Beacons

by Gregory Norminton

  ‘Really? Gosh? You think so?’ she said, patting his arm.

  Abu-Bakr gathered together his bags and made ready to leave. One of Spiros’s men was soon to come through and it would not be good to be seen like this. ‘I have to go,’ he said, shouldering his bag, the plastic watches inside knocking together.

  ‘I’ll see you soon?’

  ‘You know where to find me,’ he answered, putting on his baseball cap and stepping back into the heat.

  Globelink IM chat PoppaMarshall and Me5elle, 15 January 2037 15.45hrs.

  #PoppaMarshall: Hi tweaker.

  #Me5elle: Daddy!

  #PoppaMarshall: How are you angel-foot?

  #Me5elle: I’ve been #waxpoetic tribute to you, Daddy #ilovemydad.

  #PoppaMarshall: Bless you honey. #JesusLovesYou and so do I.

  #Me5elle: Whassup Daddy? Why #livechat?

  #PoppaMarshall: Are you logging this tweaker?

  #Me5elle: Naturally Pops.

  #Me5elle: Pops?

  #Me5elle: Pops? Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do? After editing I was going to submit my #waxpoetic tribute as part of my self-reflection assessment for 12th Grade.

  #PoppaMarshall: Can you adjust the privacy settings tweaker? To auto-delete.

  #Me5elle: OK Daddy, but only if you’re sure #ilovemydad.

  #PoppaMarshall: #ilovemydaughter. Don’t worry, Fluffy-bunny, I have clearance, remember?

  #Me5elle: I know! You don’t need to keep reminding me. OK, I’ve done it now.

  #PoppaMarshall: Look baby-foot, I just want to prepare you, the latest #ResourceAllocation is due in soon. I’ve seen a preview. It’s not looking so good.

  #Me5elle: ??

  #PoppaMarshall: As a member of #PrimePrivilege #Federated-Congress I have to show an example. I’ve upped our #CarbonTaxQuota and I’m converting the winter house to a fully sustainable model.

  #Me5elle: Not a bio-degradable toilet! They stink! We’re not in some sun-shanty.

  #PoppaMarshall: That’s just the point tweaker. It’s not just the #ShantyFolks who have to have these things. Even in #RealUSA we must shoulder our share. The scenarios are really grim. We’re currently losing at least 10% of our territory to environmental degradation per annum. You know what that means. However we model it, the scenarios are bad.

  #Me5elle: But I thought #ILoveIdaho was safe from all that? I thought we were the #AmericanException?

  #PoppaMarshall: You’ve got to learn tweaker, just because the #President streams one thing on the #LiveChannels, that doesn’t mean it’s true, even if we don’t admit it in public.

  #Me5elle: WTF Daddy, isn’t that #untruthing #unreal-word?

  #PoppaMarshall: When I was your age we still had a chance to #PositiveChange, but we didn’t take it. Total FUBAR. We screwed up.

  #Me5elle: Like when you lived in Miami?

  #PoppaMarshall: The world was very different then #1stArtificialAge.

  #Me5elle: We did #1stArtificialAge at 9th Grade.

  #PoppaMarshall: Then you’ll understand how wasteful we were back then. We thought we were entitled to buy and do whatever we wanted. That’s the evil of #FreeMarketCapitalism for you.

  #Me5elle: I can’t believe people used to believe in #FreeMarketCapitalism back then. It’s so barbaric. And we’ve always been blessed with the #Word-of-God and #JesusTeachings.

  #PoppaMarshall: Also, tweaker, you need to watch your grade average, it’s been slipping from A+ to A-. If you drop too far you might lose your #PrimePrivilege when the #ResourceAllocation goes through.

  #Me5elle: Daddy! I thought you were #TeacherBonus.

  #PoppaMarshall: They’ve cut #TeacherBonus as part of #ResourceAllocation. I’d have to go #blackmarket #africanting the situation but with #CarbonOffset costs we can’t afford it.

  #Me5elle: K. I’ll keep trying.

  #PoppaMarshall: #GoodGirl. You’ve got to stay on-track for #IvyLeague #Oxbridge. Remember, we’ve had to increase the quota for #ShantyFolks scholarships and there are a lot of them. Many of them are pretty smart and they’ve not had your advantages #ILoveIdaho.

  #Me5elle: Bumbaclaat @#ResourceAllocation! Double GRFOW! What does it have to do with us? #AmericanException.

  #PoppaMarshall: No exceptions any more tweaker.

  #Me5elle: L

  #PoppaMarshall: #EarthFace L

  #Me5elle: We can still go to the #SvarlbardResorts.com next summer though?

  #PoppaMarshall: We will see. The flight allocations haven’t been decided yet, but we’ve already surpassed our #CarbonQuota with the #NewWorldTours cruise. I’ve bought us extra two months #CarbonOffset but prices are rising. We have to wait to accrue more #GreenPoints on my #VisaBlack.

  #Me5elle: #LifeHard.

  #PoppaMarshall: Come now tweaker. At least you’ve been on a plane. You got two flights last year. Do you have any idea how much the second flight cost me in #CarbonOffset and bribes? Most people don’t have that #PrimePrivilege.

  #Me5elle: Daddy #zincbitch is PMing me. Gotta go.

  #PoppaMarshall: K Give my #love @#zincbitch.

  #Me5elle: Will do. Five you later Pops. Out.

  #PoppaMarshall: Laterz.

  Athens, Greece. Just After Now

  Jennifer Constantine had been stuck on the story for over a week now. Distracted by her impending return to the States she found it almost impossible to concentrate. She had spent her last few days in Athens ‘absorbing the atmosphere’, or so she said to her cousins when they came home from work. In truth, it was tough being out in the heat. August in Athens was no joke. Every day the temperature pushed the high thirties (she had grown used to using Celsius since she had been in Europe) and she could not remember the last time she had seen clouds. Elsewhere there were huge forest fires, the tinder-dry wilderness igniting in an instant. She saw it on the television, the islands burning, the smoke pluming high into the clear blue sky. She spent a lot of time sipping five-euro frappés in air-conditioned cafes, her iPad to hand, not actually typing anything. What she didn’t tell anybody was that she was looking for Abu-Bakr.

  More than a week had passed since she last saw him. She wasn’t sure why she had shown him the story she was working on. He wouldn’t get what she was trying to say – how could he? She felt foolish now and wondered – was it any coincidence that she had been blocked since that afternoon? In truth, for some distant, dim reason that she couldn’t fully comprehend, she sought Abu-Bakr’s approval. Approval might be the wrong word – maybe it was recognition? She didn’t know. Throughout Europe she had seen people like him, usually Africans, illegal immigrants or refugees. At least that was what she assumed they were. ‘Xenoi’ her cousin called them. She had seen them, the Xenoi, haunting the tourist zones of Europe: Paris, Nice, Cannes, Milan, Venice, Florence, Rome, and now Athens. Wherever she went, there they were. She had started to obsess about them – they inhabited the same space, but their experience must be so different. What had they been through to get here? What were their lives like? It seemed impossible to know, harder still to imagine. Everyone ignored them – that was another thing she noticed. If people saw anything they saw only the goods they were hawking. No one was obliged to see them. She watched the Xenoi in Syntagma square. Since the protests a sort of anarchist squatter camp had been set up by various radicals with tents and impromptu media centres clustered together, the statues and marble slabs covered in messages of defiance. The anarchists tended to be scruffy, all matted dreadlocks, piercings, and tattoos. In comparison the Xenoi looked slick, if edgy, clad in their fake designer gear. They sat in the shade, squatting patient on their haunches, their wares wrapped in blankets, waiting. A squad of cops stood nearby. If they started selling things the police would move them on, and so they would wait for the police to go before opening their bags. The proceedings had a farcical quality to them, like the belated rehearsal for a play that everyone knew too well but no one wanted to be in. Still the performance went ahead, whether the actors liked it or not.

 
; After several days without a sighting, Jennifer Constantine returned to the cafe where she first saw Abu-Bakr. Yet another frappé. The heat was particularly intense today. A man was standing in the place where Abu-Bakr often stood, selling sun umbrellas.

  After a short while she approached him.

  ‘Can I have one, please?’

  ‘Five euros.’ The man was tall, with light brown skin. A baseball cap was pulled low over his brow. He didn’t look at her. He looked around her, all the time, his eyes following the people in the street.

  She gave him ten. ‘Keep the change,’ she said. ‘Can I have a pink one?’

  The man gave her a pink umbrella. She opened it and smiled. ‘It’s hot, isn’t it?’ she said.

  The man nodded.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she went on. ‘Do you know what happened to the guy who used to be here? His name was Abu-Bakr. He was about your height. I think he was from Somalia, somewhere like that.’

  The man shifted uncomfortably and shook his head. It was clear to Jennifer that he wanted her to leave. She smiled at him one last time with her bright white teeth, then she returned to the apartment.

  In two days she was due back in New York. That evening, she made dinner with Ioannis and Elektra, washing and slicing tomatoes and feta. She didn’t talk about the Xenoi. They watched the news. An enormous hurricane, having ploughed through the Caribbean, was now menacing the east coast. Flights were cancelled, people evacuated and an emergency declared across twelve states. She almost felt glad as she watched the storm, a monstrous white swirl on the satellite map, remorselessly lashing northwards. She thought she might just stay in Athens a little longer.

  ‌Visitation

  ‌Jem Poster

  She was on her knees on the damp loam, thinning out the carrots, when the soldiers came. She could hear them half a mile off – the clatter of stones as they crossed the stream-bed, the engine straining on the gradient, a snatch of song carried on the light wind. As the jeep came into view round the bend in the track she rose to her feet and moved unhurriedly down the path, sniffing the scent of the pulled leaves on her fingertips. The vehicle approached to within a few yards of the gate, then swung round in a tight arc, sending up a cloud of dust. The engine shut down and an officer jumped out and sauntered over, closely followed by two fresh-faced subordinates.

  Boys, she thought, as they came to a halt in front of the gate, they’re all just boys. There was a momentary stillness – the lapse, it might have been, between one breath and the next – before the officer spoke.

  ‘Sian?’

  ‘Mrs Davies,’ she said, irritated as much by his eager familiarity as by his mispronunciation of her name. ‘I’m Mrs Davies. What do you want?’

  ‘We’re checking out the area. Just routine.’ He leaned over the gate and held out his hand. ‘Lieutenant Maley. These here’ – he indicated the two boys at his back – ‘are soldiers Lomax and Kellerman. We’ll need to search the house and outbuildings.’

  ‘Do you have a warrant?’

  ‘We don’t need a warrant.’ He fumbled in the breast pocket of his camouflage jacket and fished out a slim leather wallet. ‘Here’s my ID. Listen, lady, we’re on your side. There’s nothing to worry about.’ He flashed her a wide grin, slipped the catch and pushed back the gate. His men followed him in, their boots scuffing the gravel. ‘Anyone here apart from you?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Nobody working anywhere else about the property? Out in the fields?’

  ‘This is all the land I own. Up to the wire fence.’

  He glanced up the slope, eyes narrowed against the sun. ‘So the barn’s yours?’

  She nodded. ‘I’ve not much use for it now. I keep the car there. My garden tools. Firewood.’

  ‘Nobody else uses it?’

  ‘No. At one time I had an idea I’d convert it and rent it out, but I decided against it. I value my privacy.’

  He removed his cap and ran his hand over his cropped scalp. ‘I’d say you need someone around,’ he said. ‘To keep an eye on the place. You got no security out here.’

  ‘I can look after myself.’

  ‘In peacetime, maybe. But right now, a widow living ten miles from anywhere—’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘That you’re a widow? We always check out the files. Make a few notes. Hey’ – he spread both hands palm upward in what he clearly imagined was a gesture of reassurance – ‘it’s not like it’s classified information or anything.’ He was grinning again, but uneasily now, as though unsure of his ground.

  ‘Why would you need to know anything about me?’

  There was a tense pause. Then the lieutenant stiffened and drew back his broad shoulders.

  ‘Kellerman.’

  ‘Sir?’ The taller of the two boys stepped forward.

  ‘The house.’ The lieutenant turned back to her. ‘The roof space,’ he said. ‘Can we get access?’

  ‘There’s a trapdoor above the landing.’

  ‘You hear, Lomax? Check it out.’

  The boys broke away and moved together up the path towards the front door. She felt her face and neck redden. ‘What’s all this in aid of?’ she asked. ‘What are you looking for?’

  He was tucking his cap into a side pocket of his jacket, carefully avoiding her gaze. ‘Necessary precautions,’ he said. ‘It’s nothing personal.’

  ‘It’s my property. Suppose I don’t want to let your men search it?’

  He sighed wearily. It came to her that this scene, or something like it, might have been played out on a thousand farmsteads across the country. ‘None of us want this,’ he said. ‘But we’ve no option.’

  ‘There are always options.’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. I need to see the barn.’

  ‘I can’t stop you, can I? Go ahead.’ She turned away, but he took her by the elbow, gently coercive.

  ‘I’ll need you to come with me,’ he said. She stiffened against the pressure of his hand but let him guide her between the rows of fruit bushes and up the path to the barn. He eased the bolt from its socket and threw back the doors. A breath of warm air carrying the familiar smells: sawdust, dried meadow grasses, engine oil.

  The lieutenant ducked under the lintel and stepped inside, motioning her to follow. ‘The car,’ he said, running the tips of his fingers over the Citroën’s dusty bonnet. ‘Is it locked?’

  ‘There’s no need round here. Why?’

  He was squinting up at the hayloft. ‘Anything up there?’

  ‘A couple of hay bales from last year.’ And the kittens, she was about to add, thinking of the litter nestled in the narrow gap between the bales, but something in the boy’s face – the glitter of his eyes as he peered into the shadows, the tight set of his jaw – made her hesitate.

  ‘Hay? You got livestock here?’

  ‘Two goats – a nanny and a kid. They’re tethered outside, round the back.’

  He was moving away from her, examining the shelves along the wall, the tool racks. ‘What’s this?’ he asked, turning back suddenly to face her.

  She glanced down at the object in his outstretched hand. ‘It’s a billhook,’ she said.

  ‘For defence?’

  ‘Of course not. For keeping the brambles in check. My father used it for hedge-laying.’

  ‘I’m a city boy. Where I’m from, you see someone carrying something like this, you run.’ He balanced the implement in his hands, tensing and relaxing his fingers around the worn haft, testing the blade with his thumb. ‘We’ll have to take this,’ he said.

  ‘Take it?’

  ‘Everything’s logged. You’ll get it back.’

  ‘When?’ She hadn’t used the billhook in years, but his casual appropriation of it seemed to require some kind of challenge.

  ‘When things get back to normal. For the moment, nobody’s taking any chances. We have to make sure stuff like this doesn’t wind up in the wrong hands.’

  ‘The wrong ha
nds?’ She felt the anger rise again, clogging her throat. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Protestors, draft-dodgers, saboteurs. The so-called resistance. You’ve heard the bulletins.’

  ‘I don’t listen to the news any more. I want nothing to do with any of this.’

  His expression hardened. ‘Listen, lady, we’re all in it, whether we like it or not. And these guys are putting the whole war effort at risk. What do they want? We got a pack of Arabs out there hollering for blood, and what do these jackasses do? They turn on us like we’re the enemy. Where’s the sense in that?’

  He was bouncing the back of the blade against his palm as he spoke – like a fidgety child, she thought, imagining herself prising the implement from his grasp and restoring it to its place on the shelf. ‘Don’t do that,’ she said. ‘Please.’ For an instant his face darkened, and then, with a little dip of his head, he turned away and placed the billhook carefully on the bonnet of the car.

  ‘I could use a coffee,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve no coffee. I could make you a cup of tea.’