*
Dawdle ushered Ishbel into a parked white van as if she were royalty.
‘What a mess.’ Sometimes Ishbel wished she wasn’t quite a native, always tidying, always cleaning.
Dawdle began gathering scraps of paper. He threw scummy brew dregs out the cab window before stowing the clarty mugs under the seat. Small embarrassed dimples appeared on his cheeks.
‘Sorry, ah didnae expect this call.’
Ishbel remained silent. Her jaw clamped shut. The cab stank of male. She thumped the button of the window but nothing happened. Dawdle leaned across her and the smell of his spicy cologne replaced the stench in her mind. He stabbed the window button hard with his thumb and it opened, releasing the smell. He seemed to linger a few seconds before he moved back to his seat.
‘Sorry,’ was all he said, but they both knew what he meant. ‘It’s not far,’ he added.
They drove for half an hour and in that time the only vehicles they saw were military Jeeps. Each one flashed a friendly headlight and Dawdle replied with a flick of a switch at the wheel which lit up the road in front.
‘Why don’t they stop you?’
Dawdle grinned. ‘Now why would they dae that? What harm am ah daein?’
‘You must be stealing military fuel.’
Dawdle arched his brows. ‘Am ah?’ Then he laughed. ‘And how would they get their cigs, their meat, and their native booty.’ Ishbel winced. ‘Sorry. Their bits and pieces.’ Dawdle settled back in his driving seat, arms fully stretched towards the steering wheel. ‘We don’t steal fuel. We barter fur it. The Military worked out a long time ago that we’re a necessary evil. Part o’ the economy. Let’s just call it an unwritten agreement. If we aw stick tae the rules we can exist side by side.’ He flashed her that grin again. ‘Just play cute.’
After a few more kiloms they transferred to a launch and buzzed out to a structure towering in the bay. It appeared not as tall as it had been before the flood but it was still an impressive structure, similar to the one that dominated the Capital. In the past ten years all available metal had been requisitioned by the Military. Railings cut down, cars crushed and remoulded, scrap of any kind melted down. In fact it was this very production that gave the Noiri its initial foothold into the underworld. There had been calls for the Capital to dismantle its own iconic tower but the symbolic significance was not overlooked. The State realised it could impose many hardships on the lives of the Privileged, but to take their precious tower was a step too far, it would lead to mass disobedience. Half the world could be starving, natives and oldies could be dropping with unchecked suspicious viruses, but take away the metal tower of the Capital and all hell breaks loose. While all this was going through her mind, Ishbel stared up at this miniature version, with its small lights evenly spaced up its legs, and wondered again at the power of Monsieur Jacques to keep it here.
They clambered up a makeshift ladder and entered a rickety old lift that should have been scrapped years ago; its concertina door clacked closed in front of them. Their images distorted and grotesquely reflected back at them from the tired and battered fake gold interior. One side was made of glass and as it ascended as if into the air, she wondered how Sorlie would cope with this exposure to the outside. Many times she had tried to help him conquer his fear of height. Often she would take him swimming with her to the high woods with the other natives. There was an old stone monument to some forgotten warrior, perched on the tip of a crag. The natives had all but pushed Sorlie to the edge, had persuaded him to climb the monument. ‘What sort of Privileged do you think you are? Can’t even climb,’ they had goaded him. Ishbel remembered his bitten lip, his wee determined face; the eight-year-old had started up the steep stone spiral steps. He got as far as the tenth step and froze. He could neither move up nor down. Ishbel had to carry him home. He never spoke of the incident, he never told his parents, never made her suffer, as many Privileged children did with their native. It was as if he had wiped the memory from his mind.
She stared back at the sea below and realised she missed Sorlie, and wondered how he was fairing in the domain of Vanora. The yank of the lift coming to a sudden stop pulled her back. She stood with her back to the windows and lulled her mind to expect whatever came her way. She was sure it wasn’t death, but even if it was, it was something she had been trained to accept.
Dawdle tugged the door open and ushered her into a large room with a glass floor. Even in the dark Ishbel felt an unease in her belly. Music played in the background. Oldie music: folky, rocky. Something from the last century. The sound of the lift descending and then returning sent her, despite the unease, into the corner of the glass room.
Monsieur Jacques was a name, a legend; some even suspected he didn’t exist. No one knew what he looked like, or his age. In her mind she expected him to be middle-aged, maybe a bit wily, a bit like Scud before the change, perhaps. Clever, smart – you don’t get into this position without being smart.
She didn’t realise she had been holding her breath until a whistle escaped through the gap in her front teeth the moment the doors to the lift cranked open.
A giant entered the room, making her take a step back. Satan’s truth, she was in a giant’s lair. Privileged, definitely Privileged. And well over two metres tall. His hair was receding to almost bald, apart from a crescent of snow-white tuft that cradled his skull. His broad shoulders seemed to push the door open beyond its grinding hinges. His blue eyes twinkled as if enjoying her scrutiny of him. They were not the ice blue of Davie’s, but warm blue in his broad moon face, if such a thing existed. There was a crater in the middle of that moon face as if something had punctured it long ago and it had healed over but now it looked like an extra eye that was scrutinising her in return. He smiled, his teeth good, strong and white. He held out his hand to her, a huge paw that was soft and wrinkled and it was these wrinkles that gave the game away. He was old. His face was modified, the skin tightened or maybe even replaced, giving him the look of a giant plastic doll. His hands were old.
‘Ishbel. Enchanté.’
She opened her mouth to speak then realised she didn’t know how to address him. ‘Enchanté,’ she said. This was how she had taught Sorlie to address people for the first time on meeting and she remembered the pride she felt when he said this to Vanora in David’s study. She always loved the greeting since she had been taught it by the people of her home in the North West Territories. Homesickness stabbed her. Monsieur Jacques held her hand in both of his, obviously pleased to see her. Still she said nothing. And then he realised.
‘You must call me Monsieur Jacques.’
No informality here then, she thought. She didn’t know why this bothered her so much but it did.
The demarcation line drawn, Privileged and native and yet, when she looked across at Dawdle he was grinning with indulgence as if he had just delivered the greatest prize of his life.
Sorlie
I sidled up to Ridgeway to get out of her range. ‘What the snaf? She’s just murdered someone in cold blood and we’re trapped on this island with her.’
‘It’s called the Art of War, show them who’s boss.’
‘Show them who’s mad more like. What are we going to do?’
‘Maybe wait and see what’s happened to Kenneth before we decide.’
‘Where is Kenneth?’
Ridgeway looked towards Arkle who nodded. Ridgeway took a deep breath. I thought at first he was going to tell me he’d died.
‘He’s being deloused and rehabbed.’
‘What? Why?’
‘Maybe you didn’t notice his disintegration. You can’t live in a cave for twenty-odd years without some ill effects. He should be set to rights in a couple of days.’ He couldn’t look me in the eye.
‘What are they going to do to him? Not tamper with his brain?’
‘He’s being well looked after,’ t
he smooth Arkle said, then motioned to the queueing men in the sports hall.
‘When this is done we’ll begin streaming them into skill sets, they’ll be disinfected and allocated.’ An echo of history niggled at my mind. The simple words, ‘disinfected’ and ‘allocated’, chilled me; the picture of the men in the prison infirmary, slaughtered by my grandfather, still filled my mind. The ones who were destroyed. Yes. Out of the frying pan indeed.
The tangy deodorised smell of cut grass wrinkled my nose to sneeze-ready as soon as I entered the room. A pre-oldie sat at a desk, writing or drawing old-style on textile. His salt and pepper coloured hair was banded back from his brow and a neat pencil line beard covered only the bottom half of his chin, a classic style that made him look like a philosopher. At first I thought he was unaware of my presence until he cranked his head in my direction. He rose to a slight stoop, placing the palms of his hands on his back to straighten. When the groan escaped him recognition kicked in.
‘No way!’
But when he smiled and held his hands out in a “ta da” gesture there was no denying it.
‘Satan’s truth, what have they done to you?’
Kenneth’s grin widened. ‘Pretty neat, eh?’
How could this smart, intelligent-looking person have lived underneath the mouldy, decrepit exterior of this erstwhile hermit? He scratched his neck where the busy beard had once grown, while rubbing one foot up the back of the other leg.
‘Being clean is more itchifying than I remember, I think I’m allergic to these new-fangled bio soaps.’
‘Have you seen Vanora yet?’
His smile wiped. I wanted to know if he knew how crazy she was. I wanted to say ‘she’s just killed a man.’ But the worry wart in me stayed my tongue on that one.
‘Have you worked out where all the surveillance is yet?’ I could detect a number of possible points in this room.
There was no hint of suspicion in his eye when he said, ‘You don’t need to worry about surveillance here. You’re free.’ As if to demonstrate the point he half-pirouetted, half-juddered on the spot. ‘Doesn’t it feel great?’
Ridgeway joined us. He seemed less surprised by the caveman’s transformation. The two men kissed one cheek and the other, then Ridgeway held him at arm’s length.
‘Unbelievable. You look ten years younger, Ken. Just like your old self, eh?’
Kenneth groaned again. ‘I don’t feel ten years younger.’ He shook his shoulders loose like a cat fresh from a drooking. ‘But I will have to get my vitality back if I’m to help Vanora in her revolution.’
The words threw a thick blanket of hush over the room. All three of us stood kicking imaginary sand, waiting for one of the others to fill the silence. I obliged.
‘What exactly are we doing here?’ I tried to ignore their puzzle. ‘I don’t know about you but I find this set up all a bit weird.’ The statement came out of nowhere, but now it was out I realised it was true. On Black Rock, even though I was shut in a room, at least I had Scud and my lessons and in the afternoon the freedom to explore Grandfather’s library. It might have been routine but it was what I was used to. And then, when I was finally allowed outside with Ridgeway, I could explore the island, look for the extinct corncrake, breathe in the sea air, avoid the seabirds dropping their heavy cargo. That was a kind of freedom, wasn’t it? Here in Vanora’s lair we had found what Pa described to me as his fabled Freedom, but if this was Freedom, why did I feel so trapped? I chose not to burst Kenneth’s bubble by telling him Vanora was mad. But I couldn’t help wonder why we were even here.
‘Well, Vanora’s army…’ Kenneth stuttered. ‘I am sure we’ll be given instructions soon.’ His stumbled words did nothing to help my frustration.
‘What if we’re surplus to requirements now we’ve completed our task?’
Kenneth gulped so hard his newly-visible Adam’s apple somersaulted.
‘Sorry, I josh.’ I added, not wanting to send him off on one of his rants.
‘You’re not here to josh.’ Vanora’s voice gave me such a gliff I stumbled back, knocking Kenneth’s table, splaying his writing implements to the floor. She stood by the door all regal and showy. She’d changed into a gown trimmed with animal fur. The guns were off camera, the blood washed from her face
‘Kenneth.’ She held her arms, fingers fluttering, out to her son who looked only a few years younger than his mother. He went to her and although he had to stoop into the embrace, the stiffness of his back and the rigidity of her grin was as mechanical as a soldier’s salute.
‘Vanora.’ Kenneth straightened with a grimace but held his groan in check. ‘Long time no see.’ They both began a sort of forced laugh that fooled no one.
Still with her eyes on Kenneth she held out one hand to the side. ‘Ridgeway, my dear.’
He took it with a bow and kissed it as he was expected to do.
‘I’m so glad you played your part in the plan.’
‘I told you she arranged your transfer to Black Rock.’ Kenneth spoke in a whisper.
‘But of course.’ Her affected voice was even more pronounced than it had been in the hall earlier. A tiny pinhead of blood had been missed from the side of her nose.
‘Why did you kill that prisoner just now?’
Kenneth’s eyes flashed a mixture of shock and warning to me but I didn’t care. I’d stood up to my grandfather and now I would stand up to her. No tyrant would rule me again, even if it meant death. This was not the Freedom I’d signed up for.
Vanora took her time turning to me. ‘Sorlie, you look so like your mother.’
‘She’s dead.’ Was that a wince? Hard to tell. She put her head down for a nano. When she looked up she smiled and held my gaze.
‘So I heard. How unfortunate.’
‘Why did you kill that man?’
Her smile never faltered. ‘Now, Sorlie, you must be hungry, why don’t you and your uncle go for some food?’ Her hand gestured vaguely to the door. ‘We have a wonderful Bistro, supplied with the best the Noiri can find.’
‘You won’t answer my question?’
‘Leave it, Sorlie,’ Kenneth said as he scooped up my arm in his.
Vanora narrowed her green eyes to me and through gritted teeth said, ‘Because you have no idea how to run operations. I wasn’t going to bring this up, but it seems you insist on embarrassing yourself. I heard what happened on the sub. Your arrogant, childish attempt to quieten the mob. Fool. This is no child’s Academy now.’ She moved into my space. She seemed to grow, her face to mine. I took a step back to reclaim my space. ‘War is not easy, you will learn that sometimes we make difficult choices for the greater good.’ I thought she’d finished but she lifted her chin, smoothed her feathers and said in a grandmotherly voice. ‘And never forget, this is war and in wars people die.’
‘Like my parents.’
This time she’d been expecting it. ‘Yes, like your parents.’
‘Where’s Ishbel?’ She’d been expecting that too.
‘Ishbel has some business to attend to.’
‘When will she be back?’
She shrugged. ‘When I order her to come back.’ There was something unsettling in that shrug.
‘And what’s to happen to us?’ I swept my arm round the room to include Kenneth and Ridgeway who lurked like a couple of stooges. Why wasn’t Kenneth asking these questions?
Vanora smiled. ‘So many questions, Sorlie. You know you can leave whenever you like.’ The tack she took with Smiler just before she blew his brains out. Ridgeway bristled beside me.
‘But where would you go?’ she said. ‘Back to your Home Base? I’m sure they would love to welcome you back to train you as a suicide bomber, just like your ma.’ The hiss she placed in the word suicide made me blink. ‘Maybe they’ll give you your parents’ unit to live in until your mission.’
She was goading me; she knew Ishbel had rescued me from that fate. She knew I had nowhere to go. I’d never be able to leave. I knew where her base was, I’d seen her operations room, that huge ticker wall with the millions of redeye communications from her millions of Vanorettes. She watched me like a scientist with a trapped rat. Then she smiled and placed her arm through mine, her lavender scent enveloping me.
‘Oh, it is so good to have you here. My very own gorgeous grandson.’
Kenneth shifted.
‘Oh, and my long lost son and his trusty friend.’
‘Not lost, displaced,’ Kenneth corrected her, but she dismissed him with a finger flutter.
‘After your meal we will have a summit.’ She hugged me. ‘Just a tiny summit. We don’t want to cram too much into your tired little heads.’
I looked around me. Yep, I wasn’t the only one who felt patronised. Ridgeway was trying hard to hide it; Kenneth glowered. Out of the frying pan indeed.
She turned and floated from the room, saying, ‘Why not try the roast turbot? The most delicious thing; I believe we had a fresh delivery this morning.’
‘I don’t like turbot,’ Kenneth sulked.
‘Nonsense,’ she threw back over her shoulder, stealing the last word.
Kenneth let out a breath when the door closed. ‘I told you she was a control freak.’
Ridgeway flopped in a seat. ‘I wonder where Ishbel is. V wasn’t too happy when you mentioned her.’
‘What are we going to do?’ I asked.
Despite the tension between us during the prison break, I now felt these two lovelies were my only hope of remaining sane and alive.
‘We play along, we help with the army, we do what Vanora wants us to do.’
‘Within reason,’ I added.
‘Yes, within reason.’ Kenneth scratched his neck. ‘We go with the flow…for now.’
Ishbel
‘Vanora,’ Monsieur Jacques began, his huge hand hovering at Ishbel’s back, ushering her to a seat. ‘I know she’s your mother but she’s become an embarrassment.’ Ishbel remained quiet, her eyebrow raised slightly as she wondered where this was leading.
Wants of the Silent Page 5