Rise & Shine

by Patrick Allington

  ‘No no no, I told you, it’s nothing like that. Listen, this is the most important thing you’ll ever see. It’ll change everything. For all of us. Everything.’

  Something in his desperate tone finally registered with Sala. She stared at him hard. Here was an unflappable man, a leader who wore a mask in public, ripping himself to shreds and floating in the breeze, all in the hope that she might hear him.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’

  Holland stood in the doorway of the bar for only a few seconds before he pulled the hood over his head. But in those few seconds, a street camera captured his face, identified him, and transported the footage to Bull and Boosie.

  ‘Hoo-hah, we’ve located him,’ Boosie said. ‘He’s on the move. And he’s got a lady with him, lucky bastard. We’re definitely going to need drones for this little rendezvous.’

  ‘Hang on, that’s not a lady … isn’t that … Oh Lord in Heaven Who I Don’t Believe In,’ Bull said. ‘We’ve got a … a …’

  ‘What we’ve got is a fucking diplomatic incident,’ Boosie said. ‘Or maybe it’s the romance of the century. Either way, we’re watching history unfold.’ He turned to Bull. ‘What fun, hey? What fun!’

  ***

  Many districts away, Wedge sat in an abandoned building, half-watching ‘The Battle of Foot Wounds’ while he loaded and unloaded and loaded and unloaded his stun gun. He pointed it at himself, but then thought, ‘What’s the point?’

  ***

  ‘Don’t walk with me,’ Holland told Sala. He was in battle mode now. ‘Count to fifteen before you move. Don’t look at me directly. After fifty metres, I’ll stop and look in a window of a hat shop. Walk straight past me. Don’t stop. Don’t speak to me. Don’t acknowledge me in any way. After you pass me, take the second right. It’s an unnamed alley. Walk 100 metres. When you reach a door with a red handle, wait for me.’

  ‘Can I step on the cracks on the sidewalk?’ Sala asked.

  ‘Please, no speaking. Not until I give you the all clear.’

  ‘No stepping on the cracks. No stepping on the crackpots.’

  ‘Sergeant. Please.’

  ‘Ex-Sergeant, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Just don’t talk to me or look at me until I tell you it’s safe. Okay?’

  ‘You’re the boss. Or you were.’

  Holland kept his expression utterly blank, his eyes directed at his feet, as he began walking. Sala counted to fifteen in her head, and then sauntered off, struggling to wipe the amused expression from her face. When she passed Holland gazing at the hat display — all of them the same shade and colour, so far as Sala could tell — she reached out and pinched his bottom.

  ‘Oh my,’ she murmured. ‘Such firm Old Time flesh.’

  ***

  ‘Did she just do what I think she did?’ Boosie yelled. ‘Oh me, oh my, she just fucking groped him, get me stills, get me close-ups, get me the whole thing on a loop, what a moment, what a coup.’

  ***

  As Sala continued walking, she noticed a camera on the wall of a building opposite. There were cameras everywhere these days, although usually you had to look hard to find them. Sala wasn’t too fussed. It reminded her of the constant scrutiny of fighting in the war, and she’d given up any pretence of the right to privacy the day she’d signed up. But she didn’t like the one-sidedness of it. If Walker’s purple people wanted to look at her, fair enough: Christ knows she had nothing to hide. And Christ knows that she had nothing much else to do. But she would have liked some reciprocity: why couldn’t she see the face, the name, the life history, the grief levels of the person watching her? She gave the camera a slow wink and kept on her way.

  ***

  ‘Oh my God, she winked at me,’ Bull said. ‘Right at me. Did you see?’

  ‘At you? Dream on, buster,’ Boosie said. ‘It’s me she wants. Only me.’

  ‘Stuff what she wants: she’s all I’ve ever wanted. That should be enough. Devotion is contagious, isn’t it?’

  ‘You’re disgusting, buddy.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What you call devotion, I call stalking. Bull the Bully.’

  ‘Hey, it’s my job to observe,’ Bull said. ‘And I don’t really mean it. I’m just playing around. But maybe she’s sending us a message. Maybe he’s taken her hostage.’

  ‘Okay, come on, concentrate: let’s not lose Commander Traiterman again,’ Boosie said.

  ‘Do you think they’re … you know … together?’

  ‘Will you shut up? Let’s split the screens. We need to watch them both. I’ll watch Sala, you watch Holland.’

  ‘Why do you get to watch Sala?’ Bull complained.

  ‘Because you’re overheated, buster. Look at them: it’s like they’ve gone their separate ways, but they’re still connected somehow, by an invisible rope. What do you think? Is she in on it? Growing the plants?’

  ‘It’s not my job to speculate. It’s disrespectful to Sala and her legacy,’ Bull said.

  ‘Maybe she’s bitter. You know, about her face.’

  ‘And you’re calling me overheated.’

  ‘Don’t pout. Just have a guess: is she guilty or not guilty?’ Boosie asked.

  ‘Wait and see. That’s the job: look, listen, smell. And don’t speculate.’

  ‘Dammit, I know what the job is. I’m just asking you your opinion. For the fun of it. You know, fun? Hahahahaha, fun? The joy of life?’

  ‘All right: if it’ll shut you up, she’s innocent. Of course she is.’

  ‘How can you say that?’

  ‘You asked for my opinion,’ Bull said. ‘That’s my opinion.’

  ‘But that’s because you want to f—’

  ‘Look at her: she’s got no idea what he’s up to. She’s got no idea where they’re going.’

  ‘What happened to not guessing?’ Boosie asked.

  ‘I’m not guessing. I’m analysing the evidence.’

  ‘No way. You’re so wrong. Look at the way they’re weaving in and out, magically missing each other. That’s expert choreography.’

  ‘If you don’t want me to guess, don’t ask me to guess,’ Bull said. ‘Look, we should call this in, eh?’

  ‘What’s the rush? Let it play out. Let’s see what they get up to with each other. Because if the good commander hits the jackpot — if you take my meaning — it’s our duty to be there for the whole event.’

  ‘We can’t wait: she’s a Code One.’

  ‘What? No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘It said so in yesterday’s Daily Report.’

  ‘Oh, I … I never read that thing.’

  ‘I know you don’t,’ Bull said. ‘And so does Annar.’

  ‘But Code One? Why Sala? It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘It’s not our job to know why. It’s our job to watch who we’re told to watch, and to report when we’re told to report.’

  ‘But a Code One? Just because of that face? A bit of mangled skin?’

  ‘You’re disgusting.’

  Boosie banged the table. ‘I’m disgusting? You’re the one with a scar fetish.’

  ‘It’s not a fetish. Don’t call it that.’ Bull began to whimper.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ Boosie said. ‘Not again. I’m sorry, buddy. But please: don’t start all that again. I was just playing around with you. Just teasing.’

  Boosie patted Bull on the back, but it was too late.

  ‘I’m so lonely,’ Bull wailed. ‘And you push. Every time, you push and push.’

  ‘I’m sorry that you think that. But, come on, get a grip now: we’re working. We’ve got a Code One.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You’re being so so so unprofessional.’

  ‘I know … but don’t judge me,’ Bull said. He dropped his head. ‘It’s j
ust that when I watch Sala getting shot like that, I don’t know if it’s her, if it’s really her pain that gets to me, or someone else’s pain, or if it’s just that I’ve got nobody in my life.’

  ‘Hey, you’ve got me,’ Boosie said. ‘But only if you get it together.’

  ‘I’ve bought “The Battle of Sergeant Sala” and —’

  ‘Everyone’s bought it. Relax: that’s normal.’

  ‘— and it’s the best battle I’ve ever seen, and I love her, but I can’t really love her, can I, because I’ve never even met her, but she does stand for something, doesn’t she, or someone? But how do I go and find this someone else if I don’t know who that someone else is?’

  ‘You eat too much. It’s not healthy.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Maybe you need a stint in rehab.’

  ‘No, they’ll give me the sack. I can sort it out myself.’ Bull sat up, flicked his hair out of his eyes, and spoke into his wearable. ‘Find Annar … Hey, boss. Yeah, sorry, I know it’s late, but I’ve got some footage.’

  ‘We’ve got some footage,’ Boosie yelled. ‘We’re a fucking team, aren’t we?’

  ‘Yeah, me and Boosie have got some footage for the bigwigs. The situation is still in progress. I’m sending through what we’ve got now. It’s a Code One.’

  ***

  Holland found Sala leaning against the door with the red handle.

  ‘Let’s go. Quick,’ he said. He touched the door open, beckoned her to go inside, and pulled the door shut behind them. They walked through a dusty house, sparsely furnished.

  ‘Where are we?’ Sala asked.

  ‘Nowhere yet,’ Holland said.

  ‘Does someone live here? Are we breaking in?’

  ‘No. But that’s not important. Come on, keep up.’

  Holland led Sala to a room filled with skeletal chairs. He dragged a haphazardly stacked pile of them from one corner, revealing a trapdoor — not a ceiling–floor lift but an actual Old Time door in the floor. He pulled a handle, and the door opened upwards.

  ‘Nifty,’ Sala said.

  ‘You go first,’ Holland said. ‘You’ll need to turn your autotorch on.’

  ‘I’d have worn my uniform if I’d known we were going on a field trip. Except I can’t get the bloodstains out of it.’

  Sala stepped onto a vertical ladder. Holland followed. At its bottom, they were in a tunnel, just tall enough for them to walk upright.

  ‘This way,’ Holland said. ‘Watch out: the roof is low.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that.’

  They walked for ten minutes in the dark, led by their autotorches, until the tunnel opened up into a bigger space.

  ‘The old train lines,’ Holland said. ‘They run all over the place, under the city.’

  ‘But no train for us, eh?’

  ‘There’s no need,’ Holland said, delighted with himself. ‘May I present you with your ride?’ Before them stood a decommissioned military vehicle.

  ‘That old heap?’ Sala said. But she got in. ‘I’ll drive, shall I?’ she said.

  ***

  ‘Park over there,’ Holland said. ‘We go on foot from here. It’s not far.’

  ‘Finally,’ Sala said. ‘Where the hell are we?’

  ‘I can’t tell you, exactly. Not yet. Not until you’ve committed.’

  ‘Committed to what?’

  ‘You’ll see. Please: have a little patience. It’ll be worth it. I promise.’

  ‘So many promises. I might just head back home. Can I borrow your wheels?’

  ‘Sergeant Sala. Stand to attention! Now!’

  ‘You’re the one who keeps telling me that I’m delisted.’

  ‘That’s exactly why we’re here. We need people of your calibre for a new struggle. Your experience. Your courage. I hope you’ll join us. I believe you are destined for greatness.’

  ‘“We”? Who’s “we”? What struggle?’

  ‘You’ll see. Have —’

  ‘A little fucking patience, blah blah blah.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  She lifted her head to the roof of the tunnel they now walked through. ‘Try a little patience,’ she sang, while Holland did his best to pretend it wasn’t happening, ‘try a little hope, try a little light relief, try a little belief, try a little longing, try a little tenderness.’

  ‘Okay, this is it,’ he said, pained. ‘We’re here. Up this ladder.’

  They climbed into an empty room.

  ‘Not a word, if you please,’ Holland said. ‘And stay low.’

  They skirted the perimeter of the room. Holland stood in front of a wall and placed his hand on the soiled paint. The wall slid open and they stepped into the room of plants.

  Holland hung back, while Sala stalked about the room, dirt on the soles of her shoes.

  ‘Well, fuck me,’ she said eventually.

  ‘Well? What do you think?’

  ‘Are you kidding? How could you bring me here to see this?’ She shoved him hard, and then again. ‘Five deaths in a month: Benson, Ledbetter, Swift —’

  ‘Stop. Please don’t say their names. I can’t bear it.’

  ‘Benson. Ledbetter. Swift. Puru. Smiffee. Suddenly, it’s all making perfect sense. You’re a dirty fucking traitor. Swift, for fuck’s sake — he worshipped you.’

  ‘Now hang on. You’ve got it all wrong. I’m a man of honour. I would never put any of my people in that sort of danger deliberately. How could you even —’

  ‘“My people”,’ Sala said. ‘There’s no way you get to call them “my people”. Not now. Not in this room, this —’

  ‘Each incident was unrelated to the —’

  ‘Each incident? Don’t you mean each DEATH?’

  ‘Yes. That’s what I mean. Each death. And each death was either natural causes or an accident. Truly. You have to believe me. I mean, you were there when Smiffee did those push-ups, weren’t you? He did it to himself.’

  ‘How can you even —’

  ‘None of the deaths have anything to do with … with … all this. People die in wars. Accidents happen. I would never —’

  ‘Hero to the people by day, fair-minded dissident by night. That’s literally unbelievable. Where’s your loyalty? Did you eat it?’

  Holland reached the limit of his reserves of patience. ‘How dare you lecture me about loyalty?’ he snapped. ‘I’ve given everything and more to this city.’ He caught himself, paused, and tried again: ‘Look, I understand why you’re upset, but —’

  ‘Oh, thank you very much for understanding, you traitor, you bastard, you —’

  ‘— but this is something new. Something alive. Something fresh. And yet something old. Something regained. Something polished. This is for the future. Just take a look: this is for you.’

  ‘For me?’ Sala whispered, her fury too much to raise her voice. ‘For me?’

  ‘For you. And for everyone who has fought the war. It’s your vindication.’

  ‘And what about this?’ She pointed at her face, grabbing the scarring and pulling on it. ‘What’s this for? Who is vindicated by my scars?’

  ‘That’s … that’s … for … the people too. All the people. And they’re immeasurably grateful. As they should be. You’ve filled them up. But not all of them. Because nothing stays the same.’

  She advanced on him and tried to rub the damaged side of her face against his face.

  ‘Stop it,’ he said. ‘Please don’t.’

  She pushed him to the ground, straddled him, and continued rubbing her face in his face.

  ‘What am I supposed to do now?’ she yelled. ‘What am I now? Should I go to the museum, let them stuff me and shove me behind glass: “Once upon a time, she sacrificed the rest of her life” — and the people said, “Thanks, love” and “Top effort”
and “Pass the potatoes, would you, sweetheart?”’

  ‘I’m sorry, so so sorry, about your face. But it’s not as if you’re dead. It’s —’

  ‘I don’t give a shit about my face. You took my war away.’

  ‘No. It was a bullet from the enemy. That’s war. That’s why you were there. You know this. We always had such high hopes for you. It was clear from early on that you were elite. But, still, we never expected a moment so … perfect.’

  ‘You orchestrated it.’

  ‘No.’ Holland pushed her off him and got to his feet.

  Sala came at him again. ‘You deserve to get a piece of it,’ she said. ‘Come on. Suck my face. Don’t you want to know what my scar tissue tastes like?’

  ‘No, I told you, I don’t want … that.’

  Sala threw a switchblade at his feet. ‘Better still, why don’t you have a go at the other side? Even things up.’ She offered him her unblemished cheek. ‘What’s the matter with you? Got nobody to do your dirty work for you? Here, let me help.’ She picked up the knife and flicked the blade open and turned it on herself. ‘What do you think, a symmetrical pattern? Or random slashes? Surface or deep? Should I take out an eye, maybe?’

  Holland, who prided himself on his ability to read people, had no idea if Sala was truly enraged or if she was toying with him. Deciding not to risk it, he grabbed Sala’s wrist and held it tight until she dropped the knife. He pushed her, hard, towards the plants. She fell over.

  ‘All right,’ Sala said. ‘No need to beat me up. I was just making a point.’

  Holland picked up the knife and pocketed it, just to be sure.

  ‘You’re a coward,’ Sala said. ‘And a traitor.’

  ‘No: I’m for survival. You’d be surprised who’s starving. And it’ll only get worse.’

  ‘This — all of this — wouldn’t feed you and me for a week.’

  ‘This is just the beginning. Believe me.’

  Sala walked amongst the plants. She reached out towards a half-ripe tomato but checked herself.

  ‘Go on. Touch it.’

  ‘No. No, I won’t.’ But despite her anger, she felt the wonder of new life around her. ‘I, I never thought I’d … is that an orange?’

  ‘Capsicum.’