Roy nodded but didn’t speak. She could see that he was scared, but he was also beginning to think. For a Wildkid, he was not bad-looking and certainly not as dirty as the pictures of the ones she’d seen on TV. He looked perfectly ordinary once she had taken his clothes off to inspect him for radburns. He hadn’t appeared abundantly gifted upstairs—presented as he was, still in a daze after barely escaping from Arnie’s axe—but the producers of Countdown to Horror had assured Ferria, after the show when they delivered her purchase to the main entrance, that this Wildkid had been selected in the first place for his docility and basic intelligence.
“You’ve got nothing to worry about with Roy Glyn,” they said. “He’s a mild one, does what he’s told. He’s feral-birth, that’s for sure, but particularly mild. Mind you, he wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t appropriate. We’re very strict about whom we select. The show isn’t just about blood, you know, despite what the Chronicle says.”
Ferria, who had stunned the program’s viewers—some 97.7% of available adult citizens, according to the Chronicle—not thirty minutes before by stopping the axe at the Two-Inches-To-Death-mark, had nodded her agreement with the producer’s assessment. Arnie the Headsman, who’d rarely cut so fine before, had been sweating profusely but his expertise earned him a standing ovation from the ‘studio audience’ of one. Ferria had, of course, been the only ‘live’ member of the audience and it had thrown the host of the programme for a brief spin before the cameras were turned on Ferria and she was awarded the prize.
Not everyone approved of good money being spent just to save the worthless life of a Wildkid and the Stream had been filled, probably was still filled, with hundreds of messages as citizens across the malls wrote suggestions and threw them in. ‘Rules have been broken,’ said the messages, ‘and scum has been denied its logical end, Mr. Kraft.’
Ignorant of the ruckus she had created, Ferria knew that her actions were unusual but was counting on the support of Elias to suppress any problem; in particular, any interest in the event on the part of the Grief Team. To Elias, she would explain how she simply lost control of her emotions, stopping the axe so that she might save a helpless victim from a bloody death. And even if he was a Wildkid, couldn’t he be saved? She would promise to help her little charge earn his way into the Stage Four programme. At least that was the approach she would begin with. In the end, even if she had to fuck Elias every day for a year, she needed Roy Glyn.
“I have just brought you back from death a second time,” Ferria said. “I have given you back your life twice.” She smiled, moving to cuddle against him, her chin resting on his stomach as she held his eyes. “In return, there is something that I want you to do for me.” Her hand waved lightly across Roy’s boney chest, his eyes lost inside hers.
“I’ve had a dream,” murmured Ferria, “a magical dream about a boy who’s a lot like you, Roy. I think he must be sick because I watch him cough a great deal.” Ferria paused and used her left hand to ensure Roy’s penis was paying strict attention. “I want you to go Outside. I want you to find this boy and bring him here to me when you do. And if you do….” Ferria turned her head and began artificial resuscitation on what instantly became Roy Glyn’s new decision-making apparatus.
NINE
Little Arthur Connors never knew what hit him. One moment he was leaning over the railing on the fourth floor of the E.C., looking down on the gaggle of mallshoppers—just like his mother had told him a thousand times not to do!—and the next, he was falling, flailing, screaming, dying at the instant that his head cracked against the marble floor. His mother’s screams erupted in the stunned silence, alerting dozens of mall-lookers, Mulls, and Crones who battled each other to witness the gore. It was thirty minutes before Bluebands from the Grief Team restored order. Someone had the presence of mind to fetch a syringe from Ned’s Cornucopia of Drugs next door and sedate the delirious Mrs. Connors. She was also being assisted by the presence of Emmett Strachan, her neighbour, who happened to be passing by at the time of the accident.
A man needs time to himself on occasion, time when he can slow his affairs down long enough to examine in more detail some of the more pressing, amorphous situations in whose gelatin he is hopelessly suspended. On such occasions, significant matters in question demanded a high degree of brutal, cold honesty which, it then followed, would lead to shock, fear, horror, anger, desperation, what-have-you...until the basement is reached. Low, but no lower. Upon this then is built a new structure, one of peace and hope, of cherished love ones and better, happier days, and of self-redemption. But, in the rebuilding of the truth, there is often rotted wood employed for lack of wood at all, and yet the carpenter presses on, relentless in the construction of his artifice, closing the door upon himself in the end to live inside his house of deceit.
Emmett, who had himself provided the required amount of impetus that little Arthur Connors had needed to fly from the railing, was very aware that he had deliberately committed an irrational act. He had responded automatically to the sudden urge within him, ignoring whatever instinctive alarms the mind produced to prevent just such an irrational thought from being enacted. He had out-and-out pushed Little Arthur. Not with malice! No malice intended! But it was now a fact that little Arthur Connors would no longer be taunting his son, Marcus. That at least was truth.
Later on, Emmett made certain that a distraught, suicidal Mrs. Connors received the deluxe package at the Crematoria along with her grieving husband. It was the least he could do under the circumstances.
TEN
Mutt picked his way along Lakeshore Boulevard, avoiding the collapsed sections of the old Gardiner Expressway, a concrete and asphalt monstrosity once elevated above the boulevard and, as late as June 13th, 2001, thickly-congested with automobiles. At three o’clock in the afternoon on that day, the expressway had finally fulfilled numerous local predictions of its imminent collapse. Now, some twenty-odd years later, from his vantage point atop a vast chunk of soot-soaked concrete stabbed with rusted reinforcing rods, Mutt was inside the pale of terror that was SkyDome, the holding pens for hundreds of Wildkids. He knew what SkyDome was...a very bad place where the men-in-blue took you.
To Mutt’s immediate right lay several broken sections of the former-finger-in-God’s-eye, the C.N. Tower. A hundred yards further on, a scant sixty fe
et of its vast base still stood, a stunted digit. A Quebecois terrorist cell had accomplished this with four hundred and thirty pounds of high-yield Semtex-Plural in the opening days of the First War of Canada. The Tower, fatally bitten by the explosion sixty up from the base on its south side, reacted in true Canadian logging fashion and heeled over like a Douglas fir, slamming against adjacent architecture—the glass webbing of Thomson Hall shattered like porcelain under a biker’s bootheel— with a force equivalent in proportion to that of a hammer wielded against a grape. The Tower had fallen down and could not get up again. Claims that videotape of the revolving restaurant detaching itself and flying much like a frisbee into Lake Ontario ran rampant in the ensuing weeks, but none was ever broadcast.
The results were catastrophic: 6,118 dead, 4,001 injured, property losses uncountable. The scope of the disaster sent the people of Toronto into the streets, enraged at their government’s failure to protect them from such a disaster. Teenage gangs and criminal elements torched, looted, and murdered at will until the Canadian Army entered the city and took some semblance of control. Twelve members of the provincial government were dead along with another 8,881 of their fellow citizens. The Premier, having survived the attempt on his life by the thinnest of miracles, remained on life-support systems in a private clinic, unable to weigh his future quality of life for himself.
Such an horrific response by an angry, vengeful citizenry toward government officials was the subject of much debate in neighbouring municipalities, resulting in mass resignations at all levels: local, provincial, and federal. Chaos and anarchy followed the flight of police forces, whose own losses had reached dire proportions. Throughout, the unbelievable events in Toronto were carried live by the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation as the war with Quebec raged on. In Ottawa, a coalition of extremists, running the gamut from Act Out to a local costumed looney known as Zod the Impaler, declared themselves in power. Ultimately, all factions agreed to be led by a former Saskatchewan wheat farmer, Fooku Haardvar, whose family was nationally-known for their invention of the high-fibre, fat-and-cholesterol-free confection fondly called the Cow Patty.
The Grief Team Page 8
