by Andy Graham
Rick frowned, and stuffed the hanky back in his pocket. “I might ask too many questions, but at least I don’t speak like I’m working my way through a collection of alphabetised nouns. What’s De Lette got to do with this anyway? What are you talking about?”
“Change.”
“That’s the second time I’ve heard that this evening.”
“Get used to it. There’s going to be a lot more of it soon.” She unbuttoned her jacket, lounging back along one of the sofa arms. “De Lette’s gone. His office was raided. He disappeared. Officially missing, unofficially dead. Luke Hamilton, the VP, is now president.”
“I don’t believe it,” Rick said. “The rumours can’t be true.” He spun the wooden chair round so its back was facing her and sat down. “Why?”
“The usual: money and safety, jealousy and fear. Worry that we’ll lose what we have, and the next person will have more.”
“And the demonstrations?”
“People who want De Lette back, or people who are afraid of change. I’m not sure yet.”
He scratched at the stubble on his chin, wincing as his shoulder twinged.
“I could rub that better for you?” she offered, one hand straying up to the mole on the end of her nose.
Rick ignored her, and stared up at the glass-framed picture. The red stain of the setting sun blotted out the letters.
“It doesn’t make sense. I thought the country had been doing well,” he said. “Unemployment’s down, productivity up.”
“Since when does anything need to make sense? The information we get these days is all a matter of perspective and spin. Two months ago the press mentioned that De Lette had spent 0.7 percent of GDP on foreign aid. No one batted an eyelid. Last month the same story was run with the actual number: eight billion. The public went crazy, despairing over the waste. It’s all about presentation. One person’s asylum seeker is the next person’s radical-in-waiting. It’s the same with trade and wealth. Mainly thanks to De Lette, we’re selling more than we ever have, but it’s not enough. And amongst all the complaints that the rich are getting richer and the poor poorer, no one is saying that the bell curve is shifting to the right.”
“Relative wealth isn’t the same as absolute wealth, Beth.” He moved in the wooden chair, gripping the edge. His right hand was tingling and weak, his shoulder throbbing again.
She sat back in the corner of the sofa. “You don’t need to tell me that. You know where I come from. But most of today’s poor have riches their ancestors couldn’t even dream of: my family highest amongst them. Owning a bike is a huge step up from a pair of boots. And I know people who own boats, plural, who complain that they’re struggling to make ends meet.”
Beth leant forwards, a gleam in her eyes. “I’ve heard of elderly people rattling around in cavernous houses, shedding quick-drying tears over the plight of the poor and the homeless, when they have more spare rooms than they can keep clean. Families talk in government-sanctioned cliches about tightening their belts for the tough times ahead, all the while doing 3-D jigsaws in order to get their presents into their cars for the Midwinter’s Day pilgrimage to their relatives. The hard-core poor and their poverty-chic who dress down to emphasise their rough and ready nature. We’re all in it together, they bleat, as their expensive spirits and wine clink in their calf-skin leather bag. And I know a landed mother who was forced to lay off one of her au pairs. Constance whined into her pearls about how she now has to do the breakfast and school run herself.” Beth smirked at him. “Apparently, her husband wanted to fire the gardener instead, but Constance threatened a divorce. She still got an increase in what she calls her annual spousal bonus. You do the maths. How does that add up to not making ends meet?”
“They’re extreme examples, Beth,” Rick said, squeezing the chair tighter.
“The principle’s the same,” she retorted. “Life’s so much better now than it ever has been, in ways that we can’t begin to measure, even with all these statistics that we’re drowning in.”
“Tell that to the people only allowed into certain shops to clean them, because the bit of plastic in their pocket is the wrong colour.”
He whipped his hands back from the chair. Where he’d been trying to throttle the wood, deep white lines cut though his palm. One of them leaked a pinprick of blood. He looked up. The crimson glare on the picture was blotted out by the blue flare of a stun gun.
Rick squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the image of the altercation in the alley out of his mind, taking slow breaths to bring him back to the present. He caught a scent of Beth’s perfume. His pulse quickened.
Fight, flight, and frolic, he thought wryly. The adrenaline dump was pushing him though his own collection of alphabetised desires. He unclenched his fists, and forced a smile.
“Beth, it doesn’t make sense. When both relative and absolute wealth are being flaunted in front of you, this magical, shifting bell curve you talk about sounds like an excuse masquerading as a theory. I’ve seen the get of the privileged using cash money to light cigars in front of the homeless. And I’ve heard of other expensive initiation rituals into the old boy’s network of drinking clubs and backroom favours that make me want to retch.”
Beth scowled at him. “They’re idiots. I’d lock them up if I could, or force them all into a poverty penance. Unfortunately, EQ is inversely correlated to privilege. Evolution hasn’t worked that one out of its system yet.”
“Privilege and wealth.”
Beth flicked some dust off her blouse, smoothing the material to emphasise the pull of the sheer fabric across her chest. Rick coughed and looked up at the ceiling.
“No, Rick, just privilege; it’s very different to wealth. Money doesn’t automatically make you bad, just as putting on a uniform doesn’t automatically make you a hero. A bully will always be a bully, no matter what flag they fight under, or uniform they hide in.”
She folded her arms under her breasts, lips pursed, head tilted to one side. Rick looked away, focusing on the light of the setting sun reflecting off the picture frame.
“OK, Beth. What’s your point?”
She fidgeted on the sofa. Reaching around behind her, she found the pair of knickers Rick had rehidden earlier. She laid them on her lap.
“My point is that what’s now going on in Aijlan-Karth is normal, and a lot healthier than capitulation or resignation. Kids argue over the same square centimetre of sand on a beach; my sister and I drove our parents mad with it. People fight and kill to protect what they think is theirs. And if a wasp stings your child, you’re more likely to kill the next wasp you see. It’s a primal urge, aggression justified as defence. Is the way people deal with each other any different?”
She sat up straight, reaching out to him. “It’s natural behaviour, Rick, just like sex. Without them, neither of us would be here to moralise about these things.” She leant forwards, the top of her blouse spilling open. “And as for sex, I remember well when you—”
Rick jumped up, and walked to the sink. The chair rocked back onto all fours behind him.
“So why all the turmoil?” He picked up the cup, only for it to fall out of his hands. It clattered in ever decreasing spirals around the porcelain. It was cracked, a black lightning bolt splitting the off-white china. He placed it so the good side was face-front.
“Why the . . . ,” He rubbed at the stubble on his chin, reluctant to say the word that spelt more than change.
“Apart from the reasons I’ve already told you? Why do you think? The same reason behind any revolution, one man thinks he can do a better job than the last man.”
“Or woman.”
She laughed, a soft sound that rifled through his memories. “Or woman, yes. Years of conditioning mean that even I still make that mistake. That’s one of the reasons I loved you, Fredrick. You’re not the predictable male moron that thinks that big arms, an ability to sharpen knives, cook, and quote spurious statistics means you’re the superior sex. The type of man who c
onfuses being aggressive and rude with being manly.”
He looked into the mirror above the sink. The face that looked back was older than his, scored by the pressures of leading men in battle, and years of providing for a young family. It was a face that was wiser than he would ever be. A face he wished he could talk to now.
“My father had a name for it,” he said, “tallest man syndrome.”
Beth eyes dropped. She twisted her finger around the cuff of a shirt sleeve. “Your father was a good man. I had a lot of respect for him. At least he got a good send off.” She coughed and sat back, crossing her legs. “I never thought of it like that, but yes, tallest man syndrome. The world’s full of it these days. The man who is the strongest, and the funniest. He has the soul of an artist and heart of a fighter. He’s the lover that men have nightmares over and women dream about. The political pundit with the insight and wisdom for two. Always itching to prove himself, never able to be himself. The type of man who could not spell humility if it were the only word in the language.” She shuddered. “I loathe tallest man syndrome.”
“You’re rambling, Beth. I know what it means when you do that, remember? Give me a straight answer for a change.”
Beth looked up at him though lowered eyelids, biting her bottom lip. She patted the sofa again.
Rick wagged a finger at her. “Please, Beth. Stop the games. I don’t mind a bit of flirting, but this is getting a little too . . .” He paused, his eyes losing focus for a second as he tried to grasp the sentence his brain was rooting for. “It’s a little too close to tallest man syndrome for comfort.”
She sighed, her shoulders dropping. “Maybe that’s why I hate it so much. Too close to home. It brings out the selfish competitor in me.”
“My question?”
“Too many questions and too much sense of duty and loyalty. The world would be a better place with more men like you in it, but a whole lot more boring.”
“Hey!”
“Relax, Rick. Don’t be so defensive.” She folded the black knickers and then, with a shrug, stuffed them back between the cushions. “I’m having a go at myself more than you.”
Rick placed the chair behind the desk. He straightened his shirt, the grazes on his back stinging as the rough fabric rubbed across them. He held up his hands in front of him, and ticked off the points as he spoke. “This morning, I was allowed home. This afternoon, I was called back here by an anonymous message, which I assume you sent. This evening, I arrive to find half the city burning, and the other half revolting. I, like many, was given a silk hanky. I’m attacked by a bunch of goons. I thought they were separatists from Somer at first, but the more I remember of what they said, I’m not so sure. I’m brought here by a nervous, almost deferential private, and you’re talking about revolution. You tell me that the VP, a man who I got the impression spent most of his time in office working on his pet charity for young orphans, now appears to have outwitted De Lette. De Lette, who was part fox, part weasel, part lion.” He lowered his arms to his sides and sat next to her. Taking her hands in his, he squeezed her palms, feeling the pulse in his fingers. “And you’re dancing around my questions, just like you used to. Please, Beth. Tell me what’s going on.”
XVIII - Bucket Towns
Beth pulled a hand free. She ran her fingers across the burn marks around his wrist. “Did it hurt,” she asked, “when you and Thryn exchanged vows?”
“Beth, please, stop it. What’s going on?”
She let go of his hand. “It’s been brewing for a long time. I suspected it was happening a while back. Positions were slowly filled with people, if not against the president, then at least indifferent to him.
“The connections weren’t obvious at first. Most of the elected politicians come from the same background, have the same education, go to the same clubs and restaurants. They’re all the same vague shade of grey that muddies a middle ground that is listing to the right. Anyone with any individuality gets shut out or vilified. I wouldn’t have thought any more of the appointments, but then Sub-Colonel Chester called in a favour. She wanted me to check Hamilton’s expenses account.”
“Why did Chester want to know?”
Beth waved her hand in the air. “I don’t know. She has her own agenda. Something to do with resurrecting the past. I owed her a favour, so I got her the info. I’m glad I did. There were some irregularities.”
“Like what?”
Beth scooted towards him, draping her arm along the backrest. “At first I thought the VP was up to the usual: claiming for trips he hadn’t made, food he hadn’t eaten, skeleton companies, a payroll populated by phantoms. Then I realised there was a regular cash withdrawal being made. It was never very much, enough to miss at first, but it happened twice a month. Cash used to be harder to trace, but ironically, now there’s so little of it in circulation, it’s easier to follow.”
Rick’s eyes cut towards the door.
“This room is soundproof,” she said. “I got a friend of mine to come in one day. My little Goliath and I, we tested it.” She grinned, her cheeks flushing. “He’s a rich kid from People’s Town on the new border. I’m not sure he’s really my type. He’s a bit too angsty, too earnest, I’m still working on him. He is very charismatic, though. Very good with his mouth too,” she said, the tip of her tongue darting out between her lips.
Rick squirmed, crossing his hands in his lap.
Beth grinned at him. “He’s eloquent, Rick. That’s all I meant.”
Rick shuffled back along the sofa. “Does this friend have a name?”
“Why do you care?”
“You never stop completely caring. Those that say they have are emotional dinosaurs or were too naive to spot the signs in the first place.”
“I’d like to hear you say that in front of your wife,” Beth retorted.
“Who do you think I learnt this from?”
Beth sprang to her feet and stalked to the wardrobe. She whipped her belt out of her trousers in one movement and dropped it on the floor. It curled around her feet like a snake. “I did some homework, about these cash withdrawals. A few of the new appointees were doing the same thing.” She threw her shirt into a crumpled heap on top of the leather belt and pulled out two more. “Red or white?” she asked, pirouetting to face him.
Rick averted his eyes. “Red. You’ve got a black bra on.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh yes.” She giggled. “I’d forgotten that you don’t like the black and white combination. ‘Too obvious.’ Was that it?”
Rick nodded, clasping his hands together.
Beth’s lips crooked up into a smile. She hung the red shirt back up. “There’s some kind of meeting going on that Hamilton and his allies think they can hide. Some kind of secret society — you boys are into that. I don’t know what they do there, wave their Y chromosomes around like some kind of winning lottery ticket probably. But I’m pretty sure what’s going on now was hatched there.” The leather sofa squeaked as she sat back down, air rushing out of one the cushions in a hiss.
“Beth,” Rick said, looking up at the picture on the wall. “Trousers.”
“Oh yes, I forgot. Old habits and that.” She stretched her arms up to the ceiling as she stood, shadows chasing the curves of her torso.
She sauntered over to the wardrobe and bent down to pull a fresh pair of trousers from the rail. Rick’s eyes flicked over, and back away again. Beth pulled out a fresh pair of trousers. She pivoted, her bare legs catching the red light from the setting sun.
Rick tugged at his collar. “And whose side are you on?” he asked, his parched tongue tripping over the words.
Beth perched on the edge of a cushion. “Evolution’s.”
She draped the trousers across her legs, her underwear riding high on her hips. “You mentioned dinosaurs before. That’s what I’m fighting: the dinosaurs of tradition that refuse to die. I’m playing my role in the evolution of the country of Aijlan. It’s my contribution to a world that thinks repressive v
alues will set us free. I want to bury the dinosaurs that are leading us. The people clinging to the misguided beliefs that put them where they are. The individuals suppressing any kind of challenge in case they’re forced to wake up one day to the realisation that their life has been built on a lie. The dinosaurs who refuse to give others the respect they demand themselves.
“I’m fighting the dinosaurs that are worried they may be no better than anyone else: that having the largest club to hit someone with or belong to doesn’t make you better than the next person.” She stabbed her finger into the leather cushion, eyebrows pulled down tight across her nose. “It’s a particularly nasty strain of tallest man syndrome.”
“What about you giving men the respect you want from them?” Rick asked.
“I respected you, didn’t I?”
“Is that why you called me back to the capital? Out of respect?”
She released her grip on the trousers and smoothed the creases out of them. “The uprising has been peaceful so far, barely a drop of blood spilt. That was my main condition for helping.”
“Karth is in ruins!” Rick protested.
“Buildings. That’s all. Look at a picture, build a model out of matchsticks, and stick it in a glass box if you miss it. People get sentimental over bricks and mortar; there’s plenty more of that in the ground. How long does it take to construct a building or a monument? Months, a few years maybe. How long does it take to build a person? Years. And, hopefully, that process never stops.”
“So, if this revolution’s so peaceful, why did you send for me?”
Still sitting, Beth thrust her hips to the ceiling so she could pull her trousers on. Rick held his breath, and looked away.
“Some officers have been reassigned,” she said, “posted to places you don’t really want to go to; beyond the re-militarised zone on the mainland, trying to tame the devils and their dogs in the Rukan Mountains, that kind of thing. Others have been sent to the uranium mines.”
