A number of factors fuelled his dour mood: Margaret’s jitters as the clouds of war hung over Ottawa, her public spat with the environment minister, his own malaise as he looked dismally toward an election campaign.
And his partner’s little affair still gnawed at him, especially when he awoke from one of his nightmares. Their current leitmotif: Arthur as a silent witness, usually at a window, as Margaret was vigorously seduced by a ruggedly built, long-haired bastard named Lloyd Chalmers.
But those dreams lied. He was married, and happily for the most part, despite the long partings; despite the starkly different worlds he and Margaret occupied; despite her episode with that reptilian psychologist, now rued, repented, forgotten. She had been fatigued, lonely, hadn’t seen past Chalmers’s undoubtedly bloated ego — Arthur accepted all of that. She was human. Humans can be frail.
Also bugging the old grouch was the Personal Transformation Mission, with its spreading tentacles. More islanders had fallen under the sway of the charismatic Jason Silverson. At least three of the Nine Easy Pieces were encamped at Starkers Cove. As were several others from the island’s hippie community: soul-seekers, faddists, middle-aged New Agers.
None of these folks had much in their purses, so Arthur couldn’t figure out how Silverson was scheming to fleece them. Instead, he was spending heavily: providing tents, building temporary barracks and cabins. So maybe his motive was not profit, but, as Reverend Al surmised, to feed a hunger for power over others’ minds.
To Al, it was the invasion of the body snatchers. He was particularly peeved that Silverson had snatched several of his parishioners. The Chamberlains. Henrietta Wilks. The lesbian couple known as Wholeness and Wellness, not sisters but nearly indistinguishable, who ran the health food store.
That store was just across the road from Arthur now, among the little cluster of shops, and Wellness — or maybe it was Wholeness — was sunning herself outside with a mug of, presumably, herbal tea. “Just Do It!” exclaimed her T-shirt. A meaningless command, maybe a catchphrase. She called, “Love all things, Arthur.”
He was uncertain how to obey such a broad command. “I will. I do.”
“Oh, good. Here’s your reward.” She met him on the road, a crushing hug. Reward enough, but she also pressed on him a bag with two oatmeal cookies. “Sugar-free, gluten-free.”
“How kind of you.” He took a bite. It tasted of chalk. “Very delicious indeed.”
He tucked the cookies in his pack for later. They might be more palatable paired with sugared tea.
§
Occupying the sturdy bench outside the general store was Nelson Forbish, editor of the Bleat. He was feeding, with a spoon, directly from a family pack of Frosted Flakes.
“Late breakfast,” he explained. “Worked all night, had to catch up on my accounts. Your subscription is due.”
“I’ll mail a cheque.”
“I was thinking I could maybe drop over and pick it up. Maybe some evening when you’re not too busy.”
The message was not well coded. Arthur would have to put a turkey on, or steaks.
Among a scattering of customers in the store were Tabatha Jones, Taba to her friends, and her daughter, Felicity, talking earnestly by the baked goods. Last seen, Felicity had been climbing into Jason Silverson’s van, along with the entire infield of the Nine Easy Pieces.
Arthur overheard her: “You’ll love them, Mom, honest, they’re so spiritual.”
“I’ll take a pass,” said Taba, with an edge of exasperation.
Arthur wandered about, collecting his sundries, pausing at the rack of magazines and paperbacks, its bottom shelf offering “Canadiana” and “Garibaldiana.” Among the latter were a dozen thin books signed by Cudworth Brown, the local bawdy poet, and a few copies of Garibaldi Potpourri, an anthology by the island’s Literary Collective. Beside those stood the store’s last three copies of A Thirst for Justice: The Trials of Arthur Beauchamp. A thick volume, the cover of which had likely scared off many prospective buyers: squint-eyed Arthur with his eagle’s beak in profile.
Apparently it hadn’t deterred Jason Silverson. Discovery of an authentic life path. Almost spiritual. His overwrought guru-speak. It dismayed Arthur that the fellow knew all about his blemished past: his history of drunken revels, his stumbling failures with the opposite sex, his punishing first marriage to an indefatigably faithless partner.
His shopping done, Arthur stopped at the Canada Post counter, where Abraham Makepeace, store owner and postmaster, a gaunt man of funereal mien, was anticipating Arthur’s arrival by shuffling through the mail from the Blunder Bay box.
“Most of this is for Margaret. Bunch of flyers you don’t want.” He tossed those into a waste bin. “Your New Yorker, which I can tell you none of the cartoons make sense this week. This here’s a postcard for one of your Woofers, pretty hard to read, it’s mostly in Japanese except the smiley face. This big envelope is from the Trial Lawyers’ Association of the USA, I think it’s some kind of speakers’ kit.”
“Yes, thank you. I’m addressing their conference in Seattle.”
“I know.” He held a letter to the light. “And here’s an invite from the Transformers, an opportunity to find awareness.” He leaned forward as Arthur tore open the envelope. “I heard a theory they’re extraterrestrials, and we’ve been invaded by the mind invaders. It’s just like that movie I saw. Where they suck out your brains. Except these ones have a website.”
It was right at the top of the page: personaltransformationmission.org. The letter began “Dear friend,” but “friend” was crossed out and replaced by “Arthur” in longhand. It was an invitation to islanders to drop in to Starkers Cove to sample the new wares on offer, among them: yoga, “bodywork,” and something called “physioemotional release therapy.” All conducted by qualified trainers newly arrived from California for “affordable fees.”
Of even less interest to Arthur was a “not-to-be-missed opportunity” to learn awareness from “the great and universally loved Baba Sri Rameesh,” who would be the Mission’s guest for a few weeks in June. Arthur had enough awareness to see this as a con. There was no mention of a fee to enjoy the company of this fakir, but donations would be welcomed. Surely Silverson could not expect to make big bucks from these services, not from the small community of Garibaldi Islanders. What was his game?
Arthur stepped outside, observed that Nelson Forbish had risen from his bench and was talking with a pair of spandexed middle-aged cyclists toting camping equipment. Forbish had a map and, after giving them directions to Starkers Cove, began interviewing them. Fans of the universally loved Baba Sri Rameesh? Expensive bicycles, battery powered.
Arthur carried on to the Brig, the island pub. During his visits to Hopeless Bay, it was his custom to enjoy a tea break, weather permitting, on the tavern’s outdoor patio, a wooden deck cantilevered over a narrow inlet off the bay. From Arthur’s waterfront table, he could look below at waves surging and receding over the barnacles and the floridly coloured starfish.
A muffin, a hot mug of good black tea, a pretty view, Apollo riding high in the sky, all conspired to temper his sour mood. But he saw an opportunity to rekindle it.
At a pair of joined tables, half a dozen local scamps were quaffing pitchers of beer and ignoring the no-smoking sign as two men in RCMP harness appeared at the open doorway of the bar: Constable Irwin Dugald, a humourless hulk with a perpetual frown, and his volunteer Auxiliary, Kurt Zoller, who, when he wasn’t playing policeman, operated a water taxi business.
Life hadn’t been quite as relaxed since Dugald took up residence here a month ago for a two-year tour of duty on Garibaldi and nearby less-populated islands. He’d arrived here, as they all did, full of earnest intentions and imbued with a sense of duty. But he would learn, as they all did, that to survive Garibaldi, he’d have to adjust to its quirks and to mellow.
Zoller, a slight, wir
y fellow, stiff in posture and manner, looked about hawkishly, sniffing the air, pulling out his notepad. “I’m taking names. Cud Brown is obviously holding a lit cigarette behind his back. Gomer Goulet was observed hawking a gob over the railing, so I also got him under the Health Act. Also, he appears to be in an illegal state of inebriation.”
Ernie Priposki scowled. “Hey, instead of hassling innocent civilians, why ain’t you guys out busting them Transformers at Starkers Cove? They’re preaching immoralism, free love.”
“Yeah, that’s got to stop,” said Gomer, without irony.
“You have evidence?” Dugald looked from face to face. Winks and knowing smiles hid the likelihood that all they’d heard was scuttlebutt.
Dugald left them to the mercies of Zoller, and joined Arthur’s table. He leaned close. “You don’t mind my asking, Mr. Beauchamp, what do you make of these Transformers? Only been beyond their gate once, I’ve got no reason to go back. They have all their permits. I’ve heard some rumours about drugs and sex, but that wasn’t my basic impression.”
“I know less than you do, Constable.”
Dugald glanced into the bar, where Felicity and her mother were sharing a drink. “I can’t investigate that fellow Silverson for consensual acts. Especially with certain ladies of this island, if you know what I mean.” Dugald had obviously heard of Felicity’s reputation as the easiest of the Nine Pieces and seen her fawning over the blond bombshell. Her T-shirt, a size too small, was fittingly captioned: “Just Do It!”
“Maybe he does want to inhabit their bodies,” Arthur said, repeating Reverend Al’s feeble joke.
“Well, no one’s filed a complaint about that.” Dugald was not a man of infinite jest.
“Might I suggest you send an undercover operator in.” This time Arthur was only half joking, but Dugald was looking at Kurt Zoller, musing.
THEMES OF SEX AND VIOLENCE
Margaret Blake was slouched over her desk in the Greens’ HQ staff room, growing angrier as she waded through the various bills that the PMO was offering as election sop — lower taxes, subsidies, development grants. The most blatant was a mushy act to “Strengthen Canadian Families” that offered a small tax rebate; the most hideous offered more incentives for petroleum exploration.
The Tories anticipated an election, expected the Liberals finally to side with the Evil Empire of the Left. The Greens were as ready as they could be, given their scant resources, but still short of candidates for the last dozen ridings. The poorly paid staff and volunteers that composed the campaign committee were working triple overtime on election prep.
Pierette entered, talking on her BlackBerry, giving her a wide-eyed look. “Let me put you on hold.” Margaret sat up. “Lou Sabatino. You remember him.”
A CP staffer. He’d been in the Press Gallery several years ago. He’d covered her first national campaign, and was now with their Montreal bureau. A gentle soul, sort of nondescript.
“He has something he wants you to see. Amend that. He has something you’ll want to see. He wouldn’t tell me. You know he wrote that series on the Montreal harbour scandal.”
“Yes, of course.” She assumed he was doing the rounds with his contact list, seeking comment from party leaders on a breaking story. Had he dug up more good dirt on Waterfrontgate?
A little more conversation, then Pierette put him on hold again. “Can you go to Montreal? He doesn’t like to travel. I think he’s a little paranoid. Justifiably, I guess.”
Margaret had always suspected Sabatino was slightly neurotic. Needy, socially awkward, he seemed obsessed with his electronic gizmos. But he’d pulled off a mighty scoop and barely escaped an attempt on his life by those whose crimes he’d exposed.
Pierette, on her BlackBerry: “Lou, is this super important?” A pause. “Hold again, Lou.”
To Margaret: “Apparently one of the participants at a certain annual Easter bird count is himself a rara avis. No names mentioned. But I’m assuming it’s you-know-who.”
That caused Margaret to jerk upright. She didn’t have to look at her calendar, but did so anyway. This was Thursday. On the weekend, at Montreal’s Palais des congrès, the World Wildlife Fund was sponsoring an international conference on habitat preservation. Margaret had agreed to be on a panel.
“I’ll be at the St. James through Sunday. Set up a time.”
§
The gentle rocking of VIA Rail usually encouraged Margaret to drift off, especially when escaping Ottawa for a weekend. But with eyes closed, legs stretched out on the facing seat, she was merely pretending to sleep, her mind too busy with pre-election clutter and with the busy agenda for the WWF conference. For which she and her team — Pierette and Jennie Withers — would be late arrivals this Saturday morning.
Pierette was plugged into a podcast. Jennie had slipped away to another car to confer with some First Nations friends also en route to the conference. Subtly campaigning for herself as leader, of course. Good luck to her, with her “cooler” approach. So quick-witted, unbitchy. She’d be a fine leader. More cautious than Margaret, not prone to jumping into political mud puddles.
Margaret had agreed to a secret tête-à-tête with Lou Sabatino, planned for tonight, in some dark corner of a bookstore-cum-café near the McGill campus. He’d called again last evening, coins clacking and pinging from a pay phone, his voice trembling. He’d balked at joining her at the Convention Centre or her nearby hotel, the St. James, in Old Montreal. “They may be listening. We can’t be seen. Clandestine is the word.”
Should she go masked? It all seemed a little silly. But if this cloak and dagger was about that rara avis, Emil Farquist, clandestine was the word. She was tingling to know what this was about. Interestingly, Sabatino was no longer on staff at Canadian Press. A source at the bureau told Pierette that Lou had been let go recently. No address, no phone, no contact information. The witness protection program was mentioned.
The weekend threatened a complication. Lloyd Chalmers would be at the conference as a WWF panellist and the Sunday breakfast speaker. “Tearing Down the Walls of Climate Change Denial,” something like that. He’d emailed her. “It would be lovely to rub elbows if your hectic weekend sked permits a free moment. Maybe a quick drink? The St. James, as usual.”
That arrived several days ago. He was clearly interested in rubbing more than elbows. Knowing he’d booked into the St. James, she ought to have switched hotels. But she wasn’t going to run from him like a scared rabbit. Margaret had deleted the message. Deleted it again, from her trash.
And of course whenever Lloyd got into her head, so did her life partner, his frowning image prompting another wretched guilt attack. Arthur would feel horribly threatened were he to find out she was registered in the same hotel as her ex-lover. Maybe he did know, because for the first time in recent memory he hadn’t made his customary Friday evening call. She should have rung him, but waited too long, and then it was midnight, and Arthur might have decided on an early night, and . . . well, it was too early on the West Coast to call him now.
Margaret opened her eyes to see Pierette removing her earbuds, staring at her. “Honey, I know you’re not sleeping. About Lou Sabatino?”
“Everything.”
The coffee cart came by. Margaret roused herself, asked for it black. Pierette waited until the server moved along, then spoke softly: “Professor Lloyd Chalmers?”
Margaret almost choked on her café noir. She wasn’t sure if Pierette knew or was just making a good guess. “Lloyd . . .” Then abruptly, defensively: “Nothing’s happening there.”
“Excuse me.” Pierette looked away, offended.
The awkward silence was broken by Jennie introducing a delegate from the Idle No More caucus, who eagerly shook hands with the Green leader then shyly retreated. Jennie perched herself across from Margaret, took a file from her briefcase, and they began divvying up the issues to be debated at their Su
nday panel, a Q and A. She and Pierette would be Margaret’s wingers. The other two Green MPs would also be at the table, all of them miked.
Pierette had agreed, though with reservations, not to say anything to Jennie about Margaret’s meeting with Sabatino. A veteran land-claims negotiator, she was overly cautious, would get all hawk-eyed and legal on her. Don’t go alone, you must always bring a witness. It could be a trap, setting you up for a zillion-dollar defamation action.
Such a worrywart.
§
Margaret attended a couple of data-rich scientific panels, avoided the plenaries, and kept clear of the buffet lunch sponsored by the provincial government. This minimized the chance of rubbing elbows with Dr. Chalmers. She spotted him once, ushering well-endowed woman into a meeting room, holding the door, flashing that smile, and she hated the little shiver she felt.
But finally, at about five o’clock, there was no escape. She had popped into a little reception for a few honorary WWF patrons and was on her way to the cash bar when the scandalously attractive psychologist stepped into her path with a glass of Chablis in either hand.
“You won’t be offended if I offer you this?”
“Offended?” She stared at the glass, finally accepted it.
“I thought you might not want to encounter me,” he said.
“Oh, your email. Sorry, Lloyd, I should have responded.” She sensed people watching. Lloyd narrowed the gap, too close.
“I was sure I’d committed some terrible faux pas,” he said.
“We both did. Does this conversation have to be about us? Right now . . . in public?”
Whipped Page 5
