by J S Hollis
“That’s correct,” I replied.
“Do you want to discuss anything before he gets here?”
“No.”
“Good. I guess you won’t mind if I watch football. I’m working overtime.”
“Go ahead.”
Mandrake leant back and coned into a football game. “They’re just about to kick off,” he said. I tried to imagine the teams exchanging prematch pleasantries and wishing each other good luck. Like a radio commentator, Mandrake kept me up to date with what was happening until there was a knock on the door. Mandrake looked up and said “unlock”.
Jeffrey Judd, my lawyer, exploded in. “What are you doing? Stop watching that,” he said. Mandrake obliged him.
Jeffrey slammed down a chair in front of mine. His ruddy face was puffing hot air over mine. His back pointed to the disinterested Mandrake. “You have one thing in your life now. One. Thing. Public opinion. It is all that ever matters. Talking about football after you have killed your wife is not helpful. Think. Thousands of eyes are on you now. This matters more than politics. Yes?”
“Yes, but I did it for her.”
“Cecil. Don’t say another word.” Jeffrey’s shirt hung out over his neon yellow trousers. He shoved it in but it wouldn’t last a minute. He returned to me. “Cecil,” he said, “you are already in deep, deep doodoo. You can avoid swallowing it by being very careful about what you say. I must advise you that everything you say will be surgically analysed and taken apart. I think we can assume you killed her. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“Now. Think about this.” Jeffrey got up and started pacing. “You can take your time over this. You didn’t know what you were doing, did you, Cecil? We all know you. You are a good man. A sensible man. Something must have gone wrong in your head. Yes? We’ll do all the studies, get the doctors to prove it was some momentary madness. No history of violence. A history of public service. A family man. This is abnormal. Must be the work of some psychological flaw that can be corrected. Stress related, maybe. We can work with this.”
“Yes.”
“OK. But let’s say that we can’t prove madness. That gives us very few options. We’ll just be arguing over your sentence. You may be able to use your motive, your state of mind to reduce your tariff. Think. About. It. If there is a motive, I’m not saying there is, I’m saying its madness, but if we get to the motive stage, you better have a good one. Think very carefully about it. I will give you some pointers in due course. But don’t say anything to anybody. If you have to say it – you may not have to say it – we want you to say it once and clearly. Are you cool with that?”
“I am,” I replied.
“Then that’s it from me.” He turned to Mandrake. Mandrake nodded.
Jeffrey stumbled out, his trousers sinking beneath his waist.
Jeffrey is a fine lawyer. He worked tirelessly for me and, it is fair to say, I gave him a difficult situation. But he was wrong to advise me to wait. Waiting allowed other narratives to develop. If I had been clear and consistent about my reasons from the start, I may have won the argument. It was a simple motive. Clara suffered from such an intense depression it had robbed her of consciousness and she was hamstrung from dealing with it. Death was a blessed relief for her and prison was a price I was willing to pay. It was euthanasia, pure and simple. I have never doubted myself.
Pentonville Prison, 2 January 2062
General Connor Carvey strolled into my room today, while I was on the toilet, without an invitation or a greeting. He had taken no account of my recent and polite suggestion that we try to resurrect basic concepts of privacy within the prison walls. Old habits die hard. The younger prisoners have no idea what I am talking about and the older ones don’t want to change.
Carvey provides good company. He has asked us to call him “Bison”. It doesn’t fit. He is more wildebeest. He has a broad head and shoulders but the rest of him tapers away. He says it never did fit. He likes it that way. He has a spiel on how we resort to juvenile comparisons between animals and humans. Owls are wise old men, children act like chimps, grandmas cackle like hyenas. The whole process seems circular to him. Constantly labelling things after other things but never getting any sense of their meaning. “Nothing is essential, just different,” he says with public school sloth.
When Bison came in, he crouched down next to my pile of books. He pulled his index finger along their spines, eventually drawing out a small book. Like all the books in the pile, the pages of Bison’s chosen work had yellowed but the spine was smooth. “Good book?” he asked.
“I am sorry, Bison,” I said, “but I refuse to have a conversation until I am done here.”
Bison nodded and sat down on the undersized wooden chair next to the pile without using his arms to steady himself. He opened the book. With the cover page now facing me, I saw that it was a number of heads with crosses on their mouths. The title was the unhelpful Politics Now. Once I was off the toilet, Bison looked up.
“Only read bits of it and that was a while ago,” I said. I lay down on my bed. “It’s pretty dated. A lot of it’s about problems with government by referendum, Open Democracy, and that’s, well, past. But there is some interesting stuff about political caution. The author calls it ‘the tortoise in the age of the hare’ or something like that. And she also says that the expectations of politicians are so stratospheric that we only end up with goody two shoes types, who might not be the best leaders, administrators, thinkers, etcetera.”
Bison’s eyes were closed. “God, that was so dull I wondered if the lights had gone out,” he said. He dropped the book back onto the pile and slumped against the wall. “What’s the point in politics? There’s no humour in it. No point in anything without humour. Back in my navy days, I formed our squadron into the shape of a cock and balls. Nearly got in big trouble. Had to deny it was intentional. But was it so bad? It’s not like we had anything else to do.”
“Of course politics has a point. We are trying to improve things,” I said. The conversation had the tenor of a lazy childhood chat at a sleepover.
“Not a very successful profession then, is it?”
“Do you think the world would be better without politics then?” Bison didn’t answer for a minute or so and I knew this meant he had given up on the question. I tried to resuscitate the conversation. “Bison, what is your idea of a better world?”
“Thinking like that is what got me into this place,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
He sat forward and opened his eyes. “You know why I’m in here, right?”
I pushed myself up so that my back rested against the wall behind my bed. “Something about trying to start a nuclear war,” I said.
“Yep, that’s correct. But I’m guessing you don’t know why I tried to do so.”
“To create a post apocalyptic utopia?”
“Don’t be silly, Cecil. I did it for a much better reason than that. I did it because I was bored out of my mind. Imagine this. I joined the military in 2032. Since then, England has been involved in how many wars? Zero. The military has had nothing to do but plan and practice for something that is never going to happen. For the first decade, I was involved in other military tasks, like flood rescues and some antiprotest work, which kept me out of trouble. But then I became a Drawer and remained in that position for twenty years.
“I wasn’t allowed to do anything but develop and contain thousands of military strategies inside my head. Most of my friends left because of cuts but us Drawers continued to be required. So the destructive imagined worlds inside my head began to seem better than the tangible life I was living. Boredom terrified me more than inhumanity. And I got to thinking, wouldn’t it be fun to start a war and then find a way to win it?
“Developing those plans was the most fun I had had in years. The fear of being caught was exhilarating. I couldn’t la
unch our weapons without the consent of others. So I had to create a climate of fear so that we would commence preventative action. I used the tension over the River Tweed to build up scenarios around a Scottish threat. I was too successful. The Scots vehemently denied they had any negative intentions and, after each denial, our government became more concerned about the Scots’ intentions. Then the Scots were worried that we were going to launch an attack and began to organise their own preemptive strike. Only when the decision tree had been initiated and the launch codes were being generated did I bottle it. Most of the fun had been had by then and I admitted that I invented the whole thing.”
“At least you pulled out. But I don’t see what this has to do with your problems imagining a better world.”
“Don’t you? Let me spell it out then.” He put his right hand down his trousers and held it there. “Until I tried to start a war, I was continuously fiddling with life to make it better. First, I found a well paid career serving my country, which I barely had to show up for. I lived in comfort, met many interesting people and saw the world. But I was lonely so I found a beautiful, intelligent, kind woman and she agreed to be my wife. We began to feel unfulfilled by the cycle of restaurants, sports and holidays and so we had two children, who turned out to be well behaved and good company. I achieved all this without even really trying and found it tedious.”
“I see, but couldn’t there be changes that would add excitement to your life?”
“Of course. But it is always a balance. I once imagined my heaven would be an empty place of endless rolling fields coated with warm sunshine. The sky, a glacial blue. One fluffy cloud. The ground, cool, so that I could lay my warm body against it.”
“And you got tired of it because you wanted people to speak to and women to make love to.”
“Exactly. So then I turned my heaven into something more thrilling. Perhaps involving endless sex with gorgeous women. But wouldn’t I want my wife to be there? And even if my wife was happy for me, on occasion, to be with other women, wouldn’t that reduce the thrill of the affair? And in the meantime, I could be scoring goals in World Cup finals, but they would lose their ecstasy after a while. I am petrified of eternity.”
Bison looked at the ceiling, perhaps enjoying the exoskeleton of some fleeting rapture. I stumbled through his sceptical view of progress. Some of his argument was sound. Or, at least, I could only conjure up images of the afterlife that were washed away like sand castles. But even if he was right about the impossibility of imagining perfection, that did not mean the state of the universe was constant. Life could be better or worse. And if there is a better life, there must be a best life.
“Don’t our fantasies keep us afloat,” I said, “even if, in the end, we are circling between different equilibriums of pleasure and pain?”
“You’re missing the point.” His eyes expanded to squat zeros. “Many of us are already at the equilibrium. But we are still told what should give us pleasure, we reach for it and we find pain. So we are better off not reaching too far.”
I had slipped down the wall and was almost horizontal. I pushed myself up again, frustrated at having lost my posture. “But if we have nothing better to hope for, wouldn’t society fall apart?”
He smiled and his eyes were suddenly squinting at me like two minus signs. I don’t think I had seen him smile before. I didn’t like it. “Look where hope has put you,” he said. “I would say we both hoped a little bit too much.”
And then Bison left.
Pentonville Prison, 2 February 2062
Dear Clara,
You are dead and this entry should be addressed to me rather than to you. Was it ever any different? I was always just battling with myself when we spoke. If you agreed with what I said, it was never because of my reasoning. You agreed or disagreed immediately. I still tried to convince you. Before you asked me to go to the Mondrian exhibition with you, I refused to make a move until I was convinced you were interested. I never had much confidence in instinct. You knew there was something between us from the moment your hand pulled me up from the corridor floor. I knew too but knowledge was not enough for me. It happened again when I decided to leave Future Fabrics. I had developed a strategy to convince you it was a good decision. I didn’t need it. As soon as I said “I’m going to start my own business”, your eyes twinkled like the ocean in moonlight. I still downloaded all my reasoning onto you (onto myself) over the following month, while Future Fabrics tried to convince me to stay put.
You were so happy then, before the Slump, when everything seemed possible. I took you to that staffless restaurant, The Alchemist, to discuss my career move. We were impressed as the mechanic kitchen chopped and blitzed and fried until our food was launched out to us on hovering plates with the claim of scientific perfection. Seems so old fashioned now, all that robotics and science over taste. Even then we said it wouldn’t last. I was delighted by how long and beautiful your hair was. Vanity was the one vice I always supported in you.
When you disagreed with me, I could never change your mind. You just gave up arguing in the face of my incessant stamina for debate. It’s ironic that I didn’t try to convince you that I needed to kill you. I played out the discussion in my head instead. You would have loved that I finally changed when it was too late. Your humour was quite dark but not dark enough, I guess.
I began to think about killing you when you had returned home from another endurance challenge and your long body was sprawled out on the couch. I asked you how it had gone and you said, with a faint smile, “When I crossed the finish line, I felt incredible. But then it was gone.” I didn’t probe. We never spoke about our deepest feelings. Who does? Should I have told you that sometimes, when we made love, I thought about other women or that I wondered whether we were really right for each other (but always concluded we were)? They say that if I had really wanted to save you, we would have discussed your problems. What planet are they living on? It was hardly likely that prying into your emotions was going to make you feel better when you were suffering from a fear of intrusion.
Anyway, I made up the rest of our conversation to see where it would lead. I asked you whether there was anything I could do. You shook your head.
“Why don’t you just go away somewhere?” I said.
“I’ll always want to come back and then as soon as I’m back I’ll want to go again.”
I thought for a second and it dawned on me that you only had two options. Suffer or escape. So I said to you, “What’s the point of going on?”
And you responded unhelpfully with, “What’s the point of ending?”
“But you don’t need to suffer anymore. It could all be over. We could make it better in one moment. There is an escape but you need the courage to choose nothing over something.”
“What about you and Sebastian?”
“We’ll be just fine. You’ve worried about us for long enough. You will never stop worrying about us, about everyone else’s view of you, about the belief that there is some better life you are missing out on. So this is the only option.”
“But it is frightening,” you said. “The thought of the world without me. It feels so uncomfortable, although I don’t like it with me either.”
“Would you miss life?” I asked.
“Not one bit. It only seems to get worse, doesn’t it?”
“There you have it then.”
“I have thought about it before. Ending it all. When I skydive, I hope the parachute won’t open.”
“I know you have.”
“I always wanted to believe there must be some other way out. But each time I think I have found the end of the tunnel, it is the entrance to another tunnel. It’s like Alice in Wonderland but without the laughs.” And then you just nodded.
I am sorry for letting you convince me to enter politics even though we both knew it would send you over the edge. The last y
ears were the hardest years. You thought it had been hard before. Then we had the media crawling all over our lives and I never saw you without a smile after that. Well, until you started wearing the veil. When we first met, I thought you were immune to public opinion. It took me a long time to realise you had no idea who you wanted to be.
It was Christmas when we decided that I should run for Parliament, and your parents were staying at our house. We worked tirelessly to keep them apart, which meant we barely saw each other. Sebastian fortunately helped to distract them. They tried to penetrate his unsuspecting mind for information. All the same, there was even less space to talk than usual and our personal discussions were reserved until bedtime. Strange how often we kept our most important conversations until we couldn’t keep our eyes open. I was waiting for you in bed as always. I told you that I was planning on turning down the Party’s offer.
“Cecil, you have to do it,” you said.
“I wonder if it is right for me anymore. Of course, I would be very proud to be in Parliament but what about the spotlight? It might not be good for you or Seb. We have a wonderful life.”
You refused to let me say “no”. I really wasn’t sure I wanted the job. I made it all about you and Sebastian because I couldn’t let the Party know I was having reservations about politics.
“You have always wanted this,” you said.
“My dreams don’t matter as much as your dreams or Seb’s.”
“We will manage.” I don’t know if you believed that. You were wrong of course and because you had made the decision, you couldn’t even blame me for it. Strange how that was one of the few times you put your foot down. The other time was over Sebastian. You were right on that one.
Would things have been different if I had refused to run? Maybe you would have lost faith in me. The momentum towards power may have been the one thing keeping us together. Our centripetal force. Pointless wondering. A million different things could have happened. I could tell you we gave up our jobs, ended poverty together and then became itinerants living off the land. Wandering heroes. And still, we wouldn’t know if our lives had been better or worse for the achievement.
