Not the End of the World

by Christopher Brookmyre

  ‘Where’s the other guy?’ he said to the diver guarding the three of them.

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Go find him then.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  He removed his air tanks as the third diver raised his weapon and resumed guard duties.

  Mitch took a deep breath then spoke. ‘You gentlemen gonna tell us what it is you want?’ he challenged.

  The boss, as he appeared to be, took a step closer. ‘Are you the captain of this vessel?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes I am.’

  ‘Then in that case, Captain, the first thing we want is you.’

  Coop, Taylor and Cody had their hands tied behind their backs down in the galley, while the bossman took Mitch down to the Brain, where he wanted something with the ship’s log. Cody looked at their captors, the two men in wetsuits, faces obscured, automatic rifles constantly trained. She wanted to wonder where they had come from – they hadn’t seen another boat in days – or even what they wanted, but the only thought her mind could process was the desperate hope that they kept their masks on.

  Once the prisoners were secured, one of the divers headed back out to the aft deck. ‘Everybody stay cool,’ he instructed.

  Mitch re-emerged from the stairwell, the bossman at his back. Mitch’s hands were bound tightly with the same kind of stiff plastic seal as was already gouging welts in his colleagues’ wrists.

  The diver returned from the aft deck, sticking his head around the door.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said.

  The bossman and the other diver jabbed at Mitch and Coop with the noses of their guns, indicating all of them to follow the figure at the door. They climbed the steps to the deck, where the front man had halted. He stayed by the doorway and gestured to them to continue walking.

  ‘All right, stop there,’ he said. ‘Now spread out, slowly, facing us. And don’t anybody try anything stupid. You’ve all been models of co-operation so far, let’s not spoil it.’

  They stood in a line: Cody, Taylor, Mitch, Coop.

  Then Cody looked down and noticed what they were standing on. Plastic sheeting, covering the deck from port to starboard.

  Oh Christ.

  That was when you were supposed to look to God, to seek salvation, consolation or just explanation, searching for a comforting glimpse of His reason, whatever it might tell you. But instead, that was the moment Cody saw the real secrets of the universe.

  The helpless desolation of solitude.

  The conspired illusion of order.

  The dance we called morality.

  No meaning, only incident; and sometimes record, for those few who might read it. Like the changes in the rocks, but far briefer, far smaller.

  Incident.

  Explosion. A first explosion, and from it the elements. Gases, solids, liquids. The shaping of the bodies. The cooling of the continents. The forming of the waters. The accident of life.

  The change and process we groped clumsily to grasp, fashioning our own crude picture of its shadow like the wretches in Plato’s cave. The picture we called Chemistry.

  Energy, endlessly metamorphosising, the act of each manifestation in itself precipitating the next transformation.

  Explosion. A last explosion. Chemical energy becoming light, sound, kinesis. Propelling metal, hurtling, spinning.

  Through skin.

  Through flesh.

  Through bone.

  Through brain.

  III

  the blood-dimmed tide

  I’m fed up with all these Weary Willies saying

  ‘Thou shalt not. Thou shalt not.’

  Yes, we fuckin’ shall!

  Billy Connolly

  fifteen

  ‘That is my information, Suzie, yes. There have been news helicopters circling overhead for about an hour as dawn approaches, but none of them got any footage of Madeleine Witherson and her police escort’s arrival. It is possible that she may have already been in the hotel before the announcement was made. The likelihood is that she is in the south wing of the building, most of which was left undamaged by yesterday’s bomb blast. The beachside terrace is, as you may have seen from our skycam footage, strewn with wreckage – a lot of the debris from the hotel lobby has been dragged out there – but police and hotel staff have cleared a space near the edge of the swimming pool, and a camera crew has been allowed to start setting up in that area. That crew is from a different network but I’ve been assured that their pictures will be simulcast on all stations.

  ‘As you probably heard, the police have appealed to the public to stay away from the Pacific Vista, but that plea seems to have fallen on deaf ears. The hotel beach itself is cordoned off, but a small crowd started gathering either side of the barriers yesterday after the bomber transmitted his new appointed venue, and they’ve been there since, kind of reserving their ringside seats. There are reports that they even had a beach barbecue, and certainly there were fires burning down by the ocean throughout the night. But since this morning’sannouncement, as you can imagine, Joe Public has been rolling up in droves. I’m told the centre of Santa Monica is gridlocked with cars bringing people to the beachfront area, and there’s even been a few motor launches dropping anchor out there.’

  ‘Bob, if I can interrupt for a second, we’ve had some callers back here asking about the legal implications of what – it now appears – is about to take place this morning. They’ve been pointing out that suicide is, technically, illegal, and yet the authorities are allowing and even assisting Madeleine Witherson, who has stated her intention to take her own life.’

  ‘Well, Suzie, the same thought did strike me, and I talked to one police officer who said simply, “Who’s gonna hold up a badge and say ‘Stop’ when there’s eighty-eight other lives on the line? Not me.’”

  ‘It’s a very good point, Bob, thanks. However, it seems pro-Life groups aren’t so convinced by that rationale. Mary Jo Brennan from the Sacred Heart Trust has been on the phone to say that it is for God only to take life, and . . .’

  ‘Christ, can’t we turn that shit off?’ asked a tired voice, but everybody knew they couldn’t. Maybe change the channel for a different running-bullshit accompaniment, but not cut off the images coming from that hotel.

  Jo yawned and shifted position on the floor, her back against a seat, her ass almost numb from reclining there so many endless hours. The boat had been told the news before anyone else, as they were the ones most in need of reassurance. Veltman had received a call and then relayed it to everyone on board, with the instruction that they weren’t to go calling their families yet as the cops wanted strict control over when this information went public. It seemed a lot to ask, with people painfully aware of what their loved ones were going through back home, but then they were all learning a new perspective on the concept of sacrifice.

  The reaction was far from euphoric. Everyone was feeling the same thing: a tentative, cautious relief, and equal shame at whatever comfort it gave them. Some of them couldn’t bear to look each other in the eye, although that might have had as much to do with what had gone before as what was about to happen. Suffice it to say, dignity had been the first casualty when night fell and the fear really set in.

  The illuminated decks became surrounded by a thick blackness, sparsely punctuated by the lights of the surrounding vessels, all of which seemed further away now that their lamps were all you could see. That was when tough talk made way for desperation, and that in turn for abject stupidity.

  First, several of the execs decided that this was a problem their lawyers dam well should be able to sort out for them, and started punching away at their mobiles while the batteries still held out. The world and his dog were going to be sued, by the sound of it. Luther St John first, for making threatening speeches, which was ‘incitement to something or other, I ain’t sure what yet, but I want his ass in court’. Pretty soon they moved on to the cops and the FBI for not having caught the bad guy yet, which led inexorably to asking ‘how
shitty the security must have been for this asshole to have got on board and planted not just his holy hand-grenade of Antioch, but all his gadgets too’.

  Phones were dispensed with as a grumbling group moved in on Veltman and Baird, the latter as representative of the charter firm, the former for having organised the whole thing and invited them on board his floating Pinto.

  ‘What you got lined up for Cannes, Linus?’ one shouted. ‘A re-enactment of the Challenger disaster maybe?’

  A potentially very ugly development was defused by the distraction of a fight breaking out on the aft sun-deck, where Nova Image’s Jack Ritchie and EyeCandy’s CEO Saul Fleder were rolling around on the floor. It was only when Jo noticed a surplus to the regular number of arms and legs that it became apparent they were not in fact duking it out, but teaming up to restrain the surgically sculpted action-Aryan Max Michaels. Michaels had committed himself to EyeCandy for three pictures in the ‘fifteen-to-twenty-million-dollar budget range’ (actually five-to-seven), but as this was before their CEO sat on his head, Jo hoped they had it all down on paper.

  Michaels had evidently reasoned that there was little chance the bomber would notice one person slipping over the side and swimming across to the safety of the police launches. Fleder had spotted him taking off his shoes and socks and reasoned differently. ‘We’re not gonna be the stake for your bet, asshole,’ Saul had explained, as Baird helped tie the muscleman’s hands together to discourage any further excursions. Jo was faintly concerned that she had seen Michaels extricate himself from just such a knot in Vendetta II,but then in that movie he had also beaten the shit out of several guys a lot bigger than the five-foot Saul Fleder or the sixty-two-year-old Jack Ritchie.

  But the worst hideousness of that longest, darkest night of the (ass) soul had to be Paul Silver’s fevered and insistent orchestration of a Christian prayer ceremony. Jo thought Silver had flipped into catatonia earlier, having burned himself out in a relentless, turbo-boosted stream-of-consciousness. Any time she’d met him he’d struck her as a vessel of concentrated nervous energy, which made him real useful when there was a job to do, but the last person you wanted near you at a time like this. Truth was – and you could ask anyone – Paul Silver was regarded as a good man in a crisis, because he’d do whatever and as much as he could to alleviate it. But in a situation where there was nothing anyone could do, well, all that nervous energy had to find an outlet somewhere. The high-octane head-rant had merely been the overture; the period of catatonia time for the orchestra to rest and retune.

  A small group of execs with predominantly Irish and Italian surnames had gathered in Silver’s quiet vicinity to say a few prayers that everything was going to work out. Observing this Catholic pow-wow, he hit upon an idea that was less than inspired, and even further from divine. Silver figured it might stay the bomber’s hand if they all made a show of reverent Christian prayer for his cameras; there was no sound link, so hopefully he would interpret it as an act of penitence or even just as evidence that they were all a whole lot more God-fearin’ than he had assumed.

  Convinced that this could be their salvation, Silver had embarked upon a frenetic campaign of evangelism to amass a devout host of head-bowed Christians on the main deck. What made it worse was that there were so many takers, many of whom were equally Jewish.

  Jo refused any part of the dismal pantomime, and hoped fervently that the bomber wasn’t watching too closely. It was unlikely enough he’d be buying any of this wholesale Damascene conversion bullshit, but the flapping attempts at a sign of the Cross proliferating around the deck were less a giveaway than an act of provocation.

  ‘Dumb schmucks,’ muttered a guy beside her, Lenny Weiskov, one of the few who had resisted Silver’s entreaties. ‘What do they think, the bomber’s gonna believe this was some gentiles’ day out? It’s the movie business, for cry in’ out loud. Jews pretending to be Christians – pah! Jews in the movie business shouldn’t even pretend to be religious. It’s incompatible from an early age – kids’ matinee’s always been on the same day as schule.’

  * * *

  It had been a long night for Daniel Corby too. Everything had gone off without a hitch, but none of it had made him feel quite the way he’d hoped or expected, and darkness had brought its demons. The sense of purpose, the feeling of control, had been surging through him throughout the scheming and preparation, and had grown in its intensity right up until he triggered the detonator at the Pacific Vista. Nothing seemed quite so certain after that moment as it had before; not even his own conviction.

  Filth-peddlers and pornographers bled, he had learned, just like anyone else. Copiously, in fact, according to the collage of TV images. Their flesh yielded also to flame and steel and glass. And however damned their souls, their bodies were nonetheless a pitiful sight as they staggered or were carried from the hotel. Blood-spattered and tearful faces filled every lens. Stretchers with sheets covering face Dead people. Murdered people. Murdered by him.

  He hadn’t meant it to be so big. He’d learned plenty more about bombs and explosives since Pocoima, but his judgement as regards quantity was still way out, especially as he knew so little about the fabrics and construction of such a weird edifice as the Pacific Vista’s landmark canopy. It was supposed to be a firm, even shocking declaration of intent; he hadn’t meant to total the place.

  Daniel tried to re-summon up all his hatred, concentrating on his greater mission, and thought hard about Luther St John’s powerful words. But while St John remained in the realm of words, Daniel had moved into the world of deeds, and the two were a long way apart. He had stuck to his schedule and continued with the plan, sending over a new venue for the sacrifice, but he feared this might have been because he didn’t know what else to do. As events unfolded, he found himself praying that Witherson would go through with it – not for all the reasons he’d intended, but so that he could feel that something had been achieved, that it had all been worth it.

  He hadn’t been ready for those TV images. He’d thought only of his plan, of Witherson, of God, and planting his bombs had been like playing cards, a matter of strategy. It was almost as though he’d forgotten what those things actually did. The pictures reminded him of the World Trade Center and, inevitably, of Oklahoma City, which prompted an even more urgent concern, regarding electric chairs and lethal injections. Until then, he hadn’t given a second’s thought to the consequences for himself of getting caught, only of the consequences for the success of his mission.

  He watched the famous faces on his TV screens, faces he saw every day, every night, faces who had always seemed a world away behind desks, under studio lights, surrounded by captions and logos and talking heads. Tonight they were all talking about what had happened today; what he had done today. And the more they talked, the more the enormity of what he had unleashed seemed to grow.

  It took serious nerve not to panic. Crazy, desperate thoughts began flitting into his head, and sometimes not flitting out again too quickly. It would do no good to give himself up, he knew. Charged with killing eight (or did they say nine now?) people, it wasn’t going to be much of a mitigation to point out that he had held off killing eighty-eight more. His thoughts turned to flight. Blow the house up behind him, obliterating all the evidence. But then maybe such an explosion would only lead them to discover that the place’s occupant had been the bomber, and his name and picture would top America’s Most Wanted within hours. Maybe he should just pack a bag, disengage the failsafe, get in the car and split, come back when they had busted some other guy for it all.

  But weakened as it was, he still couldn’t completely shake off the belief that had brought him to this juncture. Inside, he still knew that he had to make this happen, that America had to get that wake-up call through Witherson’s death. He had to stay strong, resist the allures of ease and security, as the Lord had done in the desert. After all, if God didn’t want this to happen, He could stop it, couldn’t he? And yet it was all running smoothly
. Maybe it was all going to be worth it, he pondered. Maybe he just needed to have faith.

  That was when the phone rang. He feared the worst initially, but then it struck him that if he’d been fingered, they wouldn’t just call him up.

  It was Nate, the nearest thing the Southland Militia had to a tech-head, whom Daniel had dealt with when he was setting up their Internet sites. To his shock, Nate informed Daniel that they knew he was the bomber, but this was eased by the qualification that it was St John who’d worked it out and told them, and eased further by the hearty assurance that they were all right behind him.

  ‘The Reverend would like us to bring you in for a little chat when it’s all over,’ Nate added. ‘So we can talk about where we all go from here. He’s real impressed, let me tell you. Mind if I come over right now to catch the big finale?’

  ‘Do I mind? Hey, bring a six-pack!’

  When Daniel put down the phone it took admirable restraint not to physically jump for joy. This was surely God’s way of telling him he had passed the test of temptation, and his faith was about to receive fitting reward.

  If Jo was embarrassed by the antics of her fellow hostages, they seemed models of solemn propriety compared to the circus sideshow going on all around them. The TV news ‘copters had often been compared to vultures, but seldom had the parallel been so close; they had deserted the Ugly Duckling and headed for the Pacific Vista when they learned that was where the fresh blood would be.

  Jo felt the tight grip she’d kept on her outrage loosening as she saw what an infotainment spectacle this was all being turned into. She saw shots of the crowds gathering on the beach, the camera picking out the placards being held up. ‘The wages of sin is death,’ said one. ‘Bleed for your sins Witherson,’ said another, while a third opted simply for ‘Burn baby burn’.