by Tim Scott
And maybe in that moment I finally understood. Maybe, for a brief second, I finally got the point of it all.
It’s here. It’s all around. We just need to stop and look. Then we’ll feel the wind on our arms. Then we’ll hear the swifts wheeling overhead with their soft screeches. Then we’ll feel the gentle warmth of the fire.
All we need to do is take a deep, overslow breath.
And actually look about.
She was right. In that moment, I was home.
chapter
SEVENTEEN
Porlock.
In his office, Mendes stared down at the New Seattle buildings, swathed in a stony, stiff-necked gloom far below. They seemed to hunch down and grip the earth as the lightning forked. The last time he had looked at the screens they said: “What is it with pressing those keys so quickly?”
A plume of red smoke coiled into the air near Puget Sound. He watched it snake up, forming an elegant curve, and it felt like a painful metaphor for his career. The early optimism about cleaning the virus from the system had gone, and now Kahill was defensive about the whole subject.
The air-conditioning was on full and the noise filled his head with a tired white moan. “I need air,” he said.
He headed out of his office to the lobby. Eventually he found the fire escape stairs that led onto the roof.
The cool air was a relief and it froze the sweat across his forehead. He walked to the parapet as an advertising balloon bobbed above him, yanking against a thick chain that was secured to a massive, rusting fixing.
He suddenly detested the whole project. It was a sham.
Down there in the city, the engineers had planted sensors. They scanned the population for a specific length of brainwave that was associated only with someone on the verge of doing something stupid. It was generated from a part of the brain that people didn’t use very much—and that was why when they did something really stupid, it felt like it was not really them in control.
Computers pinpointed exactly where the signal was coming from and sent someone to interrupt. After some experimentation, they’d found that eyeliner and a large swamp of wild hair had a massively distracting effect, but all the agents had their own style.
They’d be down there now, waiting—like him.
It was an elegantly simple solution to the whole DST problem, but he didn’t feel comfortable interfering in the lives of people like this. He wanted to be through with Porlock.
He had been told the name was a reference to Coleridge, and he had been sent copies of Kubla Khan by the marketing department.
He now knew most of it by heart.
“So twice five miles of fertile ground, with walls and towers were girdled round,” he said. He made out the main city gate through the gloom. There were stories of people hacking into the drones that had built it. They were supposed to have reprogrammed them to put in tunnels and rooms that weren’t in the original plans.
“With walls and towers were girdled round,” he said again, then walked slowly back across the roof.
chapter
EIGHTEEN
I felt a jab in my throat.
I clawed my way back from sleep, back into the darkness of the motel room. It felt like a knife. I twisted around in a daze and banged my arm. Through the gloom I saw the outline of a fridge, poking at me with the corner of its door.
“Stop that,” I said lying back down. “I do not want any Primula cheese from a tube, and I don’t want to play with any fridge magnets, if that’s what you wanted to ask.”
“Listen,” said the fridge. “There’s someone trying to get in.”
A shadow.
“Make yourself at home,” said a woman’s voice through the darkness. “Sorry it’s not more upmarket. I thought it would be less obtrusive for the fridges.”
“Nena?” I fumbled for the bedside light and finally flicked it on. It threw out a sad yellow pool of light, but it was enough to see her face, flushed with the night air.
“Blond hair suits you,” she said. “Want a drink? I have whiskey.”
“You scared me.” I heaved myself up on the edge of the bed, feeling the dry edges of my lips. “And I didn’t mean to sleep. How long have I been out?”
“It’s 1 a.m. Here.” She had poured some whiskey into a glass and handed it to me. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Good. You met the fridges, then?”
“Yeah. And they’ve made me really at home with their close-harmony singing and offers of processed cheese.”
“You’ve seen what’s inside them?”
“This fellow has some Primula, but I don’t think they have a lot of food.”
She nodded as I knocked back the rest of the whiskey and felt it course through my body, settling with a burn in my stomach.
“Better?” she said.
“Yeah. What took you so long?”
She poured another glass. There was a warm, comfortable silence interrupted by the chinking of the bottle neck.
“I was followed. And then I got to wondering whether you would have the cops waiting here for me so you could bargain your way out.”
“That would have been the sensible thing to do, now you mention it.”
She shrugged and then got up, rummaging through the closet until she found a blanket.
“But you decided I wouldn’t? Am I so easy to read?” I said.
“People who have lost their way in life are always easy to read. It goes with the territory.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s in your eyes. You might as well have a note stuck to your forehead. Get some rest. I’ll take this side of the bed.” She threw down the blanket.
“So, tell me what you see.”
“No. Get some rest. You can spend the night here. But tomorrow you need to forget about me, okay? You just walk away. Get out of town.”
“Why not tell me? What’s the big deal?”
“You might find it harder to sleep.”
“I’ll sleep.”
“All right. You want to start living again, but you don’t know where to find the switch. You’re trying to deny this is your life because you think you deserve a better one. And that maybe if you keep pushing the reality of your life away, that other perfect life you dreamed about will magically appear. But this is your life, isn’t it?”
“Is that what you see?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, it’s bullshit. And you really think I’m going to run from this city tomorrow?”
“That’s exactly what you’re going to do. Now, get some rest. You were vulnerable, and I took advantage. That’s all there is.”
“Weird!” said the Frost Fox by the window. “The lot is full of red mist.”
“Mist?” Nena got to her feet, flicked off the light, and peered through the edge of the curtains. “That’s red smoke.”
I looked out and saw shadows throwing their bulk about, and pinpoint laser lights were cutting the darkness into slices.
“Security Detail,” she said.
“Should I do my owl call to signal danger?” said the Ice Jumper.
“Quiet, little fellow,” Nena chided. “They sure as hell didn’t follow me.”
“I suspect they’re here by invitation of the man in the lobby.”
“You checked in at the lobby?”
“Yeah. Bad move, eh? Sorry.”
“Hoooot!” went the fridge.
“Sh!”
“We’re going to have to move fast,” she said. “And leave the fridges.” She froze for a moment, as though she had only just understood what her own words meant.
“Is that a problem? They do just hold food and hum a bit,” I said, looking at her.
“Hey! Don’t trivialize the important role we play in society,” said the Frost Fox.
“Yeah! We fridges have a lot to offer. What about the Thermo King that became Washington State checkers champion four years in a row?”
“I hea
rd about that,” said the tumble dryer. “He wanted to take up chess, but couldn’t get the hang of the horsey piece.”
“Okay, I’m sorry. You guys take care,” I said, as Nena grabbed me by the arm and pulled me toward the bathroom.
“Hell, we’ve been in worse corners than this,” said the Cold Moose.
“I’ll bet you have,” I said. But I somehow doubted it. We both knew the Fridge Detail would be called, and they’d all be taken away to the Cold Compound and then the dumps in the desert. There were huge camps of refrigerators there. Some of them had gone completely feral. They were all going to hell. But Christ, they were only fridges.
The ceiling in the bathroom was made of cheap panels. Nena climbed onto the bath and knocked one out. Dust showered down. She put her foot on the sink and sprang up.
Then she turned and offered me her arm to help me through. I struggled up, flaying my legs hopelessly against the wall until I was lying belly down on a beam in the roof space.
It was unbelievably dark.
She replaced the panel, dousing the square of light so I could see nothing.
“Keep on the beam,” she whispered and I heard her moving away. I tried to follow. We were still over the room when we heard the door being smashed in and a cacophony of muffled voices.
“Freeze!” the police were shouting.
Even from up here, I could hear the dramatic increase in humming from the fridges.
I smiled. I was actually getting to like those guys.
A pity they were all going to hell.
chapter
NINETEEN
I edged on awkwardly.
I could just about make out my surroundings now. We were in a small loft fitted into the pitch of a roof. Pipes ran about like they were looking for something. As I levered my way over a bunch of them, I caught one with my foot. The noise vibrated throughout the building and a shower of fine dust sifted over us.
I stifled a sneeze and scrabbled on, trying to keep up with Nena, feeling wooden splinters prick at my hands. Then I put my foot through the ceiling.
The tearing crunch made Nena turn and she grabbed me, but as I hung onto her I pulled her off balance. She slipped and broke through the ceiling. I froze, watching as she landed in a bundle on the floor. Thick red smoke began to drift up through the hole in the ceiling, and flashlight beams jabbed around me. I ducked back and fumbled on.
The loft kicked around a bend, and I saw a spot where the pipes all dived down in a mass. I crawled over and peered down.
It was some sort of duct.
Urgent shouts were marauding through the dead air now. Cocooned up here, it felt as though they were leaking through a tear in space and coming from another planet.
I hung my feet over the edge of the tiny duct and tried to find the one pipe out of the mass that wasn’t scalding hot. I held onto it and eased my way down into the tight space. Eerie clonking noises vibrated from below, as though I was descending into the stomach of a dinosaur.
Then the pipe gave way with a shuddering growl and I slipped alarmingly. Water spurted out with an excited hiss. I might as well have put up a sign telling everyone where I was.
I forced myself downward quickly, but the space was so tight that I pulled another pipe free. More water gushed out.
Slanting gashes of flashlight cut across the duct above me now. The cops were in the loft space.
I forced myself down, then felt the duct open out at my feet, and dropped onto a concrete floor so hard my ankles felt like they’d broken.
It was a small basement. A huge boiler bloated with caking rust hunched in one corner. It was steaming hot and gurgling like a young child who had just told his first joke.
A small window poked up at ground level covered in layer after layer of cobwebs. Flashing lights flickered in from outside. On the other side of the room was a heavy metal door that stood ajar.
I heaved it open and found a set of worn wooden stairs that led up to a trapdoor. I ran up them and cautiously opened the trap an inch to peer out, expecting it to be flooded with cops.
It was quiet.
I went back down, jammed the metal door shut, then ran up the stairs and flapped back the hatch.
It took me a second to realize I was behind the desk in the lobby. I shut the hatch just as someone came in through the front door. I was caught, but hidden down behind the counter was a shotgun.
“Trouble?” The guy had a lilt to his voice.
“Yeah,” I replied, “but it’s under control.” I fingered the gun.
“Good. I couldn’t sleep with all that noise. I once nearly got a job with one of those security units. It was down in Los Angeles. The pay was so-so, but Sally wanted me to take it. She said the climate down there was good for her knees. The damp here makes them swell up, you see.”
“Swell up?” I said. He had a looping mustache and a clothes sense suggesting he might have been brought up in the wild.
“Yeah, they balloon up, but she has pills and they work just fine. Little blue ones.”
“The wonders of modern science.”
“Seems like a long time ago. We had a dog then called Chico. Funny old feller he was. He could run like the wind, but he was always hungry. You ever eaten dog chocolate? It tastes okay, but you wonder what’s in it. My wife used to buy it for him, but I had my share. You ever tried that stuff?”
“No,” I said as the door scraped open again. This time, it was a cop. Even in the dingy half-light, I could see he had the sort of overtired eyes that meant he’d been around the block a few too many times. I took hold of the gun in two hands, but kept it out of sight. I hoped the thing was loaded. I repeated my answer as he approached, trying to enforce the impression that the man and I been chatting for some time.
“We lost the woman and the man. All we got were some goddamn fridges,” said the cop.
“Fridges?” said the other man.
“Yeah, a load of fridges, and they won’t stop singing about Bolivia. It’s 1 a.m., for Christ’s sake, and they’re all singing about Bolivia. Sometimes I wonder about this job. You the one who saw the guy?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“This him?” He pushed a picture of me over the desk that they had taken when I was in the head hack chair. I had black hair. And it was blurred.
“Yeah, that’s him. That’s the guy.” I kept in the shadows.
“Yeah, well, we’ll get him. We’ll check every motel tonight. They’ve made this a top-priority sting now. And when that happens, we get free doughnuts. I guess that’s why I stay with this job.”
“Does your wife have knees that swell up?” the other man said to the cop.
“Swell up?” The cop looked at him.
“Yeah. Do your wife’s knees swell up in the damp? Like balloons?”
“Are you making fun of me? Get out of here!” The cop lifted his hand and the other guy left hurriedly, letting the front door shut with a clack. “What is it with these people? So, this is yours. Thanks for the tip-off,” said the cop, handing me an envelope. “If he comes back looking for his fridges, let us know.”
“I’ll keep an eye out,” I said, putting the gun gently down on the shelf under the desk and taking the envelope. “With compliments of New Seattle P.D.” it said. I slipped it into my inside pocket without opening it. The cop nodded and headed for the door. He took four paces then stopped, took his gun out, and spun around.
“Why do you have your hand on a gun under the desk? Why would you do that?” he said.
I stared, trying to summon up the kind of disinterest people felt for Canada.
“Habit,” I said. “You get a lot of weird people in here.”
There was noise above our heads.
“That right?” the cop said. “Habit? Maybe habit would make you do that, or maybe you’re nervous. Maybe we should hear your mood.”
But as he moved back toward me, the ceiling collapsed in a shower of broken plaster and another cop landed on the floor in a thumpin
g, wet bundle.
“Ah!” cried the one that had fallen. “My back! And I’ve only just gotten it fixed. You saw that, didn’t you?” he said to the one with tired eyes.
“Yeah, you fell through the fucking ceiling.”
“My back! Don’t stand there. Help me up!”
“Okay, okay.” The event was swamping the first cop, but he kept his eyes on me, perhaps ensuring that I wasn’t going for the shotgun.
“Get the Police OURU here, quickly,” said the guy on the floor.
The cop with the baggy eyes seemed confused. “Who?”
“The Police Osteopath Urgent Response Unit. Get them down here. I need my spine looked at,” said the other cop.
“Okay, sure.” Well-worn eyes had put away his gun.
“And tell them it’s an emergency.”
“Okay.” He got on the radio and called. “Don’t you go anywhere,” he said pointing at me as he helped the other man hobble through the door. “I want to check your mood. You understand? Or you’ll be in trouble.”
“Yes, sir. No problem. I’ll be right here all night,” I said as the door clacked shut.
Then I bolted through a back kitchen and got the hell out of there.
chapter
TWENTY
The night was clear and cold.
As I was sucked down the streets, my thoughts shambled, trying to coalesce into order. But they wouldn’t do it. The situation was a mess.
So I walked, letting my feet take me where they wanted under a night sky filled with gleaming buildings, overinflated with a sense of prestige, past groups of drunken teenagers bursting with bravura, and on through the city that had once been my home. Occasionally I sank back into doorways to avoid the gaze of the police drongles. And all the time feeling the sidewalk under my feet, hoping the rhythm of my steps over the wet, gray slabs would tell me what the hell I should do next.
After an hour, I found myself standing outside Mending Things with Fire.
I stood stupidly, looking at the bar, telling myself that I hadn’t come back to New Seattle to trawl over my past. But the place was unchanged, looking just as it had eight years ago, almost to the day when I had last been here.
