A Mother's Unreason

by Andy Graham

  “Not gonna get many pills in return for the scrawny tinsel the government use,” Jamie had said. That had been a drop-dead funny joke coming from him. This year though, someone had made an exception to the no-tinsel rule.

  Lena’s heels gouged a hole in the dust as she took in her surroundings. The River Tenns divided the capital city, once known as Effrea-Tye, in two. Effrea, the southern half over the Stone Bridge, was festooned with bells and baubles. She didn’t see why the government had bothered decorating this side of the river, though. Tye had been ruined during the Silk Revolution. The copper wire had been stripped out of the lights long ago and most of the bulbs were broken. As for the tinsel, Lena figured someone had been told to wrap it around lamp posts, so they had, no matter that the things were practically relics. These days, if you were given an order, best just get on with it.

  The VP ripped another strand of tinsel free. Lena watched a gust of wind dragging it into the night. This street that hid the Ward and the old docks down the road were the few areas of Tye people went to during the day. At night, no one came here, except to this secret society, it seemed. The quiet was very different to the bustle they’d just left under the building behind them. Jamie would have approved; he liked things to be balanced. Something buzzed against her thigh. Lena yelped and spun round, a scream forming on her lips.

  Her scream died to be replaced by a nervous giggle. “It’s your phone, silly.”

  The caller ID flashed up lurid green in the darkness. Her free hand strayed to her stomach. “Martinez,” she whispered. “I can’t talk now.”

  “So why did you pick up the phone?”

  “Because you rang. I’m in Tye.”

  “Is that why you can’t talk or why you picked up the phone?

  “What?”

  “Doesn’t matter. What are you doing over the river at this time of night? It’s dangerous. Serial killer, remember? Dead bodies. All shaved hairless. All women.”

  Lena glanced over at the VP and the sleek black limousine just beyond him. “Trust me, Tino, I’m fine. I’ll tell you about it when I see you next. Did you know the lamp posts in Tye have got tinsel on them?”

  She could hear the rustle of his breath in the receiver.

  “Have you been drinking, Lena?”

  Now it was his turn to wait as she organised her words. “Just one.”

  “How big was this ‘just one’?”

  “I’m fine.” She could hear the clank of metal and the sloshing of water down the phone. “Never mind the tinsel. You finishing work?”

  “Yup. The Kickshaw closed hours ago but there was a party tonight, loads of suits and uniforms. I swear, the more money people earn the more mess they make and liberties they take. I’m not sure what Lynn’s doing.” There was a taste of revulsion in his voice.

  “Your manager’s odd. She scares me.”

  “She’s a good woman. Just taken a lot on of late.” There was that odd tone in his voice again. “Upside is, I get to listen to the tunes I want to play. Downside is, I have to clean up on my own. Takes ages.”

  “Your limp doesn’t help, does it?”

  The line went silent. Jamie was right — she did speak too much. Most men would bristle at that comment. Probably not Martinez, though.

  “No, Lena, the limp doesn’t help much. But I’m lucky.”

  “Lucky? You got bombed, the army kicked you out with no pension, your town disowned you, and then that town disappeared, literally disappeared off the map. I have no idea how that happens, by the way, but tell me again, how are you lucky?”

  “I’m alive, I have good friends and a job. I have a roof, food and water. You don’t need much more. Except maybe good music and a drink.”

  Lena grinned. “Now you’re getting greedy.”

  “Plus I met you.”

  “And romantic.” Lena twisted a lock of her hair around a fingertip. Maybe once she’d had time to think things through, she’d take Martinez up on that permanent offer of a drink he’d left hanging. He was a good man in need of a good home. He deserved more. He deserved the truth from her. Surely her brother would approve of him, Martinez being ex-military and all. And — she pivoted, one heel kicking up to her butt — if she had any spare cash, she’d lay money on Martinez being a better dancer than most. From what she knew of him already, the man could move for two, despite his half-leg.

  Her pirouette faltered. Bringing up a family with no money was rough. That was the uncomfortable reality of life that gave her romantic ideals a kicking. She and Jamie had grown up with not much more than nothing. They’d had days where they had to choose which family member ate. There were still families in the same situation, despite the government’s claims to the contrary. And Martinez? Much as she liked him, as good a man as he was, she didn’t know if she loved him and he couldn’t be earning much. The VP, on the other hand, was loaded, attractive and powerful. He seemed interested in her, too. He had confided in her.

  She felt nauseous even contemplating the idea of the VP being some kind of surrogate father. This was not how she had been brought up, but she had promised herself she would never subject any of her kids to the bone-wrenching hunger she had lived through. And unlike what the VP had claimed a few hours earlier, problems did not solve problems, money did. But where did that leave Martinez and his dancing skills?

  “You OK, Lena?”

  “Dancing’s important,” she replied, not quite to herself. “If people danced more, the world would be a better place. You need good music for good dancing, you can help with that. When I’m the president’s wife, that’ll be my policy - more dancing for more.”

  “You sure you’re OK?”

  “Why do you think they decorated the city with the tinsel?” She kicked herself. Dumb questions seemed to invite themselves into her mouth.

  “I’m confused. Why’s that important?”

  “Just answer, will you?”

  “Not sure. But I get the feeling someone’s fattening us up for a feast. ’Cept I’m not sure if we’ll be at the table or on it.”

  Lena’s eyes slid sideways to the VP. “Tino Martinez, please. The government wouldn’t do that.”

  “Enjoy the decorations but don’t forget what they’re hiding.”

  “What?”

  Martinez didn’t reply.

  “OK. Another question,” she said.

  “Dancing or tinsel related?”

  “They spent all this money putting the decorations up. Is the government’s extravagance going to extend to taking them down?”

  “You sure you had just one drink?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I thought you couldn’t talk right now, anyway?”

  “Well, you’re you. You know?”

  “Yes, I guess I am, and I do.”

  There was a pause. A silence filled by the dull thump of music and the clink of what sounded like a piano.

  “Why did you call, Tino? I could have been asleep.”

  “Not sure. Impulse.”

  “I’m glad you did.”

  “It’s good to hear you. I thought you’d been avoiding me. You know, after what happened.”

  Lena’s cheeks flooded with heat. “I just need some time.”

  The music faded. There was a rattle, as if of metal on wood, his mop, a key or a lock, a bolt maybe. “I got to go. I don’t know what you’re doing over there, but look after yourself. Tye is dangerous.”

  He hung up off. Lena stared at the phone for a long time. Martinez was gone. The presence of the VP on the other side of the street seemed larger than before, as was the fascinated revulsion she had felt below ground. This time there was an edge to it that she hoped was excitement, not fear. An icy wind rattled down the street.

  “Come on. I’m cold and got to pee.” Lena waved a hand from folded arms that were snugged up under her breasts. The face the VP turned to her shook her from the inside out. With his collars turned up like the bat-wing chairs they’d been sitting in downstairs, even a scow
l would be preferable to his expression. She recoiled without thinking. Her nose wrinkled. She hadn’t noticed the smell before, the sweat and urine that overpowered the stink of oil and salt from the river. The wooden trapdoor thumped behind her. Lena started. A shadow disappeared down the street. The lights flickered, giving it a disjointed appearance as it fled.

  “What was that?” Her heart thumped double time to the words.

  “A dog. There are lots here,” the VP replied, somehow now at her side.

  “Not the serial killer?”

  “Nope. A dog, a Feral or a homeless. The problem is bigger in Tye than Effrea.”

  “Homeless or dog?”

  “Both. There are more places for them to hide in all the deserted buildings here.”

  “That’s the second I’ve seen in a week. That’s twice as many homeless as I’ve seen in the rest of my life. There are all kinds of stories at work about it. One of my friends, her cousin turned up from nowhere. Disappeared years ago. They thought he was dead. And do you know what?”

  “Obviously not.”

  “He was in a wheelchair. A real one with great big fat wooden wheels. Must have been older than the sky. I’ve never seen a wheelchair. You’d think they’d at least have rubber wheels or some kind of suspension. Where are they all coming from? You must know, being who you are. You must know all kinds of good secrets. I’d give—”

  The rapid patter of words stopped. A lamp bulb winked out in the distance. There was what sounded like a firework followed by a muffled thud.

  Lena shuffled closer to the VP and he slipped his arm through hers.

  “Who was that on the phone?” She was desperate to fill the silence, muffle the echo of the thud.

  A frown flashed across his face. “Those gardeners of mine I mentioned have hit a snag. The root they’re trying to dig up is proving more stubborn than they thought.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “Send in more gardeners. Bigger ones, with heavier tools.”

  In the distance she heard the stuttering of helicopter rotors. She pulled her hair out of her face and peered into the night, trying to see where it was. The night sky held a shifting blanket of red dots amongst the immobile white ones. She switched to a safer conversation.

  “Why are the two towers named after the moons?”

  “That’s one secret I’m not privy to.”

  “Privy,” Lena repeated and giggled. “Which tower is yours then?” she asked when he didn’t laugh.

  “Lesau. The president has Melesau.”

  “I could have worked that out.” She gave him a playful jab, then snapped her finger back when she realised who she had just poked.

  The vice president didn’t seem to have noticed. He was staring up at the sky. “Lesau and Melesau. It’s so much more evocative than Moon X5 and X6.” He opened the car door for her, protecting her head as Lena ducked inside. A small cabinet held a collection of bottles.

  “I always thought we should just call the moons the big one and the little one.” She giggled.

  “That’s more evocative, certainly. If a little dull.” He pulled out a bottle which had a real cork.

  Her giggle turned to a cough. She tried her drink. Just a sip. It was smoother than the stuff they’d been drinking in the Ward.

  He drained the glass and refilled it. “X5 and X6. I’m not sure why they chose those numbers. Are the astronomers somehow going to discover other moons orbiting us that no one’s noticed before?” He shook his head. “Do scientists make things unnecessarily complicated just to justify their own existence? The world used to be full of books, information and studies on and about everything and nothing, but did that actually improve anything? Names are important, though. So are labels.” He tapped on the glass screen with a knuckle. Darker, thicker windows rolled up to cover the already tinted windows in the doors.

  Lena had a sinking feeling she was about to hear another list.

  “Labels give people something to believe in, something to live by. Most people are a mess of many things but label themselves in ways that are easiest for society: I’m a father, I’m a banker, I’m a rebel and so on. Then your doctor labels you with the diagnosis, the banker with the colour of your credit card, and everyone feels good about it. Even when it’s bad news, it gives people comfort because they know where they stand, what’s expected of them.”

  The car glided away. The crumbling Clock Tower behind them watched them go with its one silent eye. She breathed a sigh of relief. It was a short list. “Is it true all the tinsel and the other Midwinter decorations are in memory of Mr Prothero?”

  “What?” the VP’s voice snapped round the small space.

  “David Prothero, the spokesperson for the unions. His suicide was a terrible thing. He did so much for us.” Lena could feel the colour draining from her face as it flooded into his.

  “I know who he was. Where did you hear that being said?”

  “I don’t know . . .” Tears welled up in her eyes. A cold flush spread through her limbs. This was not like her — she didn’t cry this easily. Her body was playing tricks on her.

  His hand shook ever so slightly. He rested the heavy tumbler on his knee. When he looked back at her, the disarming smile was back in place. He pushed a glass towards her.

  “I’m not sure I want any more. I want to go home.”

  “It’s good.” He sidled closer. “So am I.”

  “I know, thank you.”

  “My driver can drop you home later. You might as well come back to mine, it’s on the way.”

  Lena pushed a lock of her long curly hair out of her eyes. Her throat was dry. Was there any water in the car? “Where do you live?”

  “Near everywhere.” His eyes were heavy on her body. “You have things to do tomorrow? You’re busy?”

  She nodded.

  Still holding his drink he started slowly unbuttoning her coat. “No problem.”

  8

  Leadership

  Red embers flared under the glowing logs. Field-Marshal Willa Chester pulled her head back, blinking the smoke out of her eyes. Open fires were illegal, but on nights like these no one was likely to notice. Even if someone on the military base did see it, the legions were all too preoccupied with the talk of war with Mennai, their neighbouring country, to be bothered. She settled back onto her sofa. It was hard to find a comfortable position between the springs that poked through the age-worn padding.

  “You know you could stretch to a new one?” called a woman’s voice from the kitchen. “You barely claim anything on expenses, so no one would complain. That dead animal you call a sofa must have been threadbare when the president’s was still squeaky new leather.”

  “Comfort is overrated. It’s making society soft.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I know. Your legions know. We all know. Even our enemies in Mennai know. The hardships you expect your troops to live through are nothing compared to what you put yourself through, that outdoor ice shower of yours, for example.”

  “Leadership is more than just decisions. Leadership is an example.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Jann Rainehoff, Chester’s PA and the owner of the voice in the kitchen, was muffled by the rattling of crockery being put away.

  Chester’s cat, Lius, padded down the open staircase from the mezzanine sleeping quarters. He jumped onto the sofa and batted at the gold braid that looped off Chester’s sleeve. Affronted by her lack of reaction to his presence, he stalked off, tail curling high in the air. Chester was troubled and she knew why: the vice president.

  “Don’t you think it odd?” she asked the younger woman. “David Prothero somehow gains access to the VP’s private office at the top of Lesau Tower. Once there, in one of the most private, heavily-guarded locations in the country, Prothero hurls himself out of the window. The force of his landing cracks the pavement a foot deep. The next day, Midwinter’s day, the VP vanishes, leaving rumours swirling through the corridors of power like a blizzard.”

/>   Including quiet whispers that claim Prothero was the VP’s real father.

  Jann raised her voice over the clatter of knives and forks being emptied into drawers. “Never understood why Prothero wasn’t just known as the head of the opposition. Why call him ‘spokesperson for the unions’. There’s no such thing as a union anymore. But I like the blizzard comment, you should write that down.”

  The heat from the fire warming Chester’s skin was matched by a deeper heat inside her.

  “But you’re right. The situation does sound . . .” The rattling of cutlery and crockery paused. “Ugly, I guess.”

  “No, Jann. War is ugly but politics is the poison that gives us war. And in this field, the VP is peerless.”

  “What did the president say about it when you asked her?”

  “She ducked all my questions with the consummate skill of a seasoned politician.”

  “I thought you were old friends?”

  “She’s my commander-in-chief. Relationships between superiors and subordinates can be complicated,” Chester added quietly.

  A drawer slammed shut. In the hearth, cracks split in the burning wood. Chester continued, “Four weeks after Prothero’s apparent suicide, the VP strolls back into work as if he’d been on a jaunt to his country house. His tongue is sharper and more acidic than ever, his patience more ragged.”

  “More ragged than your sofa?”

  Chester grinned despite herself. “Everyone is tiptoeing around him but me. And it’s getting...”

  “Ugly?”

  The grin became a laugh. “Not yet, Jann, but it’s making me twitchy.”

  Lius hissed his agreement as he threaded his way across the lintel.

  “I bumped into the VP on the parade ground tonight.” Under a sky choked with clouds that were peppered with cadaverous holes, Chester felt like adding, to see if that would deserve to be written down as well. “He gave me even less time than usual. He claimed to have a meeting to go to.”

  “Did he?”

  “Of course not. That was a lie. He was scurrying off to this silly secret society: The Ward. The place under the old Clock Tower, patronised by the high and mighty of Ailan.”