Super-State

by By Brian Aldiss

  They had it firmly in mind that men in the government were keen to remain at peace. It was only the President, Gustave de Bourcey, who wanted war. Kill off the President and there would be no more trouble. This was their joint Peace Mission.

  ‘Why he wants war? ‘Cause he embezzle millions of univs when the money system change, and with the war restrictions he gonna impose, he can cover up the crime. That’s the reason, man.’

  His companion agreed. ‘He ready to kill off millions of people jus’ to protect hisself. So we got to kill him. That is what they call justice, you understand?’

  ‘And that’s where you come in, my friend!’ Both men burst out laughing.

  Imran was to do the killing. They explained that they were automatically suspect, even when they had done nothing wrong. Because they were big and black and did not speak the local language properly. They would be continually stopped and searched. Such was the prejudice against them.

  ‘Whitey never understand. He got his head all wrong.’

  But Imran spoke well. Imran was a philosopher. Also, he was a pale guy. He could get close to the President and do the killing easily.

  Imran began to explain passionately why the mission was insane. Killing presidents never stopped the onrush of history. If de Bourcey was assassinated, the government would then demand revenge. War would be declared immediately.

  Not, the blacks said, if he did it. He was well known. If he killed the President, everyone would think it was a private matter. They would believe he did it in revenge for his false imprisonment. They would just think he was insane, and he would simply go into an institution for a few years. That was, if he was caught.

  They would see he was not caught.

  It had to be admitted that they had, in a crazed way, thought out a plan. But, Imran protested, he had never harmed anyone. He could not kill — not even an embezzling president.

  ‘Okay, then we go kill your Dutch girlfriend.’

  So in the end he said he would do as they suggested.

  They gave him a gun, clean, dry, slightly oiled. They said they had a friend who was in with them on this mission, a man from the Middle East. He had been meant to get an exact plan of the President’s palace. He knew how to penetrate the barriers and enter the grounds. He had kidnapped a woman, a pinky who knew de Bourcey. But he had not been heard of for some weeks. Maybe he was dead. Maybe he had died in Ireland. So they would drive Imran to the presidential grounds and help him over the electric fence.

  ‘And what if I am caught in the grounds before I can reach the palace?’

  ‘Then we go kill your Dutch girlfriend.’

  * * * *

  Nurse Gibbs carried a bowl of bread and milk in to her invalid. Jane Squire followed her. Jane had retained her good looks well into middle age. With her stalked her lanky older son, John Matthew Fields. John was at university; the seriousness of his grandfather’s illness had brought him down for the weekend. Bettina and her visiting boyfriend, Bertie Haze, were already in the conservatory, talking to Sir Tom, and to each other when Sir Tom lost interest. He had slept most of the afternoon.

  Tom’s gaze shifted rather vacantly to the large ambient screen on the conservatory wall where racing results from Newmarket were coming through. He was sinking slowly. The days of nurse’s injections every half-hour were over. He was now connected to a trigger which administered a morphine derivative whenever needed.

  His daughter had brought a vase of flowers cut in the garden. She arranged them where he could see them.

  ‘They’re beautiful, Jane. Thank you so much.’ After he had spoken, Sir Tom took a sip of water. His mouth was dry.

  ‘It’s been a bad year for roses, a good one for lupins.’

  ‘Mmm. Global warming.’

  Nurse Gibbs was arranging a table on which to place the bowl of bread and milk. Her ASMOF for the day had said, ‘People may ignore you. Your day will come. Be patient.’ But, she had said to herself, she was not patient, she was nurse. She wanted to retire and run a teashop in Bideford with her sister.

  ‘You know, I had forgotten what a lovely room this is,’ said John Matthew to his mother, as he looked about him. ‘The damp’s getting in at that corner. You ought to have the windows double-glazed.’

  ‘Couldn’t afford to, darling,’ said Jane, smiling. ’But I agree that it is beautiful. Ideal place for your grandfather to be at present. This conservatory was designed for happiness.’

  Little aromatic candles burned on the floor, sending out fragrances of Norfolk lavender.

  ‘Where’s your painting bloke, Mother? Gautiner?’

  ‘Things are getting rather serious, Remy’s had to return to Paris.’

  He smiled at his mother with affection. ‘So you’re living the life of a nun.’

  ‘Bettina and Bertie are making up for it.’

  They stood together, gazing out at the late-afternoon sunshine on the sweep of lawn. John Matthew sensed the sorrow in his mother and took her hand. She flashed him a smile. Nurse Gibbs moved about the room, adjusting curtains, tucking slippers under the bed. She was not happy about too many visitors.

  Bertie was saying, brightly, ‘The effects of global warming don’t seem to have been so bad this year. Perhaps—’

  Sir Tom held up a frail hand. He had caught a tone in the BBC announcer’s voice. ’Wait! Let’s listen to this!’

  The announcer was speaking on the ambient.’— Grave warning. A large section of the ice sheet on Greenland’s east coast, near the town of Angmagssalik, has fallen away, bringing a headland down with it into the ocean.’ Jane and John Matthew turned to listen.

  ‘The resultant tsunami or tidal wave is now spreading rapidly across the Atlantic Ocean. Fierce winds are driving it on. As yet, it is not known whether this major collapse was caused by a large meteorite strike on the Greenland coastline, or simply by global warming.

  ‘The tsunami is expected to hit the western coasts of Ireland, Scotland and England shortly after dawn tomorrow morning. Scientists calculate that the wave will grow taller as it reaches the shallows of the Continental Shelf. Tremendous swells are expected to engulf all western coastlines.

  ‘Scientists anticipate the wave will penetrate some kilometres inland, depending on the lie of the land. Anyone living in any coastal area of the British Isles is advised to head inland for higher ground immediately. Do not delay.

  ‘This bulletin will be repeated in half an hour, as we get more information.’

  The bowl of bread and milk, which Nurse Gibbs had just lifted to Sir Tom’s mouth, fell to the tiled floor and shattered.

  The nurse shrieked. ‘Oh, oh, my family lives in Bideford, on the Devon coast. I must phone them at once and warn them! Oh, how awful!’

  They were all upset.

  ‘At least we are safe here on the east coast,’ said Bettina.

  ‘I’m not sure of that,’ said Bertie Haze. ‘There are bound to be repercussions in the North Sea. Perhaps it might be advisable to move Sir Tom inland?’

  ‘I must call my sister,’ said Jane. ‘And Laura. Perhaps we had all better move to the South of France . . . Oh no, we could not take Father. He should not be moved.’

  ‘We may have to move him to Norwich if there is flooding,’ said Nurse Gibbs.

  They stood about, looking at one another in doubt. Sir Tom said weakly, ‘There’s no immediate threat to our safety. I would prefer not to be moved.’

  Bertie said boldly, ‘You shall not be moved unless it becomes absolutely necessary, sir. I will see to it.’

  Bertie took Bettina’s hand and said they would go and investigate the situation. Once he had got her outside, he pinned her against the wall and kissed her. She put her arms about his waist and kissed him back.

  ‘Let’s have a skinny dip while the sea is calm.’

  ‘But the tsunami!’

  ‘It’s nowhere near here — hundreds of kilometres away as yet.’

  The day was hot and sultry. Although dusk was set
ting in, there was no relieving evening breeze, as was customary on this coast. The sea had retreated, leaving stretches of dark beach. All was still, even sullen. A heat haze enveloped the scene, creating a murky ambiguity.

  The beach was entirely deserted. A young seal lay dead on the barred sand. Bettina and Basil stripped off their clothes and ran for the sea, shrieking with delight. They flung themselves into the shallow water.

  Out at sea, rumbles of thunder sounded. The youngsters splashed and swam. He dived between her open legs. They exchanged watery kisses, laughing and exclaiming as they did so.

  When they had had enough, they came out, to throw themselves down on the dry sand by the dunes and embrace. He wedged his leg between her thighs and inserted his fingers into her vagina. She moaned with delight. She grasped his erect penis. Their two bodies were both slippery and gritty with sand. He entered her, pressing a forefinger into her anus. There they lay, rocking gently, blind to the world.

  * * * *

  If you’re finished with all your questions, I’ll be on my way,’ said Paddy Cole, I don’t take much pleasure in being dragged here at regular intervals. The coffee’s poor and the company’s worse.’

  Inspector Darrow said, ‘I’m sorry to keep bothering you, Mr Cole, but you must see the spot we’re in. All this time has gone by and we still have not found a trace of young Mrs Esme de Bourcey. You were the person who distracted the attention of her husband while the snatch took place. That’s why you are a suspect.’

  ‘That’s all very well. You’ve interrogated me. You’ve interrogated Fay. You must see by now we’re innocent of any vile motives. When I first spoke to this de Bourcey feller I had no knowledge of his wife at all.’

  ‘So you keep saying:

  ‘It’s the truth. How the hell did I know who he was? He didn’t act like he was somebody. Just because I’m a poor innocent artist, you think you can victimise me, Inspector Darrow. Get on with your business, man, and leave me be.’ He paused to light up a cigarette, ignoring the No Smoking sign on the station wall. ‘Maybe you could give me a hand to compensate for the times you’ve dragged me here for nothing. Fay and I will have to quit the cottage right now. This tidal wave is on its way. We can’t stay put where we are.’

  ‘I’ve warned you of that already,’ said Darrow. ‘Do you want a lift somewhere? We could put you on the roster. We’re a bit over-stretched.’

  ‘It’s worse than that by far. My paintings. How am I going to get all them out of harm’s way by dawn?’

  ‘What are they worth? Nothing, so I was told.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong. These paintings are my fucking life. I’d die if any harm came to them.’

  Darrow said he took his point. He picked up his ASMOF and said he would order a lorry from Cork.

  Cole came forward, to lean over the desk. He shook Darrow’s hand, saying he was a fine man, and he was grateful.

  ‘There’s just one thing, Cole,’ said Darrow, coldly. ‘You better behave yourself. You know we know about that Fay of yours.’

  Cole bridled immediately. He glared at the inspector and asked what it was he knew about Fay.

  ‘We know she’s not your missus — she’s your daughter.’

  * * * *

  After Paddy Cole had gone, Darrow sat moodily watching the ambient screen. Warnings of the oncoming tsunami were being reinforced. Amateur video film of the Greenland collapse was shown. The photographer had been in a fishing boat, five hundred metres from the land.

  A great sheet of ice and snow plunged down, roaring into the water, throwing up immense waves. Under the shifting weight of the glacier, the cliff itself gave way. Rock tumbled among ice, continued to tumble, seemed to tumble for ever. The sea was a churning mass, whipped up into a froth as if it were all made of white of egg. The edge of the glacier appeared to pick up speed as it lurched forward towards the drop. The boat with the camera was rocking so violently that the picture became incomprehensible. It cut off.

  From an official cameraman came shots of the people of Angmagssalik being evacuated by plane and ship. Darrow stared hard at the Greenlanders. To his surprise, they looked like anyone else.

  Calls were still pouring in to the police station. Reluctantly, Darrow rose and went into the outer office where the action was. It seemed as if everyone in Ireland was needing to move away from the coast to safety inland.

  * * * *

  Yet not everyone had heard the news of the approaching tsunami. Certainly not the two people living in a cellar just three kilometres up the coast from where Paddy and Fay Cole lived.

  Esme and Karim Shariati lay in each other’s embrace on an improvised bed. Candles standing nearby on the floor provided a light which they liked to think of as cosy. A washing-up bowl, a pail, a carton of milk, and a small pile of foodstuffs were almost the only other furnishings of the place.

  There were occasions when Esme, her bright hair blackened by dye and a tattered old shawl about her shoulders, disguising her clothes, ventured a kilometre down the lane to a small village store, where she could buy provisions. Karim never showed himself outside the ruined cottage. But on occasions, when the moon was bright above the cliff, the pair of them would go down to the nearby beach, to swim in the sea, the sea of silver, to sport on the beach, to chase each other, to turn cartwheels, and to cuddle in the sand.

  Esme had taken to the primitive existence. She gave no thought to Victor, or to the past, or to the future. She was completely possessed by the lean, sad stranger who had entered her life and overwhelmed it.

  At first, when he was merely an inscrutable captor calling himself Ali, she had hated him. She had refused to draw a plan of the de Bourcey palace. He had not shot her. Slowly he had unbent from his anonymous hostility. Removing his black robe, he had shown himself to be an ordinary man, undernourished, dressed in a faded shirt and worn jeans.

  When he had found he was unable to force her to draw the plan he desired, he had sunk down, groaning and clasping his head. ‘What can I do? I am ordered to kill you. I cannot kill you. It goes against all my beliefs.’

  His words had changed their relationship.

  She had gradually drawn his story out of him. His name was not Ali but Karim Shariati. He had been born in Tabriz, a city in Iran. He had been educated by mullahs. His father was an intellectual, in charge of the foreign languages department at the university, and an enlightened man. He taught his son to read English, so as to be able to read English translations of Russian novels. His favourite authors were Tolstoi, Gogol, and Dostoevsky. Karim was so enamoured of Crime and Punishment that he taught his young sister Farah to read as well.

  One day, Farah, now a bold adolescent, went into the bazaar without wearing the prescribed chador. She was hustled off to prison and there brutally beaten. Karim was eventually allowed to carry his sister home. He blamed himself for her act of defiance.

  Farah was badly injured. Her nose had been broken. She was no longer the pretty girl she had been. It took months before she could walk again. Never more was she light-hearted.

  Karim ceased to believe in Islamic law.

  One day, he was approached by a friend who knew a man who, if paid in advance, would get them to the West. Karim decided to leave with his friend. They departed from Tabriz at dead of night. The journey was horrendous. They spent four days in a truck with a crowd of others, many of them criminal, without food or water, crossing a desert.

  They bumped over Turkey, reached Istanbul, and from there were driven into Greece, across the laxly guarded northern frontiers. Partly by lorry, partly by rail, always hiding, they travelled through the Balkans into Austria. There guards discovered the group in a railway siding. The guards fired on them and Karim’s friend was fatally wounded. He died next day.

  Karim managed to reach France, where he worked in a restaurant in Toulouse. To save money, he slept in a barn. He was discovered and beaten up by French farmworkers. He stole a farm bike and cycled into Paris. In the Sorbonne he
worked as a cleaner and got to know a kindly old man, a Jew, who let him share a room in his house with another Iranian, a religious man who was lame. This man was all patience and humility. He also had a store of absurd jokes. Slowly he brought about a rebirth of Karim’s religious faith.

  Through this man, Karim met with a group of young Muslims who were working to bring about the collapse of the West. Intermittently visiting this group was a man called Sammy Bakhtiar, a sailor who had been born in the West. He talked to Karim about the parts of the world he had visited. He swore that England was a better place in which to live than the rest of the EU because there Muslims occupied whole cities and suburbs of cities, and were strong.

  Sammy disliked most of the members of the young group. He said they were narrow-minded bigots. Some were homosexual. Some had French girlfriends whom they treated badly. Karim saw this for himself, and disliked what he saw.