The Crash of Hennington

by Patrick Ness

  Then he saw the river. The shock of it momentarily flash-burned away the fog in his brain. The Bracken had somehow shrunk. More, judging by the change in the color of the clay, it had shrunk by nearly half. The briny, sick smell of it was even more pungent than he remembered, and the color was the ominous, slightly evil color of bloody pus, something with which Maggerty, through his ever-present wound, was thoroughly acquainted. A cloud of vague terror insinuated itself across his mind. There was some awful clue here that he was missing.

  She led them away soon after, but not before Maggerty had been bitten almost beyond recognition by the desert flies. His face and hands swelled overnight, and the itching was enough to push the worry away for a while. This morning, he had begun to feel sick, something the gnats had passed along to, or taken from him in the blood they had sucked. Maggerty was friends with misery, though. He had been through worse, and now his only worry was becoming permanently separated from the herd. When they had awoken and set off for the day, he had struggled to keep up almost from the beginning.

  (Dora McKinley sat in her idling car, the back seat stuffed with groceries, waiting for The Crash to pass. Turning up the air conditioner against the heat, she examined her fingernails and vowed for the third time that week to stop chewing them. She looked up and caught sight of Maggerty stumbling up the road. As she put the tip of her index finger to her teeth, she murmured to herself, —He looks even worse than usual, poor thing.)

  As the sun beat down, he watched the last animal disappear yet again around a station wagon. He quickened his step, lurched around a streetcorner lamp, and saw with frantic relief that the animals were stopped in a small green park on the side of a hill, grazing on the green grasses that sloped up through a small grove of trees. Good. They would stay there for a while eating. He would have time to rest. Good. He had already forgotten the questions that had been bothering him. His only thoughts were to get out of this heat, lie down in the shade, and hopefully fall into some sort of feverish sleep. After a lifetime filled with steps, Maggerty yet again mustered the will to take the next one.

  39. The Frustrating Aspects of Prophecy.

  Jarvis closed his eyes and sighed. His hand, wrapped deep under bandages covering four frightening wound clamps, throbbed whenever he moved it too quickly. Dr Henreid had given him Pilonnopin, but after he had taken the first one and then slept for twenty-one hours, Jarvis decided that aspirin would be a little more practical, if markedly less effective. He had spent every spare moment since returning from the hospital reading and rereading the section of the Book of Ultimates he had seen in his vision or hallucination or whatever it had been. He opened his eyes and read again, many hours removed from the hundredth time.

  And in a time of sunlight, a dark wind will encroach, obscuring the truth,

  And in the time of dark wind, a light wind will encroach, revealing the truth.

  The verses were infuriating and vague in the way typical of all of the Book of Ultimates. Decades of debate had never quite settled whether the Book even rightly belonged in the Sacraments, and no wonder. The Sacraments was one of the few texts that Pistolet had permitted to pass untouched, at least for a while. He had even used the opaque teachings of these very verses to justify the Great Immolation, associating it with the ‘light wind’ and thereby prompting murmurings that he had written the Ultimates himself, an idea vitiated only by the fact that, in his usual style, he then contradicted himself and placed the Sacraments, Book of Ultimates and all, on the list of things to be destroyed, which by that point had grown to include effectively everything that could be destroyed, including every man, woman and child who could be killed before Pistolet himself finally fell. Fortunately, his last gasp had not reached as far as he had hoped, and a few things survived into the Recent Histories, copies of the Sacraments among them. The survival of the Sacraments then came to be thought of as the ‘light wind’ that revealed the truth, and the stories of Pistolet’s possible authorship, while still hovering in the background, were mostly put to rest.

  For Jarvis, though, along with many of his colleges, the Ultimates never sat well. He found most of the verses obscure to the point of meaninglessness. If something could be interpreted to mean anything at all, then in effect it meant nothing. The Ultimates was rarely taught in the Bondulay canon, often being treated, certainly by Jarvis, as nothing more than a quaint addendum of suspect origin. The truths it contained were covered in better fashion elsewhere in the Sacraments, and any differences written there were evasive to the point of futility.

  Which would be easy to dismiss, Jarvis thought to himself, if they hadn’t caused so much harm.

  And in a time of sunlight, a dark wind will encroach, obscuring the truth,

  And in the time of dark wind, a light wind will encroach, revealing the truth.

  —How can it mean anything when it means everything? What do you want me to see, Lord? What are you trying to show me? What’s here that I’m not seeing?

  At best, the verses were a metaphor, for pity’s sake, and a murky, impenetrable one at that. History had shown over and over again the danger of taking these writings too literally. Pistolet. The Brandon Beach Massacre where all those poor dark-skinned sailors had been killed. Raymond Wittingham and that whole mess with the old government. The Rat Hill Battle of the Gentlemen’s War. All those lives lost because this, this ethereal poetry, had been taken as fact.

  Jarvis paused.

  Maybe that was the reason behind the vision. Not the Ultimates, but the reaction to it.

  Oh, dear Lord. That would be so much worse.

  Part III.

  All Bets May or May Not Be Final.

  40. Considering Variables.

  —Anyone seen Jacki Strell?

  —She called in sick, Mr Banyon.

  —Again? That’s not like her.

  —She said it’s a bad flu.

  Thomas turned and re-entered his office. No, it was definitely not like Jacki. He’d had to cancel two very disappointed clips for her and then when he called her at home, there was no answer. She must really be sick, and if so, she was about to get a lot sicker, since Thomas had calculated her supply of Forum to run out in two more days. That she hadn’t called him about it was curious, but no matter, she would be calling soon enough, sick with the ‘flu’ or not.

  He tapped his fingers on his desk. His laptop let out a whir and a beep as Tracy Jem-Ho logged in a mid-morning clip. He could hear a shrill birdsong coming through his sunlit window, followed by a dog barking, of all things. He tapped his fingers again. He picked up the phone and dialed Jacki’s number. Ring-ring, ring-ring, ring-ring, Hello, this is Jacki, I’m not in right now. He hung up and dialed his secretary.

  —Did you take the call from Jacki yourself, Rita?

  —Yes, sir.

  —Did she sound sick?

  —Yes, sir. She could barely speak.

  —She’s not picking up at home.

  —She said she wouldn’t be, sir. She said her doctor told her to get rest and nothing but. She said to apologize to you specifically for the inconvenience and that she’d try to be in tomorrow or the next day, but that she was feeling unwell enough to possibly be out all week.

  —Maybe I’ll drive over and drop off some flowers.

  —She might be contagious, Mr Banyon.

  —I’m as fit as a horse, Rita. Order some flowers and I’ll take them over to her tonight after work.

  —Yes, sir.

  He hung up. Why was he taking her flowers? He hit redial.

  —You might be right about the contagion, Rita. Just have some flowers delivered to her.

  —What kind?

  —Whatever kind, and put a note saying ‘Get Well Soon’ from me.

  —Of course, Mr Banyon.

  Enough of this. Time to get some work done. She had better come back to work soon or he would have to think of a way for her to cover her clip losses. He considered himself a big-hearted boss, but entertainment could only get aw
ay with so much sick time. He had a balance sheet to cover, accounts to pay, a business to run. His margin was more than enough to cover unexpected losses, but Jacki brought in so much money in fees, what with her special talents and all, that he didn’t want her out for long.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  —Rita?

  —Yes, sir?

  —Never mind.

  He pulled his laptop onto his lap top and began reviewing accounts. Tracy had finished up with a nice tip. Hartley Chevalier was scheduled to wine and dine the recently widowed Mrs Declan Butler this evening at eight. Peter Wickham had called in sick as well. Was there an epidemic? Johnson Partham, the boy with the affinity for wax, had two clips scheduled for tonight. Ah, the stamina of youth. Meg Reubens. Jack Walsh. Veronica Wilby also had two clips tonight. A full schedule, a full slate of fees, a full complement of happy customers. Jacki wouldn’t be missed. I wonder if it’s really serious? Maybe I should send over my own doctor.

  —Oh, fuck this. Who cares?

  Thomas cracked open his drawer and pulled out a TB’s Special Blend. He lit it and pulled the smoke down into his lungs. That was better. A musky calm flowed through him, allowing him to let go of all the bothersome details that buzzed around his head. Thomas believed strongly in enjoying the finer things that life had to offer, because what was the point of being the boss if you could never relax? Never any of that heavy stuff, though. Thomas looked down on addicts, because they had so completely surrendered their will to something as stupid as a chemical.

  Even Jacki. He hadn’t intended to give her the Forum. He’d actually enjoyed himself that evening, to his own great surprise. She was a woman his own age, kind of an odd duck, but all the more charming for it. If only she hadn’t told him about her marvelous breasts and the intriguing thing they could do, if only she hadn’t taken the Forum so willingly, maybe something could have happened. Who knew? But business was business, and Thomas wasn’t about to let those magnificent lactating organs slip out of his grasp. Forum was the easiest way to convince someone like Jacki to work for him, and after that, well, who the hell wanted anything to do with an addict?

  Puff. Puff. Puff. Ring-ring, ring-ring, ring-ring, Hello, this is Jacki, I’m—

  He hung up and was ready to redial Rita when the phone surprised him by ringing first.

  —Yes?

  —You have someone here to see you, Mr Banyon.

  —I’m not aware of any appointments.

  —He says he’s a fellow businessman who, I’m sorry, sir, what was that again? ‘A fellow businessman who has long admired your own business acuity'.

  —He’s standing right there in front of you?

  —Yes, sir.

  —Why didn’t front reception stop him there?

  —I’m getting to the bottom of it, sir.

  —'Business acuity'. Sounds like a bunch of bullshit to me.

  Rita lowered her voice to a whisper.

  —Indeed, sir, that was my impression at first. But perhaps there’s more to it.

  —You think so?

  —My opinion would be one of further investigation, sir.

  —Does he look like a lawyer?

  —No, sir.

  —Police?

  —Emphatically not, sir.

  —What’s his name?

  —Tybalt Noth.

  —'Tybalt'?

  —He says he goes by Jon.

  —Never heard of him.

  —Says he’s a friend of the Mayor’s.

  —Then definitely not.

  —What shall I tell him, sir?

  Thomas tapped his fingers again once or twice. The cigarillo was putting him in a smooth sort of mood. This Noth character wouldn’t be the police, that was true. Thomas kept close tabs on possible police activity through a dizzying array of informants, both inside and outside of the police department, some of whom informed on each other. Besides, half the force were customers anyway. He knew of no pending or potential lawsuits, either. One of the very few benefits of being the son of Archie Banyon was access to the veritable mini-city of lawyers who worked for Banyon Enterprises. If Thomas ever needed legal assistance – the constant threat of which was a hazard of his business – they were as available as air; Thomas could get a lawyer faster than it took him to inhale.

  Once, just after he officially became Chairman of Hennington Hills Golf Course and Resort – his father had retained the title as honorary for an annoyingly long time – Thomas had hired a young Rumour girl. She looked eighteen, said she was fifteen, the legal age limit for a work permit, and turned out to be twelve. Thomas had set her to work as a waitress in the restaurant and as a general purpose, low-priced entertainment for some of his more blue-collar customers. Unfortunately, she also proved to be a prolific letter-writer to the folks back home. In less than a month, a team of liberal-minded child-labor lawyers had shown up in Thomas’ office with the reluctant Chief of Police, the girl’s weeping mother, and a camera crew in tow.

  After Thomas’ arrest and subsequent release twenty minutes later, he had selected the cream from his father’s lawyer crop. A day later, he held a news conference, offering proof of the girl’s deception. Within two days, he’d had all the charges dropped, the girl deported, an on-air apology from the television station, and a lawsuit filed for defamation of character against the child-labor lawyers and the girl’s mother. Within a month, he had bankrupted the lawyers, sent the girl’s mother to a poorhouse in the Rumour Land, and had added seven new clients to his portfolio, including the presiding judge and the male and female news anchors at the TV station. Maybe he shouldn’t have come down quite so hard on a twelve-year-old girl, but let’s face it, business was business was business was business. No, no, no, this Noth, whoever he was, couldn’t possibly represent a threat to him. Thomas was comfortably untouchable.

  —What the fuck, Rita. Send him in.

  41. The Lonely Hunter.

  Peter rang the bell again. A light had gone off in an upstairs window as he pulled in on his cycle, so he knew Luther was home. Luther never went to bed until after midnight, and it wasn’t yet eleven. So why wasn’t he coming to the door?

  —Luther?

  After finally making his decision, Peter had left his waiter shift at Hennington Hills early claiming stomach flu and had driven straight over to Luther’s house. He wasn’t confident in a response. He wasn’t confident in anything to do with his presence here. He knew what he wished for, what he wanted, but he wasn’t at all sure if this was what he should be doing, if this is what people in his position did, or if other people were even in his position. And then there were all those questions that declined to rest. Luther was a different class, a different league. He was a different age, from a different upbringing. He was even a different race. But none of that was supposed to matter anymore, was it? Although not to put too fine a point on the unmentionable, it was also true that Peter was the entertainment and Luther was his clip. That romantic schematic never worked anywhere except fantasy. It was all wrong. Peter being here on Luther’s doorstep with a catch in his throat and an anxious knot in his chest was all wrong.

  Yet here he was, ringing the doorbell a third time.

  —Luther? Are you there? It’s Peter.

  A quiet eternity later, the door opened. Luther looked horrible. His eyes were puffed from crying, his clothes had clearly been slept in, and he had at least two days’ beard growth. Peter momentarily forgot the whole list of things he wanted to say.

  —What’s wrong? Are you okay? Are you sick?

  —You don’t know? Well, of course you don’t know. How would you?

  —Know what? What’s happened?

  For a second, beneath all the mess, Luther looked genuinely curious.

  —If you didn’t know, why did you come?

  —I wanted to see you. I have a million things I want to say, but what do you mean, ‘if I didn’t know'? If I didn’t know what?

  —There’s no use.

  —Of what? Wha
t’s happened?

  —It’s over.

  —What’s over?

  —Everything. All of it. I made the wrong decision, and now it’s all over.

  —Can I come in? We’ll talk about it. We’ll fix it.

  The house was its usual immaculate self, all smooth, clear surfaces, white spaces, clean and crisp, save for the fact that Luther’s desk looked like it had been ransacked. Papers were torn, drawers left open, the garbage can next to it overflowing with trash. It looked as if some of the papers had even been burnt. Somehow this one set of wreckage amidst the cleanliness of the house upset Peter more than if the whole place had been a ruin. Luther led him to the living room. Peter sat down next to him on the couch, putting an arm around him. Luther stared stiffly forward, only after a moment leaning his head on Peter’s shoulder.

  —Just tell me what happened. We can make whatever it is right.

  —No, we can’t.

  —Tell me what happened, Luther.

  —I let Archie Banyon down. I told him I didn’t want to be Chairman of his company. I told him I didn’t want this career, that I needed to quit.