by Tim Lees
“You know this country’s sin?” he said.
I took a breath.
“No, sir, I don’t.”
“No. No, you don’t.” He spoke slowly, with the measured rhythms of a drunk struggling to sound sober. “Our sin is wiped out of the history books. Turned upside down. Good is bad and bad is good. But deep inside—deep, deep, in here—” he pressed a fist against his chest, “I tell you: there is not one man, woman or child who doesn’t know the truth.”
He paused a moment, his gaze seeming to waver, and he lost himself for maybe ten, twelve seconds. Then the fire rose in him again. His fist clenched. It came up like a gavel.
“This is my country, Copeland. I know this country. I know how it works, and how it thinks. I own this country. I own transport, media, construction. I own hospitals, I own insurance. I own manufacturing. And here’s a thing I know—I know that there is no more loyalty left here. I know that.” There was anger in him now—anger, and, it seemed to me, a trace of something else—regret. “Fellow works for you. Works for you for years, maybe. Then one day, someone comes along and whispers in his ear—oh, he sees it on TV, or in some stupid lifestyle magazine, something like that—and suddenly, it’s—” he did a mocking sing-song “—I should get more money for this job. Or, I need more vacation time. Or—oh, it just goes on. It’s hardly credible, a lot of it. There is a wonderful thing I’ve been hearing lately. Wonderful. You called me a name. Yeah. You called me a bad word, Mr. Ballington. Oh, I love that! Love it. I’m leaving ’cause you said—ha. You bet I called you a bad word. You fucking bet I did! I got a word for you, the word is traitor. That’s my bad word. Traitor to me, and traitor to the USA.” He glared at me, his eyes alight. “You know what wrecked this country? You know why US jobs are going to Mexico, and China, and Brazil? Because, because—” He swung his head from side to side. “I should get more money for this job. I should get more vacation time.” He wrinkled up his nose. “You called me a bad word. That’s it, through and through.” He slapped his fist against the chair arm. “This used to be a great country. A man could make something of himself here, like my daddy did, and his daddy before him. Make himself a giant, a colossus, towering, high over his fellows. Oh yes. Not these days, though. Not now. Oh, Mr. Ballington, I want more money. Well—you know what? You know what?”
He reached for his glass, gulped the drink like medicine. His cheeks were red.
“I’m gonna ask again, now, Mr. Copeland. Speaking as an—as an Englishman: What is our country’s greatest sin? In all of history?”
Behind his father’s back, Eddie-boy mouthed at me.
“Slavery . . . ?” I read.
“Exactly.” Ballington’s fist jabbed at the air. “When they abolished that, they ruined us. And that’s a fact.”
I thought I hadn’t understood.
“One stupid, stupid move. They wiped out everything that made this nation great, everything that would have gone on making us great, into eternity. They set us back a thousand years, all at a stroke.”
“You can’t be serious,” I said.
“And why not?”
He looked at me from hooded eyes.
“Oh, listen to yourself! You perfect little puppet! I will tell you now,” he said. “There is not one CEO or one executive, not one HR man, not one politician, left or right—not one fucking manager in this whole country, doesn’t long for the return of slavery. But here’s the trick: he doesn’t call it that. Because slavery has been so thoroughly defamed throughout our history it cannot even be considered. It cannot be spoken of, except in the narrative of the oppressors. He doesn’t even say it to himself. Oh no. He’ll talk about the unions, the fickleness of staff. He’ll moan about the call-offs, and the paid vacations, and the rules on sick leave.” He clapped his hands and gave a bitter little laugh. “He’ll moan about the economics, and the politics. He’ll relocate to Mexico. But what he really wants—make no mistake—is slavery. And nothing else.”
“That’s—”
“Oh, do not misquote me. Do not misquote me. This is not a matter of race. Race is irrelevant. And I will say now: the abduction and enslavement of the African peoples was a crime for which this country has been paying ever since. It brought us into disrepute. It turned our greatest asset into a thing of shame and degradation, so much that it could not even be named. They called it the ‘peculiar institution.’ We turned our backs on our inheritance. As a country, we demeaned ourselves. We lost our heritage.
“Now, let me tell you, Copeland—as a nation, we are big. We are vigorous. We have resources. The result of that—it skews the time line on these things. So it’s taken a good while for the shit to hit the fan, but hit it has, most well and truly.”
He took the bottle and refilled his glass.
“The banks collapse. Economy—well, crisis to crisis. Doesn’t even matter who’s in charge, who’s President, who’s in Congress. But people are beginning to look about themselves. They say: do we need this? Should we put up with this? What’s the alternative?
“And there are whispers. There are ripples of opinion. You move in the circles I move in, you hear them. This Congressman, this CEO . . . They know. They talk behind closed doors. And what was once unthinkable, unsayable—it shines now with a bright, bright light upon our future.”
Off to the side, where Edward couldn’t see, his son mimed in a silent unison, giving a comical salute, sharing a joke I didn’t find the least bit funny.
“Oh,” said Ballington, “there’ll be no compulsion. Nothing like that. Just ordinary economic forces, that’s all we need. Natural as gravity. Can’t feed your family? That’s fine. Can’t pay your rent? Exclusive contract, any major corporation—five, ten, twenty years, option on renewal. Family stays together. Everybody wins.”
“Pretty uneven kind of win,” I said.
He smiled; a smug, excited little smile.
“You’re like the rest of them. Their four year plans, their economic la-di-da . . . You don’t even begin to see how simple it all really is, do you?”
I wanted to turn round, walk out. Instead, I said, “So tell me.”
“We have gods, Mr. Copeland. We have gods, and we have slaves. The basic building blocks of all human society, stretching back through history, to the days the pyramids were built. What more could we require?
“Slavery is right. Slavery is good. Every year, we celebrate it. You didn’t know that, did you, Englishman? Christopher Columbus Day. Once a year. The man who brought it to America. Right at the start. He knew, see—he knew what was required.
“I have a vision, Copeland. I have a vision for this country. You know what I see?
“I see a land of happy workers, happy slaves. I see power bestowed on us by gods. I see productivity—” he swung back his arm “—right out the ballpark. I see business booming. I see this, and I see so much more. You want a prophecy? Look in your wallet. In God we trust. That’s the new world, the new new world. In gods we trust. That’s my world, Copeland. Mine.”
And then he sighed.
“But first—there are some steps to be taken.”
“Steps,” I said.
“There has been a betrayal. And betrayal must be dealt with”
He was staring straight at me, and the dreamy, visionary tone was gone. His voice was low and hard.
“I want that man. That Johnny Appleseed. I’ve chased that bastard half across the country, trying to get what I was promised. I want him back here, and I want the goods delivered. Now, you understand?” His eyes were knives. His fingers clutched the chair arms. “That,” he said, “is your job.”
“Oh no. I don’t—”
“You don’t work for me. No, maybe not. But I know what you’re going to say before it’s even out your mouth. Funny, hey? You don’t work for me. But here’s the thing: you do. Everyone works for me. Whether they know it or they don’t. And this job, Copeland—this one’s yours.”
Chapter 45
The Prodrom
al God
“You know it’s resonating with him, don’t you?”
“Dad-o’s moods—”
“Yeah. Other people’s, too, maybe. But his, most of all.”
“Well, his moods—” He put his hands in the air.
“They’re epic, I gathered. Don’t laugh about it. There’s a problem, and I don’t think you realize it. I don’t think he does, either.”
We were standing in the doorway by which I’d entered, looking off towards the public section of the park; just me and Eddie. I was wondering whether I could get this grinning idiot to actually help me, or even help himself.
“Look,” I said, “it’s riding him. Not all the time, perhaps, but some of it. It’s living in him. Understand?”
“What?” He tried to laugh it off. “Like when a dog gets worms?”
“Something like that. You notice any changes in him recently?”
“Oh, Dad-o—he’s always been crazy. That’s his way.”
Have you actually been paying attention? I thought.
I remembered another son of the rich I’d known. I hadn’t liked him much, either. Maybe I was bigoted. But, remembering that, I said, “You see much of your father? When you were growing up? When you were a kid?”
“Man, I was in school. I saw him for vacations, sometimes. He took us all to Europe one year. Christmas, you know? Skiing. Switzerland. I tell you, you get up there, the piste just—”
“Yeah, I get it. I won’t say this again, but something’s got its hooks in your beloved Dad-o, and that should worry you. Your god’s not properly contained, is it?”
“He let us down. That’s what Dad-o’s mad about.”
“That’s what he says he’s mad about. Really, he’s mad that Appleseed didn’t bring you more goodies. Right?”
Eddie made a vague, noncommittal gesture. Then he said, “It’s in the lower level. It doesn’t move too far from that. Weird shit on the lower floors, this wing. It doesn’t bother me. I mean, not like it’s haunted, right? It’s not like ghosts or something. Not like jolly old England, eh what?”
“Your accent’s terrible,” I said. “And no one talks like that.”
Ghirelli came by then. He produced the baggie with my reader and my phone. He also produced a ledger in which I signed to say that I’d received them.
To Eddie, I said, “You need to call the Registry.”
“We did. We called you.”
“No. You offered me an underhand deal, which I did not accept. Your dad talks about loyalty, but all he means is loyalty to him, isn’t it?” Eddie put his head on one side. He still had the grin on his face, but it looked sort of stupid now. “Is that new? The loyalty thing? Or has he always been like that?”
“Chris. Dad-o’s worth billions. He doesn’t even know how much he’s worth. You’re that rich, you don’t need to act normal. No one does. You do what you want.”
“So you wouldn’t even know if there was something off about him.”
“Hey. You’re not dealing with a bunch of rednecks here. This is the future President of—”
“Eddie.” I took out my wallet. “This is very important.” I flicked through the business cards till I found the one I wanted. “If there is ever a point where you get worried by your dad’s behavior. If that ever happens, call them. This is the Registry. This is not an under-the-counter deal. It’s got no possible financial advantage for you, or me, you understand? But it may just save your father’s life. Or more.” He took the card and looked at it. I said, “This is an official number, but it’s not the one in the phone listings. It’ll get you through to someone who’ll listen. OK?”
Eddie passed it to Ghirelli. “You’re security. You keep it.”
“I’m trying to help you here,” I said.
Eddie clapped me on the back. “Hey, Chris. You helped a load. You really did.”
“Call that number.”
“Yeah, sure, Chris. We’ll bear it in mind. And meanwhile . . . I think the Captain here’s got something for you in return. A gift. From us. Right, Captain?”
Ghirelli pulled something from his pocket, held it out to me.
It was a thumb drive.
“CCTV,” he said. “You may find it useful.”
I held the reader up, prior to slipping it back into my pocket. “If I’d had this, it might have been more help. But let me tell you both what I think’s going on. In case one of you is actually listening.
“Your god is prodromal. That means it has entered a phase of measurable, observable phenomena, acting on the physical world. At the same time, it’s formed some kind of link with your father. They get personal, sometimes. You ever do research on this? No, you didn’t. Now, I can’t say how the two things will play out together. But I can tell you the next stage is usually an incarnation. Will you think about it for a minute? You know, just mull it over, next time your old dad’s ranting about slaves or something. Ask yourself who’s really talking, will you?”
I looked at Eddie, his grin barely faded, at the middle-aged security guard, his face as blank as a poker player’s.
Somehow, I was glad the Ballington Estate was not on my list of places to sort out. But I’d send in a report. I’d write it all down, send it off, and hope that someone, somewhere, had the sense to pay attention.
It was growing dark as I drove back. I phoned Angel from the car. The call went straight to voice mail. I knew I shouldn’t worry. She was probably asleep, or at the cinema, or a concert, or somewhere else she couldn’t use her phone. But it bothered me, anyway.
Worrying was one thing I was good at, after all.
So I called Silverman, and the first thing he said was, “Have you seen the news?”
After the call I drove a little further, and at the nearest rest stop I parked in front of a McDonald’s. Then I found my phone and Googled the story.
YOU TOOK OUR HEARTS, YOU TOOK OUR SOULS, YOU TOOK OUR LIVES, said the headline. Underneath, a little less dramatically, was written: Small town sues energy giant.
They were taking us to court. The town of Big Hollow. The mayor, legal advisors, and a certain Reverend Richard Cleary, mentioned in passing in the article. We had deprived the people thereabouts of both income (a singular attraction, drawing visitors from miles around) and spiritual succor. Some shyster lawyer had been pleased to take the case, and made a big speech about foreign companies riding roughshod over the American people. No one, it seemed, had troubled to look up the legal status of our US branch, nor its registered address. Certainly, no one had counted up our own small contribution to the local economy: the amount we’d spent on helium balloons. I thought we might at least have got a “thank you” out of that . . .
Chapter 46
A Man’s Name
I tiptoed down the corridor, slid my key card in the lock and turned the handle, gently as I could. The lights were off but I could see she wasn’t in the bed.
“Angie . . . ?”
“I’m here.”
She sat, curled under a blanket in the armchair.
I said, “What’s up?”
“Nothing’s up.”
She flexed her shoulders, stretched her legs. I asked whether I’d woken her, but she shook her head. “I was thinking, is all.”
“What about?”
“Oh—just listening to the music, really . . .”
But she didn’t have her headphones, or her iPod.
I asked her, “You OK?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You sure I didn’t wake you?”
“Sure.”
But I felt as if I’d wandered into someone else’s dream.
She stood, pulling the blanket round her like a robe. I saw her glance about the room, as if reminding herself where she was.
I watched her, and said nothing.
She flipped the light on. Smiled at me.
There was an odd kind of delay there—barely a moment, but I noticed. A coming-back to herself.
She asked me, “How’d
it go?”
“Not great. Rich crazy family with a loose god. Not our job, I’m glad to say. I’ll call it in, and maybe they’ll send someone else to take a look. Don’t expect they’ll get far, though.” I remembered the thumb drive. “I got some CCTV to look at. They say it’s definitely our guy. Appleseed. Be nice to get that cleared up, anyway.”
“Your bosses will be pleased.”
“Bugger them. I’ll be pleased myself.” I took my jacket off, threw it on the upright chair. “‘Undermining public confidence.’ That’s what bothers them.”
“Hm. Maybe public confidence needs undermining, now and then. Keep everybody on their toes.”
“That’s a weird thing to say.”
“Is it?”
She came over. She put her arms around me. I ran my hands across her back, feeling the muscles move, and brushed my lips across her cheek. I caught her scent, faint citrus, and a hint of something darker, earthier beneath.
“Talk to me,” she said.
“These people. You would not believe. You thought Eddie was a piece of work, but his dad—”
“Not them. Talk about us. Tell me we’re good people? We are, aren’t we? You and me?”
I pulled my head back, trying to see her, but she kept her face pressed to my shoulder.
“Yes,” I said. “We’re good people.”
“And it’s going to be OK, isn’t it?”
“What is?”
“Life. I don’t know. Everything . . .”
It’s the plague of modern cafés: out-of-towners, sprawled across your favorite table, busy with their laptops and their cell phones, and their business meetings, which could just as easily be held elsewhere.
But that was us, next morning: Angel, Silverman and me, grabbing the corner table, whispering like terrorists plotting a coup. I ran the thumb drive, fast forwarding—we’d got an hour or more of stuff here, all unedited—and at each flicker of movement I’d freeze-frame, check who was going where, watch them amble down the corridor, their faces bulging as they passed the lens, their heads ballooning and then dwindling back to normal as they moved into the distance. I saw Ghirelli. I saw maintenance crew in overalls. And then came Edward, picking at something stuck between his teeth. The hall itself was plain and functional, probably a lower level, away from public and family quarters. A trolley full of cleaning gear stood in the middle distance, seemingly abandoned. And then here was Edward once again, this time with a friend. I sat up straighter. I let them walk up nice and close, then froze it.
