The Crash of Hennington

by Patrick Ness

  What Archie completely failed to see was that Luther was also in an ongoing, all-consuming state of shock. When Luther found his parents’ bodies lying peacefully in their beds, he realized that the world could not, would not, and should not ever be counted on. Luther, perhaps even subconsciously, accepted that whatever Archie gifted him with was bound to be snatched away sooner or later, a feeling that was probably responsible for his extraordinary success in business. He had unwittingly given up having any stake whatsoever in the outcome. Therefore, his work was relaxed and confident and bravely risk-taking. He made Archie Banyon a breathtakingly huge amount of money, and he never, on some level, expected to see a penny of it.

  And then suddenly, everything changed the day he met Peter, a spur of the moment appointment that Luther had allowed himself to be privately talked into by Thomas one unlikely Boxing Day at Archie’s house. Peter had opened up a future, an actual one, not the fantasy ones he expected to evaporate at any precarious second. Peter ignited something – why not, let’s call it love – deep down somewhere in Luther’s dusty internal file room. Whether it worked out, whether Peter reciprocated, aside from being wished for, hoped for, longed for, was in some ways beside the point. In an instant, Luther remembered himself. In a second, he saw how past futures had failed to fall away as he had expected them to. In a moment, he realized how vicariously and almost posthumously he was living. In a day, he knew that he didn’t want the future as it was now laid out before him. He woke up from nearly three decades of willful self-ignorance.

  This was what he had to tell Archie Banyon before the spring board meeting next Wednesday, the board meeting where Archie was going to name Luther Acting Chief Executive Officer, responsible for all business of Banyon Enterprises until Archie Banyon’s death, at which time the ‘Acting’ would be removed from Luther’s title. What Luther realized, at long, long last, was that he did not want it, not any of it. He loved Archie Banyon dearly, would do almost anything for him, but that future was not his. It was a proxy future, a temporary one that had been allowed to run on too long.

  The only problem with telling Archie that this future was impossible was that telling Archie was also impossible. And if both his choices were impossible, what was there to do?

  28. Digitalis.

  They were coming for her.

  She couldn’t open her eyes, but she knew they were in the room. She could hear them, almost like a breath, almost like they could breathe. More, she could feel them, knowing their presence like she knew her own. These weren’t the Lions. The Lions she could handle. These were something else. They wanted her. And they were here. Why wouldn’t her eyes open? It was so much worse in the dark. A scurry across her bare foot. A twitch at her bare hip. A twinge on her oh God bare cheek. The rustling of their movements filled the room, and with just the slightest change in the air, they were on her.

  Jacki finally thrust open her eyes but only appreciated the briefest moment of relief before she realized the nightmare had followed her. Numbers, black, filthy, crawling, clamoring, skittering numbers flooded the room and covered her body in a writhing, undulating mass. She leapt to her feet, barely able to keep her balance from the extra weight. The numbers stuck to her like frenzied leeches. She tried to brush them off with her hands, but they burst under her palms until she found herself covered in their viscera. She opened her mouth to scream, and the numbers poured in and down her throat.

  —My God, what’s wrong with her? Is it a seizure?

  —Looks like it. Can you hear me, Ms Strell? Ms Strell?

  The numbers crawled down to her stomach, up her nose, and into her ears. They had somehow gotten beneath her skin, and she saw their shapes pushing out from the palms of her hands. They wormed their way beneath her eyelids, and she could feel them making their way to her brain. I’m dying, she thought. I’m going to die in terror and agony. Help me help me help me help me. She reached back for a final scream and mercifully lost consciousness.

  —Give her the water.

  —Ms Strell? Can you take some water? I don’t think she’s awake yet. Ms Strell? Jacki?

  Jacki was aware of some vague shaking at her shoulders. Something slapped her face. You’ve got the wrong one, she thought. Meg from the stables is the one who gets slapped.

  —What was that? It looked like she was trying to talk.

  —It was all slurred. I think she’s drunk.

  —High more like it. I mean, that sound she made, like she was seeing something horrible.

  —Which one does that to you?

  —Katzutakis? No, wait, I think Forum is the big hallucinating one.

  —Katz is the one that makes you frantic. It must be Forum, but why would she be on Forum?

  —Why do you think?

  —Surely he can’t make her do clips.

  —He makes everyone do clips.

  —But we’ve got the immigration thing. What would he have against her?

  —That she’s a Forum addict.

  Jacki felt cold all over. She began to tremble, growing more violent as the seconds crawled on.

  —Uh-oh.

  —Should we call him?

  —No way. This is probably somehow his fault. She needs a hit.

  —Where in the world are we going to find a hit? I wouldn’t even know what one looks like.

  —If she’s addicted, she’s got to have some on her.

  —She’s naked.

  —I mean check her desk.

  Jacki could hear some sounds in the background, echoes wrapped in echoes. The numbers were gone, but she was so cold. Her vision began to go white.

  —This has to be it. And here’s a syringe.

  —Give it to me.

  —You’re going to inject her?

  —Look at her. She’s going to die otherwise.

  —Do you know how?

  —No, but I can take a guess. Hold her arm still.

  —Oh, my God.

  —Here goes nothing.

  —Oh, my God.

  Honey ran through her veins, and she was warm again.

  29. The Crash at the Pond.

  While the others pushed past her, she stood and regarded her muddy footprint. This was it then, the final clue. It was too early for the grass to be bitter. It was too early for the air to smell so much of dust. It was too early for the eagles to have left their aeries for more verdant hunting grounds. And now, it was definitely too early for the water to have pulled back far enough for mudflats to emerge at the pond’s edge. Drought was coming, was already here in the smaller places, poking its nose at the corners of things. She had lived through a drought when she was a calf, but even with the help of the cubes of dried grass and small stone ponds of water that had seemed to appear from nowhere throughout the city, she had watched many of the older herdmembers and a good number of the younger ones grow weak and finally die. It was a horrible time, the days filled with endless droning sun, the nights filled with the bleats and moans of herdmembers mourning both their hunger and their dead. Lean times had come and gone since, but nothing like that terrible season. Nothing, that is, until what now hovered on the horizon, poised to reach in its hot, dusty fingers and snatch the last blade of grass from them.

  She looked out at the herd, squinting to see as they lowered their heads and drank, the water lapping at their toenails. Some of them, perhaps many of them, perhaps even herself along with them, would be dead by the end of the season. Hardship was natural, even drought was natural, yet still the burden on her was far from light, and deep in her crowded, instinctive brain, there was the unpleasant coldness of doubt. She walked slowly over to the water’s edge to join the other herdmembers in a drink. Stopping, she sniffed the air and turned to look behind her.

  Something grabbed her horn.

  She jolted herself back and wrenched her head up into the sky. She heard a short cry as one of the thin creatures fell down into the shallow water, away from where its grip had been on her nose. She gathered herself quickly and
looked down into its eyes, staring back up at her. She was not afraid, only startled. The thin creatures had never been any danger to the herd and especially not one this tiny. She brought her massive head down for a closer sniff. The herd nearby stopped to watch, all eyes on her, straining against their collective myopia, as she took in the smells of the thing. It was mostly sweet with a faint sickly odor of food too ripe, of mother’s milk gone bad. It must be one of their calves, and a very, very young one by the smell and size of it.

  (—Melanie! Melanie, you come away from there right now! Right now!)

  Her ears rotated towards the sound of hoofbeats slapping on the mud. Another thin creature dashed towards them. She could smell fear on the second one as thick as sweat. It stopped short of where she stood and began squawking loudly in that gurgled way they had.

  (—Shoo! Get away! Get out of here! Get away from her! Melanie, you come here right now!)

  The first thin creature, the calf, reached its front hoof up to her nose, holding it at a short distance. She didn’t smell fear in this smaller one and allowed it to touch her nose lightly, even accepting a little gentle scratching.

  (—It’s friendly, Mrs Carlson. See?

  —Get away from it, right now, Melanie! They’re dangerous.

  —No, they’re not. My father says—

  —I’m not telling you again!

  — You’re going to scare them if you keep shouting like that.)

  A third thin creature had come up behind the second one.

  She began to feel uncomfortable. True, the thin creatures rarely involved themselves with the herd, but this proximity was too close, the sounds they were making too loud, and she could smell strongly that they were beginning to muddy the water. She inhaled deeply and brought her shoulders up, emitting two short snorts into the air. It was time to lead the herd away from this ruckus.

  (—What’s it doing? Melanie, I’m going to count to three!

  — You’re upsetting them, lady. They’re not going to hurt her.

  —I’ll keep charge of my own students, Officer, thank you very much. Now, would you please be useful and help me get her?

  —All she has to do is walk away. She’s not in any danger.

  — You didn’t see it knock her down. Oh, for God’s sake, I’ll do it myself.)

  The second of the thin creatures suddenly stomped over and grabbed the foreleg of the smaller one. The young calf yelped loudly. She swung her head back towards the thin creatures at the sound, accidentally brushing the flank of the taller one. It let out a startled cry and struck her on the side of her face. Defensively, she rumbled out of her chest, lowered her head, and gave a short hop forward on her front feet. It was a scare tactic, and it worked. The taller thin creature cried out again and dragged the calf quickly past the third creature and away.

  Enough was enough. She turned abruptly and set off for the far end of the pond. By the time the herd had followed her there, the thin creatures were forgotten. She drank, but her mind turned once again to the certainty of hard times ahead.

  30. It Always Comes Out Somewhere.

  Peter took apart his motorcycle and separated the pieces – there were 183 distinct ones, so far – into rows on the stained red dropcloth. He cleaned each individual part with a blue rag and laid them out on an unconscious grid, placed randomly, he thought, but actually forming a neat criss-cross pattern. A tiny washer just here, a larger screw just there, a casing here, a foot pedal there, as if he were performing an especially thorough autopsy rather than just cleaning gritty motorcycle parts.

  Four hours had passed this way, four hours since he had left Luther at the crack of dawn to return home. Luther pretended to be asleep, but Peter could tell by the patterns in his breathing that he wasn’t. After a soft kiss in the curve of Luther’s neck, Peter had gone straight home, where he had grabbed a banana shake for breakfast and set right to work on his cycle. He always did this when preoccupied which, given the lack of mental interaction offered by his waiter job and the necessity to block out mental interaction from his entertainment job, was rather more often than not.

  The cycle was almost completely disassembled, save for the battery cell-pack which he couldn’t have put back together anyway, and still Peter didn’t know what to do. He didn’t even have any thoughts that weren’t complete self-beration. The concept of his only chance vanishing fruitlessly swept across his mind every second or so, and he would push more furiously at the grease covering the bearings in the wheel wells, bearings which he would eventually have to spend a considerable amount of time regreasing later.

  He paused while removing a handle grip. His face went tight. A smothering nothing of time passed.

  —Goddamnit. Goddamnit! Goddamnit!

  He smacked his fist against the floor, hurting it, and returned intently to the removal of the handle grip. He was self-taught at cycle mechanics, as he was self-taught at nearly everything else. His father had vanished when he was a young boy, his sister had her own friends, and his mother worked almost round the clock to keep the family solvent. He had been a solitary child, but this was different from being a shy child, which he was not. He was popular or at least well known at school, did passably at his studies, and generally earned the respect, if not exactly the friendship, of children his own age. He was polite with adults, a regular at his mother’s church, and for one, brief, horrifying season, captain of his junior rounders team, a sport he finally realized he hated and promptly quit.

  It was more a case of enjoying his own company than anything else. He was happiest with a book or word puzzle in the front window of his family’s apartment. Or pretending to be on a solo reconnaissance mission around the swampy part of the pond down in Restitution Park. Or going on an hours-long walk by himself through the woods above The Roots, his hometown. Even on group activities, he oftentimes found himself alone without quite knowing how. Once at a church summer camp, he only realized at sundown that he had rowed his canoe what ended up being nearly six miles away from the other boaters on a trip across Loch Onnatonka. When he finally returned and was banished to his cabin for disappearing from the group, an occurrence he could barely remember happening (—I guess I just got distracted. —For seven hours?), he realized that after a week at camp, he still didn’t know the name of a single cabinmate. If his mother was in a good mood, she called this solitary streak self-reliance. If she was in a bad mood, she called it self-obsession. Either way, he was an easy child to raise: a few vague worries in exchange for a minimum of disciplinary headaches.

  He left home with few ambitions when he graduated. His mother, naturally, had wanted him to be a doctor or lawyer or priest or, in her more bilious moments, all three. But then she had suddenly succumbed to a vicious and hitherto unknown tumor on a heart valve, and Peter, after his grief – and to be honest, after a few years of shiftlessly spending his small inheritance on books and hiking gear – had turned his sights northward, as many an unfocused Rumour lad had done before him. He applied for a work permit and surprisingly, given his almost complete lack of specific tangible skills, was granted one.

  Serendipity had seen to it that at the same time Thomas Banyon was looking to replace a recently murdered Rumour waiter at Hennington Hills Golf Course and Resort, preferably this time one who didn’t ask so many bloody questions. Peter hadn’t paused when Thomas had asked him to disrobe at the interview, nor even when Thomas had grabbed Peter’s flaccid penis and said, —What I’m wondering here is if this does anything special.

  A lack of investment was the problem. Peter had taken life as it had arisen, with very few questions and almost no complaints as long as he got time to spend with himself. He didn’t care that Thomas treated him like a piece of meat because he figured that was what happened to immigrant workers generally in their first years, and besides that was just life, right? He had no real opinions on sex and sexuality, though he had dabbled with one or two forthright girls who found him attractive due to the fact that he was so oblivi
ous to them. When Thomas asked to see what Peter’s member looked like when it stood on end, Peter obliged without thinking twice.

  —What I’ve said doesn’t bother you?

  —No.

  —You understand what your place will be here?

  It wasn’t that Thomas cared that Peter understood, it was just unusual to find someone who accepted it all with no apparent misgivings. Whatsoever.

  —I’ll be having sex with people that you arrange for me.

  —Yes.

  —All right.

  —This doesn’t give you any pause?

  —My permit says I work for you for three years. If that’s the job, then that’s the job. It’s what newcomers do, isn’t it?

  —It’s what they do here, yes. When they work for me.

  —Fair enough.

  —Let’s go over this one more time.

  A year had passed since, uneventful except for the occasional oddity here and there with a clip. He had two years to go on the permit, and though he doubted Thomas would let him go without a fuss at the end of it, he would deal with that when the time came. He would be twenty-nine then, still time enough to do whatever. He looked forward, on those rare times when he did look forward, to the two years passing without anything remarkable happening.

  But something had happened. Something more than remarkable. Something that provided him with both investment and focus. Luther had happened, and now, for maybe the first time ever, Peter cared desperately about what would happen next. It couldn’t be random chance that they’d met and clicked so well over what should have been a simple business transaction. There had to be something to the fact that Luther asked him back again and again. At last, Peter had caught a glimpse of a wished-for future, and now his present circumstances, his present actions, his present needs mattered. His relaxed attitude towards his own life was suddenly swallowed by the messy exhilaration and anguish of falling in love.