The Crash of Hennington

by Patrick Ness

  —I like orchids.

  —I have another call, Adam. Issue settled.

  She released his line and pressed another flashing light.

  —Yes?

  —Deputy Mayor Latham on the line.

  —Put him through. Max? Make me happy.

  —Unlikely, I’m afraid.

  —You can’t make the fundraiser.

  —I can’t make the fundraiser.

  —This is my thought, right this second: ‘Why do I even bother?’

  —Talon is sick.

  —Oh. Well, all right then. What’s wrong with her?

  —Battery Pox.

  —Poor thing. Started the shots?

  —We’re driving home from the doctor’s office right now. She’ll be fine. She’s just throwing up all over everything.

  —And a sitter is out of the question?

  —Cora …

  —All right, all right, all right, I’m civilized. I’ll just have to work myself up for a sparring match with Archie Banyon.

  —He can’t be too upset if I have a sick daughter.

  —He won’t be upset at you. He’ll be upset at me.

  —You can handle Archie Banyon.

  —I know I can handle Archie Banyon. Doesn’t mean I look forward to it. Where are you now?

  —Driving down Eighth. Just about to cross Medford.

  —Look out for The Crash. They’re around there somewhere.

  —The Arboretum called, didn’t they?

  —I don’t want to talk about it.

  —Sorry about tonight.

  —I don’t want to talk about it.

  But she did.

  —How can you expect to be elected if I do all your campaigning for you?

  —You got elected four times. Why fix something that’s not broke?

  —Don’t be cavalier. They’re not going to make you Mayor just because I tell them to.

  —They might.

  —Well, yes, they might, but still, Max—

  —I’ll make it up to you.

  —So you say. Are you even going to vote?

  —Mercer Tunnel. Breaking up. Gotta go.

  —Liar.

  She cut him off and pressed a private speed dial.

  —We’re flying solo tonight.

  —Hi, sweetest. Max pulled out again?

  —Yep.

  —How does he expect to get your job if he never shows up to anything? Politics is nasty and brutish, but you at least have to play at it.

  —Talon’s got Battery Pox. Apparently, she’s vomiting everywhere.

  —How vivid. All right, whatever, we’ll pull in the dough for him once more.

  —He says thanks.

  —No, he doesn’t, but at least he means it.

  As was his wont, Albert disconnected without saying goodbye. Cora dialed her secretary.

  —Angie, get me Archie Banyon on the phone, please.

  —Max canceled again, didn’t he?

  —Just get Archie on the phone and let me out of my misery.

  She clicked off and saw lines lighting up as Angie tracked down Archie Banyon. Cora steeled herself. He would let her off, but he wouldn’t do it without making her pay.

  7. Father and Daughter.

  Max Latham was trying to become Mayor of Hennington, but he wasn’t trying very hard. He still wasn’t sure if his heart was in it, which he often thought should have been proof enough that his heart most definitely was not in it. There was the sticky question of destiny, though. He had worked for Cora nearly thirteen years, since he was fresh out of law school, first as an intern with a brilliant mind for policy – if a little less so for politics – then as an advisor, then as Chief of Parks, until his current position as Deputy Mayor, the youngest person ever to have held such a post. Now, with Cora retiring after twenty adored years in office, everything had crystalized, just at this moment, for him to fulfill an awaiting slot in history, to step forward and seize the waiting gold ring, to set so many records atumble.

  If elected, and as there was no present credible competition and as he was riding on Cora’s enormous popularity, getting elected seemed almost foregone, he would be Hennington’s first Rumour Mayor, quite a coup when Rumours were still, if you believed the census takers, a minority in the city. He would also be the youngest Mayor ever in the Recent Histories, beating the record by the two years he was younger than the previous recordholder, Cora, on her first election. Max had yet to even breach forty. More esoterically, Max would also be Hennington’s first unmarried Mayor, the mother of his daughter having drowned before plans for their wedding could be finished. All these impressive footnotes that would be for ever attached to his name.

  And yet.

  He looked in his rearview mirror for a glimpse of Talon, piqued in the back seat.

  —How’re you feeling, sweetheart?

  —My head weighs a hundred pounds.

  —We’re almost home. Let me know if you need to throw up again.

  —Okay.

  Talon at ten was the spitting image of her father, high cheekbones, dark wavy hair, skin on the lighter side of the usual Rumour tan. But she had her mother’s chin cleft, a mark that could still spark fresh pain in him when he saw it, even all these years later. Max slowed his car to watch The Crash, still so magnificent after uncountable sightings, wander across to a side street. He idled to a stop as the last animals lumbered through the intersection. The Rhinoherd shuffled along with them twenty paces behind.

  —Look, honey. The Crash.

  —I can’t sit up, Daddy.

  —Of course, sweetie, I’m sorry. We’re almost home.

  Was not being sure if you wanted to run for Mayor a good sign that you shouldn’t run for Mayor or a good sign that you had enough self-doubt and introspection that you were in fact a perfect candidate for Mayor?

  —Daddy?

  —Yes, sweetie?

  The sounds of coughing. Max turned around and stroked the back of Talon’s head while she retched into the bag the doctor had given her.

  —Just take your time, honey. It hurts less if you relax.

  He felt sweat dampening her hair as he stroked it.

  —Take all the time you need to, sweetheart. We’ve got all the time in the world.

  8. Mathematica.

  Jacqueline Strell sat in her office and bathed in numbers. They flooded her desk in wave after wave, pages of numbers blocked in charts, scraps of numbers scribbled in pencil, computer analyses of numbers bracketed and cross-referenced to other rivers of numbers filed away in the cabinets behind her, numbers on cards, numbers on machine readouts, numbers on computer screens, numbers on the desk itself put there when, in a flurry of activity, Jacki chose not to flip over a page but continued onto the hard wood. Even her fingernails sported numbers, whimsically painted there this morning when she was in a whimsical mood. The time was rapidly approaching when she would need more whimsy. Oh, yes.

  Her office nestled in the back half of the Hennington Hills Golf Course and Resort Administration Building. She loved it. Spacious table tops flung out from her desk in wings towards her office door, room enough to keep the flood of numbers churning and churning in their never-ending whirlpool. Cabinets lined the three walls behind her and to her right and left, streams and cauldrons of bubbling, stirring, steaming numbers. She had fourteen different clocks decorating her walls, all set to the same time but all with different number fonts.

  This was the reason Jacki was an accountant: she, alone among everyone else she had ever known, understood infinity. This understanding was innate. No epiphany, no trumpet blast of the everlasting had ever filled her brainpan. The eternal had always whiled away its time in her gray matter. She had been intimate with the infinite from the time she could even speak such words. The human mind was not supposed to be able to truly grasp the never-ending, but she could close her eyes and set her mind running off into forever, tripping lightly away on a line with no beginning and no end.

  This was th
e reason Jacki understood infinity: she understood numbers. Infinity, aside from its unfathomable physical existence, could only and would only ever be expressed in numbers. Jacki looked scornfully on the small-minded ‘appreciation’ of the layman towards an infinite set. ‘Really, really big, then even bigger'. They didn’t see it. Jacki saw it. More, she felt it, smelled it, could almost touch it. Numbers adding and adding and adding and adding exponential upon exponential upon exponential and then all those numbers were still as nothing because infinity remained, brightly spilling itself infinitely forward.

  Jacki leaned back in her chair and sighed. She was tall, generously boned, with loopy brown hair that matched the gawky, unconfined sprawl of her body. She rubbed her hand across her high forehead, inside which was an increasingly throbbing ache. Yes indeedy, it was time for whimsy again, most definitely. She opened the top drawer of her desk and pulled out a vial and syringe. With practiced movements, she filled the hypodermic, tapped it for bubbles, raised the hem of her skirt, and injected her thigh with 50ccs of the purest Forum you could get anywhere in Hennington.

  Because there were three more things about Jacki:

  1) Besides being an accountant with a comprehension of infinity, she was totally, utterly, wholly, paralytically and absolutely addicted to Forum.

  2) Because of this, Jacki also worked as a prostitute for her boss, Thomas Banyon, biological son of Archie Banyon and general manager of the Hennington Hills Golf Course and Resort, lent out to clients to feed a specific need, thereby pleasing Thomas and causing him to provide her with more Forum, although of course never quite enough. These shifts were in addition to the full day’s work she put in as Thomas’ Head Accountant. Never let it be said that Thomas Banyon lacked a darkling sense of humor.

  3) And all of this was true because, at age forty-one, with her youngest child fifteen years old, Jacki still produced, on a daily basis, nearly two pints of breast milk, and there were a surprising number of men who would pay a surprising amount of money for just such a delicacy. Thomas Banyon was not a man to let potential income go unexploited.

  Her phone rang. Alone in her office, she mouthed an expletive.

  —Hello?

  —Jacks.

  Jacki frowned, but the Forum was already dribbling its way through her veins and she began to feel her consternation melt away, butter in boiling water.

  —Yes, Mr Banyon?

  —I have a clip for you tonight. Are you up for it?

  As if there was a choice involved.

  —Of course, Mr Banyon. It would be my pleasure.

  —It’s Councilman Wiggins. You remember the good Councilman, don’t you?

  Remember? She had to put salve on her nipples for nearly a week after the good Councilman displayed a tendency for toothiness. This memory too, though, floated away into the shimmering mirage of the drug.

  —Certainly, Mr Banyon. What time?

  —Say ten?

  —All right. Ten it is. Usual place?

  —Usual place.

  —I’ll be there.

  —I truly appreciate that, Jacks. I’ve got some really wonderful merchandise here that I had been hoping to share with you. I want to thank you for giving me the opportunity.

  —I’m grateful for your indulgence, Mr Banyon.

  —You’re a good girl, Jacks.

  He clicked off. Jacki closed her eyes. She was deep into butterscotch warmth now and glorious waves of light and color filled her head. The anguish, thank the heavens, was winding its way clockwise down the drain, spiraling blissfully out of her presence.

  God bless Forum. Forum’s name be praised.

  9. Hospitality.

  —Mr Noth?

  Eugene Markham knocked again. After a lengthy pause, Tybalt ‘Jon’ Noth opened the door. He was wearing one of the Solari’s bathrobes. His hair was wet, and he held a towel in his hands. Still, he smiled when he saw Eugene.

  —Eugene! What can I do you for?

  —I was just checking to see if everything is to your satisfaction.

  —Slow day for you then?

  —Yes.

  —And you still have yet to manage a proper smile.

  Eugene almost smiled at this, but not quite.

  —That was pitiful, Eugene. And enough of ‘Mr Noth'. I told you to call me Jon.

  —All right, then. Jon. Is everything to your satisfaction?

  —I’ve only been here long enough for a shower, but the bathroom fulfills most accepted definitions of nice.

  Jon smiled again, more warmly this time. Maybe he was a preacher. Maybe that was it.

  —Are you some kind of preacher?

  —How is it that I just know this surliness is something you’re trying to overcome and that there’s a perfectly personable individual in there somewhere struggling to get out rather than just plain old dour Eugene?

  —You smile a lot, is all I mean.

  —Your perception is bizarre, Eugene, but somehow, perhaps accidentally, it may even be correct. Interesting.

  Eugene blinked. He wasn’t sure if he was being agreed with.

  —So …

  —I have been called a preacher in my time, Eugene, but even then, it could have been wrong. As for now, definitely not.

  Eugene blinked again.

  —'Why don’t you come on in and talk for a while, Eugene’ is what you’re waiting for me to say, yes?

  —I don’t mean in any male-male sex kind of way, but—

  —I didn’t think you did. Why don’t you come on in and talk for a while, Eugene?

  Eugene, surprising even himself, smiled, stepped over the threshold, and entered Jon’s room.

  10. The Crash at the Bridge.

  Once, early on in her time as leader, the search for food had forced her to take them across the bridge that flung itself over the bay away from the city, a difficult, frightening and lengthy journey. The whole way along she could only smell salt water and the noxious metallic scent of the boxes that the thin creatures rode in. The wind drowned out all sound as the herd picked its way through the stopped boxes, the thin creatures inside staring out impassively. It was slow going, with much nervous lowing and braying among the members of the herd until, perhaps inevitably, disaster struck. About two thirds of the way across, some of the older animals started to panic, the confinement of the bridge causing a claustrophobia unknown to them even in some of the city’s starker alleys.

  She attempted to keep some sort of order, firmly shaking her head, stepping forward and back. She snorted and affected a prance to try to hold their attention, but the wind snuffed her out. An old male began to get aggressive in his fear, knocking some of the smaller animals out of his way. An old female stumbled, accidentally pushing over a pregnant mother. The final stroke was the appearance of a flying box carrying some of the thin creatures. (— … so avoid the Firth Roundabout if you can at all. And finally, it looks like we’ve got a serious traffic jam on the Harbour Bridge, caused by The Crash of all things. As you can see from SkyCam5, cars are just at a standstill. Looks like rush hour’s going to be even longer tonight all over the city. Back to you in the studio . . .) Hovering to the side of the bridge, the box brought a swirling roar that proved too much for the more nervous animals. They turned and charged, running full gallop back the way they had come, leaving her and more than half the rest of the herd standing near the far end of the bridge.

  The herd must not divide.

  She ran to overtake the fleeing animals, to try to get in front of them to lead them again, to get them off the bridge and back into a calmer state. She arrived too late for some. The aggressive old male had given himself a mortal wound charging into the scattered boxes over and over again, his horn cracked, his ears bleeding. The old female who had knocked over the expectant mother had been turned against and was being forced over the side by a cadre of enraged herdmembers blinded by fright. She reached the group only in time to see the old female vanish over the edge with a low, terrified moan.

&n
bsp; She quickened her pace, passing charging herdmembers on her right and left, weaving through the thin creature boxes, some of which were trying to move out of her way and only causing more problems. Her mouth foamed at the effort, her ears filled with the roar of her blood, but near the end of the bridge, almost a mile later, she was in front of the herdmembers that were fleeing. Assuming her entire authority in what she did next, she turned, faced the entire herd, and stopped right at the line where the bridge returned to the soil. Astonished, the escaping herdmembers careered to a halt in front of her. There were pile-ups as those charging behind were slower to stop, but eventually she faced the herd in its entirety, save for the two now lost. Even stopped, chaos still rattled the members as they jostled and tussled, some still panicking to get off the bridge.

  She paced in front of them purposefully, walking back and forth, back and forth, until all heads were turning following her movements. With a loud snort and without slowing her step, she turned and headed away from the bridge. The animals followed her in shaky unison. In a short amount of time, the bridge was cleared of all animals except for the dying old male, who thankfully had knocked himself into unconsciousness before he died.

  It was difficult to lead, but she led them once more.

  11. Orthopediae.

  Thomas Banyon was born with legs so bowed he was said to have been straddling his mother’s womb rather than resting in it, that his mother had wished for a boy and had given birth to the wishbone instead, that his parents had copulated on horseback, in a tunnel, with pliers, et al. Fortunately, his parents had been – his father still was – very, very wealthy: erstwhile Hennington City Council Members, owners of the Hennington Hills Golf Course and half of everything else in Hennington, stables full of horses, maids in the houses, unused yachts. These remarks about his legs were never said to Thomas Banyon’s face. This did not mean he was unaware of them.

  Before Thomas had been alive a year, his parents had paid for five surgeries to correct his legs. He had three more by the time he was six and had not actually learned to walk until he was seven. He attended rigorous physical therapy on up into adolescence with Joe. Joe, ‘Just Joe', the therapist, was a former soldier who had served with Thomas’ grandfather in the Gentlemen’s War nearly fifty years previous and was purported to be the best physical therapist in Hennington. But Joe, and there’s really no getting around this, was an out-and-out sadist. His stated goal from day one was to get Thomas to cry.