Whipped

by William Deverell

  It was also telling that in mid-May Farquist fired Glinka. Because he suspected she’d passed secrets to the Russians? Sabatino recalled she’d been furious — he’d thought it was pride, but perhaps it was because this lost connection meant the Russians’ wallets would close. Vengefully, she’d shown Lou the video, talked of exposing him, writing a book. About a week later she’d been bribed into silence, possibly to the tune of $200,000, the proceeds of his mortgage on the Lac Vert property.

  The comment by Arthur’s ever-so-talkative wife had hit the mark: “The heat was getting too hot.” Glinka had been under siege: visits from Farquist’s lawyers, from Sierra; the press might not be far behind. Afraid she’d be summoned back for the trial — and forced to lie under oath and face a perjury charge — she’d found a bolthole in Russia, where she was extradition-free.

  Arthur had given up on her anyway. The CSIS backgrounder was redolent with scandal, and though not central to the slander suit, it might be of some use. But Arthur didn’t trust CSIS one iota, and was aghast that Margaret had had a cozy chit-chat with their man. What if his information was false, those photos doctored? What if they were trying to set her up, tempting her to test the defamation laws once again with this explosive new allegation?

  Arthur had left a message with McGilroy’s office saying he would be pleased to see him when he was next in Ottawa. He didn’t add that he was prepared to listen but would be offering no quid pro quo. Not until, maybe, after the trial in March.

  He had found himself exasperated with Margaret — she was too keen to pursue the Glinka–Farquist–Sibericon connection. In all his years at the bar, he had never had such a trying client. He’d instructed her not to talk to McGilroy any further — and that went double for Pierette, who’d been practically drooling over him. They were to be cautious on the phone, erase all saved messages, phone numbers.

  After he had caught his breath, he apologized for his severe tone.

  She’d responded stiffly. “Thank you for your advice, Counsellor.”

  §

  Standing in the bow of the ferry as it grunted into the slip at Ferryboat Cove, he was relieved to see his truck — the Fargo-napper hadn’t struck again; it was still on the steep side road where Arthur had parked it, pointing downhill, because of its lazy battery.

  He retrieved his bag from the ferry van and joined the several cyclists and backpackers making their way over the ramp. Standing there, staring past him with a pained expression, was Henrietta Wilks, retired teacher and early convert to the Transformers. Her daughter, Melanie, was tugging at her arm.

  “Come on, Mom, let’s take you home.”

  “He’s gone,” Henrietta announced to Arthur. “But I can hear his voice. Can you hear it too?”

  Melanie pulled her out of the way of the vehicles rolling off. Arthur asked if he could be of any help.

  “She’s been practically camped here, ever since Thursday.”

  “Where have they gone?” Henrietta asked Arthur, somehow assuming he would know.

  He helped guide her to Melanie’s car, in the pick-up lane. “Who’s gone where?”

  “Jason,” Melanie said. “The Transformers. They’ve all gone.”

  It was almost noon. Reverend Al would be seeing off his parishioners after Sunday service. Arthur climbed into his Fargo. It started right up.

  §

  The parking area at St. Mary’s Landing was emptying as Arthur pulled in. Al shook a last hand, waved a last goodbye, then strode toward the Fargo with a jaunty, crinkly-eyed look Arthur had not seen for half a year.

  “Packed house, old boy. Quadrupled from last week. Eighty-seven larynxes joined in song: ‘Ring the bells of heaven, there is joy today.’ Yes, the flock has returned. Rueful, ashamed, forgiven. A dalliance with a false god. Come. Sit. Let us enjoy this splendid fall day.”

  It was cold, an occasional spit of rain, but Arthur could not deny him, and they took a bench on the bluff, above the little inlet with its shell beach, its resident geese and bossy, patrolling ravens.

  “I have my island back,” Al said. “There is a God. He does listen to my prayers.”

  “I met Henrietta Wilks. She’s still hearing Silverson’s voice.”

  “Mass hypnosis, old boy. The poor lady was extraordinarily susceptible.”

  Arthur packed his pipe and lit it, wondering if he too had briefly fallen under Silverson’s sway: those gupa attacks, those strange episodes of tranquility. “Did the cultists just evaporate into the air?”

  “Practically. They took the late ferry Thursday, in the dark. Jason and his space-case sidekick, Morg, all the Californian disciples and seekers, their bikes and VWs, plus that moving van they’d brought in. This had to have been planned some time ago, when they started dumping their pigs and chickens. They were giving machinery away too, toward the end. Gardening tools. Fridges, freezers, household appliances.”

  “All done without a goodbye?”

  “Not even a parting namaste. Poof. Gone.”

  §

  Reverend Al had wanted to continue their conversation at the Brig, over his customary Sunday tot, but Arthur first checked in at Blunder Bay. Niko and Yoki insisted on taking him around the grounds, a meet-and-greet with the goats and sheep and fowl. Eggs and cheese and a bumper crop from the walnut tree had sold out at the Saturday market, and hay was baled and in the barn. Both girls seemed indifferent to the flight of the Transformers, well free of their pull.

  “Been there,” said Niko. “Done that.”

  Arthur was perplexed by the Transformers’ exodus, and by their unexpected generosity. Maybe they’d decided Garibaldi was small potatoes and were moving to more fertile ground. What had Silverson gained from Garibaldi but the hundred or so adherents he had abandoned? Except, possibly, a handsome profit should they sell or subdivide Starkers Cove, which they’d bought on the cheap. Al had done a title search — it remained in the name of the Personal Transformation Mission Society. Al still insisted they were scamming. He was set on finding out how. Al was a bulldog.

  Arthur returned to the house to take stock and make a shopping list, then got back into the Fargo. Again, he was startled to hear the engine fire up.

  §

  He had time for a brief detour up Stoney’s driveway, with its motley signs still proudly displaying his unlicensed businesses. It had taken a while, but Constable Dugald had finally surrendered to Stoney, to the island’s grand tradition of breaking bylaws.

  The Fargo ascended past rust-buckets in the weeds, alder trees growing from them, and pulled alongside Stoney’s garage. Arthur found the master mechanic sitting with Dog, under a tarp, taking a beer break.

  “And what brings you to my humble abode, good sir?”

  “I felt I should express my astonishment and delight that my truck seems to be in proper working order.”

  “My pleasure. She is the proud possessor of a relatively new battery. Started right up.”

  Arthur wondered how many miles he’d put on it.

  “Meet the latest addition to our fleet. We scored this baby off of the Transformers, a John Deere 7500.” Stoney gestured toward a handsome green beast behind the garage.

  “We scored this baby?” said Dog.

  “Okay, Morg gave it to Dog for being such an absolute jockstrap. He put in some big hours for them.”

  “God bless them,” said Dog, with a rare smile. Arthur wondered whether he was still under their spell or had gone back to being a good Christian. Either way, clearly there were rewards for getting transformed.

  “As for the battery, please let me have your bill. And, if you don’t mind, your spare key.”

  Stoney pretended to be confused, then dug into a pocket. “Oh, yeah . . .” He handed it over.

  §

  The Brig was busy with locals, chatting, caught up in the mystery of the Transformers’ disappearance. Reverend Al and Taba
were across the room at a table for two, looking merry. The mail counter was closed today, and Abraham Makepeace was performing a rare stint behind the bar.

  “Call, raise, or fold.” The loud voice of Cud Brown sailed across the room, from where half a dozen poker players were seated at two joined tables. Arthur observed a pot of money in the middle, tens and twenties.

  “Make up your mind,” Cud growled at Herman Schloss, a retired insurance executive and a man of means but a recovering Transformer. He’d been easy prey for them, in a woebegone state since May, when his actress wife, Mookie, had returned to Hollywood and her B-movie career.

  “You’ve got aces showing, Herman, they beat his jacks.” This was Nelson Forbish, who was hovering like a hot-air balloon, kibitzing, his back to Arthur.

  “Shut up, I’m concentrating.” Schloss looked dazed, maybe because he was still not fully untransformed. Cud Brown and Emily LeMay, the off-duty bartender, were also at the table, sipping cocktails, a frothy purple potion. Three others were drinking beer: Honk Gilmore, Scotty Phillips, and a sixth player obscured by Nelson’s bulk.

  Forbish refused to let up. “Cud’s bluffing, you can see it in his eyes.”

  Schloss growled, “Bugger off, Nelson.”

  Arthur ordered a pot of tea, and leaned toward Makepeace. “Abraham, surely you know this is illegal. Gambling in licensed premises.”

  “It’s legal today.” He went off to fetch the tea.

  Schloss tossed some bills on the pile. “I’m calling you, pal.” He turned up his down cards.

  Forbish groaned. “Full house beats three aces. Nice try, Herman.”

  Schloss rose to slap him, almost knocking his chair over. Forbish retreated, opening up a view of the sixth player: Constable Irwin Dugald, in civvies, cooling out the situation. “It’s only a game, gentlemen. Let’s play cards.”

  “He’s a poker fanatic,” Makepeace said “He’s sent his sidekick off to Starkers, guarding stuff. We’re not supposed to tell Zoller about the gambling. He gets uptight.”

  Felicity Jones, who worked the Brig’s tables on weekends, squeezed beside Arthur with an empty tray. “Two more of those gupa slushes, Abraham.” She saw the puzzlement on Arthur’s face and explained: “One of the fridges they were giving away had two gallons of cold gupa. Works real good with vodka.”

  Arthur looked around. There were Martie Miller and her husband enjoying Silverson’s famous fruit toddy, with its herbs and pinch of Echinacea. As were another couple, weekenders. All of them were acting normal, chatting, smiling.

  As Arthur pulled a chair over to Al and Taba’s table, Felicity set down his tea, picked up two empty glasses, and replaced them with the vodka-gupa slushes.

  “Bring a booze-free one for Arthur, too,” Al said, then turned to him. “Terrific pick-me-up, old boy. Good for what ails you.”

  “I’ll stay with my ailments, thanks.”

  “Are you still missing Jason, poor baby?” Taba said to her daughter, over-sweetly.

  “You want to know the truth, Mom? He was a lousy lay.”

  Al sputtered with laughter.

  Arthur said, “You two seem in a celebratory mood.”

  “Taba and I have our lives back. We’ve withdrawn our candidacies.”

  Arthur was taken aback. “But then we’re stuck with two extremely marginal characters as Trustees.”

  “I’m sure Kurt and Ida have the best interests of Garibaldi at heart. They’re both too slow on the uptake to do much damage, especially with their guru gone AWOL.”

  Arthur wasn’t sure about that. How would his beloved island survive a three-year reign under the anally retentive Kurt Zoller and his holy-rolling partner? But he couldn’t begrudge his friends their restored freedom.

  His alcohol-free gupa arrived, and he just stared at it. The fumes found a fast pathway to his nose, pungent, intense. There was no way he was going to drink it.

  As Al was looking away, Taba treated Arthur to a short but emphatic wink. He smiled uncertainly. A conspiratorial message? Or one of understanding: all is well, no one will ever know? Arthur decided on the latter and felt a stiffness go out of him.

  Emboldened, he took a sip of the gupa. It tasted not bad.

  He let his worries lift free — the trial was months away, he was back on his happy little island, at home, enjoying this pleasant Sunday with friends, the carefree bantering around the poker table. The Transformers were gone, the hay was in, his truck re-muffled. And the weather had shifted, the rain had stopped and the clouds were scattering, pursued by mighty Apollo.

  He sat back, smiled, and took another sip of gupa. Carpe diem.

  §

  Some time later — fifteen minutes? An hour? — he found himself on Hopeless Bay’s public pier, stretched out, leaning over the water, watching it slop and slurp against the pilings, watching the minnows play. Once again, Arthur Beauchamp was at the mercy of an ineffable sense of well-being.

  He looked up. A pair of buffleheads bobbed on the waves, occasionally diving, while an osprey patrolled above. The sun was warm, pulling mist from the bay. His worries were forgotten, magically suppressed. Let what comes come; let what goes go.

  A shadow fell over him. He turned to see Reverend Al, looking anxious: “Are you all right?”

  “I’m at peace with the universe.”

  “I’m wondering if you should see someone.”

  THE UNCONSCIOUS MIND

  “There’s a medical term for it,” said Dr. Timothy Dare. “Genetic sexual attraction.”

  Arthur played with that label, rolled the syllables around his tongue. He was pacing about Dare’s office, occasionally stopping to watch the small craft plying False Creek below Vancouver’s downtown skyscrapers.

  “More common than you’d think,” said Tim. “But rarely admitted to, and hardly the subject of parlour-room chit-chat.” Timothy Jason Dare, MD, Ph.D., was a forensic psychiatrist, tall and bushy-haired, a friend of long standing, much called upon as an expert witness. His office was the upper floor of a houseboat moored off the busy market and expensive boutique shops of Granville Island.

  Arthur had spent some time sketching the secret life of Emil Farquist, from birth to paternal defection to inferred incest to bondage and on to bribery. Tim had listened raptly. Though a confessed neurotic himself, with multiple phobias, he was an acute observer of the human condition.

  He asked several questions, then sprawled on his patients’ divan, and delivered his verdict.

  Though Tim was no Freudian, he believed there was much to be learned from the father of modern psychiatry. The theory of the Oedipus complex was not dead, it remained the basis of psychoanalytic theory: every male infant has an overwhelming desire for his mother, every female for her father. Drives so powerful that society demands they be suppressed.

  “Normally by the post-Oedipal stage, the incest taboo has become imprinted. In this case, maybe not sufficiently. An innocent adolescent, his father lost to him at the age of eight, he may have succumbed to his lonely mother’s needs. She transferred the deep, unanswered love she felt for his father to Emil, thus the genetic attraction. It often begets a sense of repulsion, of shame. One could see how that would translate into a need for punishment. Bondage, pain, humiliation, self-hatred — seeking forgiveness for a sin he could not expunge from memory.”

  A clean, concise summation. Tim went to a shelf filled haphazardly with books and journals. Several cascaded down as he poked among them. “There’s a published paper on GSA. Somewhere.”

  While Tim rooted through the disarray on his shelves, Arthur took advantage of the break to mention, as casually as he could, his own odd experiences, his occasional ascents into a near-spiritual space of unwarranted peace and bliss.

  Tim offered a smile of sympathy. “Have you been under pressure lately?”

  “You have no idea.”

  �
�Margaret’s trial. What could possibly have driven you to represent her?”

  It was impossible to keep a secret from this discerning shrink. Tim had an instinct for reading people, their body language. “I did it out of guilt. There was a . . . an episode, a woman.”

  “You old dog. We’re talking intercourse here?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Driven by guilt into a state of emotional frenzy. It’s good-old-fashioned stress, Arthur. It’s high stress, and, sure, some people snap. But not A.R. Beauchamp, his ego is healthy enough, despite all his self-flagellating, to merely send him to a better place. It’s how you preserve your sanity, through escape. Your unconscious mind has found a useful mechanism.”

  “What do I do if it happens again?”

  “Recognize it. Enjoy it.”

  “It wasn’t the gupa?”

  “What’s gupa?”

  “Never mind.”

  THE SPEAKER

  Monday, November 25, was the brief opening day of a runt first session of the new Parliament: three weeks, then a break for the holidays. Margaret fully expected it to be the crappiest Christmas since God set her on this earth. She would have to brace herself for a week of intense prep — her bossy lawyer would fly out to Ottawa for that — then three days cloistered in a room in the Calgary Courts Centre with Emil Farquist, their lawyers, and an official court reporter.

  She had just taken her seat in the Opposition backbenches, beside Jennie. MPs were filtering in through the chamber’s many orifices, and the galleries were almost full. Today’s sole item of business was the election of a Speaker. That promised to be quick because only one name had been put forward: Orvil Legault, a jovial old New Brunswicker. NDP members had been whipped into supporting him, one of the Liberal old guard. That still left the Liberals with a one-vote minority, thanks to Landslide Lloyd, who’d just taken his seat behind Margaret. She had deliberately assigned him that seat, so he’d be out of her view.