Castles Made of Sand

by Gwyneth Jones

  ‘An’ Fergal here,’ supplied Bill, ‘says, “We didn’t know you do requests. In that case, we’ll have, ‘A Nation Once Again’,”, and then—’

  ‘You left out, “If Sage can find his voice in those tin knickers”,’ put in Chip.

  ‘Yeah, there was the tin knickers remark. Think that was from Pierce Lyon.’

  ‘Aye, that’s right. It was when Sage picked up our Peezy—he’s a little man—and threw him off the stage, that the fockin’ punters took it into their minds to get involved. An’ it was pissing down, and there was mud fockin’ everywhere—’

  ‘I don’t think I heard this before,’ said Ax. ‘I fondly imagined we were all trying to keep the level of violence down—’

  ‘Hey, don’t listen, Sah,’ protested Aoxomoxoa, the skull beaming rakishly. ‘I don’t remember the leprechaun-tossing, it must’ve been my shadow—’

  ‘Oh Jaysus, I fergot, ye’ve turned over a new leaf. Will it be okay though if I tell the story of that barney we had at Glasto, first time we ever met—?’

  The story of the famous barney at Glasto. Stories abounding, well known but worth repeating. Fergal Kearney, devouring red wine in astounding quantities, was still going strong when they returned to the San after midnight: living up to his reputation for the highest quality craìc.

  Dilip and Chip and Ver stripped to bodymasks and cache-sex and went off to join the dance, (it was melting-hot in the State Apartments). Ax and his court settled regally in the Bow Room chill-out lounge. Sweaty, glittering clubbers, passing in and out, made excuses to say hi. The live band who’d been playing the ballroom arrived to pay their respects, and were graciously allowed to remain.

  Fiorinda chatted with the singer from the band, a brash, overawed fifteen-year-old called Areeka Aziz. Areeka was a Next Big Thing, and had been identified as prime Reich material. She must be recruited. Will you scrub hospital toilets, kid? How are you on digging potatoes for the cameras, teaching feral eight year olds to read and write? They’ll listen to you: you’re a rockstar. You do get self-defence training. This is what happened to me, now it’s your turn.

  Me, Ax Preston’s chickenhawk—

  The sound of that Irish voice grated on her. Fergal was at the other table and the company wasn’t quiet, but she could hear every word. He’d reached the garrolous stage, he was explaining why he’d defected:

  ‘Fockin’ Dublin government sez there’s no Countercultural Problem in Oirland, fockin’ shite. Right enough it’s not the Counterculture that’s the problem, it’s the fockin’ bastards using it fer their own sinister aims, an’ I know where it’s heading. It’ll be like the fockin’ Catholic church all over again, and will the people rise up against the tyranny of it? Will they fock—’

  That voice. She couldn’t help it, she just didn’t like that sound—

  ‘Fockin’ Irish, they’re a race of political masochists, they love their fockin’ chiefs and princes an’ a strong hand belting them. It’s like the man said in the play. Abair an focal republic i nGaoluinn?’

  The Few turned to George Merrick.

  ‘He says, “say ‘republic’ for me in the Irish”,’ said George. ‘The point being, I reckon, that there’s no such word.’

  ‘Jaysus. I had fergot ye had the Gaelic. I shall have to watch me tongue—’

  ‘There’s no word for republic in Cornish either,’ said George.

  ‘I’m only glad there’s a countrywoman of mine among ye to stand up for me.’

  The Irishman cast a wistful glance towards Fiorinda, who was sitting with her straight back turned to him: still dressed for the artshow, feet tucked up under her storm-cloud indigo skirts, a silver grey bolero jacket covering her shoulders, a little silver cap on her burning hair—

  He had raised his voice, which he didn’t need to. ‘I am not Irish,’ she said, turning her head reluctantly, the cut-crystal vowels very apparent.

  ‘Aye, well. Half-Irish, I meant to say.’

  Chip and Ver and Dilip had just appeared, towelling themselves with sodden teeshirts. They stopped short. A frisson went round the whole party. You can’t talk about Fiorinda’s Irish ancestry—! What’s Fergal thinking of?

  The rock and roll brat shrugged. ‘Tuh. My father was born in Chicago.’

  ‘Ye can be Irish by adoption, ’tis a culture, not a race.’

  Rufus O’Niall: born in Chicago of Afro-Caribbean and Irish American ancestry (but even that much information was legend: all records of his parentage had vanished). Raised in Northern Ireland by his adoptive parents, a minor Hollywood actress and a Belfast businessman. Became a megastar with a band called The Wild Geese. Married twice, divorced twice, nasty taste for very young girls. Had a daughter with London rock journalist Suzy Slater, a relationship that broke up when the child was four. When that daughter was twelve she was groomed by her aunt, procuress to the famous, and delivered to Rufus. The little girl became pregnant by him. She had no idea he was her father. Opinion differs as to whether Rufus knew what he was doing.

  Everyone knows the story. Shut up, Fergal. But no, he can’t stop digging—

  ‘Yer dad’s a black-hearted swine, Fiorinda, as yez don’t need me to tell ye. He’s one of the bastards I was just talking of. But I hate the whole fockin’ Irish nation meself, an’ I’m still an Irishman.’

  ‘I don’t follow your logic.’

  ‘Jaysus, girl, I’m saying don’t turn yer back on yer heritage, because one man did ye a terrible wrong when ye was too young to know—’

  ‘What I want to know,’ announced Chip, loudly, flopping down in an empty chair, ‘is, when are we going to see some Gay Pride from Aoxomoxoa?’

  ‘Oh come on,’ said Rob, equally loud, lamming some of those art-workshop sparks at the insolent kid (Rob’s were acid yellow). ‘Leave the guys some dignity. You want Fiorinda to make you a video or something?’

  ‘Hey, it’s a plan. That could be a nice little earner.’

  ‘The words tigers and vaseline come to mind—’ sighed Felice, rolling her eyes.

  ‘He’d never do it,’ said Allie, with regret, ‘not after everything he’s said about gays. He’s such a hypocrite. Okay, we use a body double. Should be easy. I’ll check my personal database.’

  ‘Nah. Has to be the boss. We’ll let ’im have his mask—’

  ‘Why is it always me?’ demanded Sage. ‘Why don’t you fuckers pick on Ax?’

  ‘Because I’m the great dictator,’ said Ax, leaning beside his Minister on the sofa they were sharing, grinning complacently. ‘They wouldn’t dare.’

  ‘You’re his bitch, Sage,’ said Dilip. ‘We thought you knew.’

  Fergal, looking confused, joined in the general laughter.

  Fiorinda had escaped to the toilets, got there in time to throw up, violently, copiously. She clung to the porcelain anchor of a wash basin, staring through the face in the mirror. The raffish splendour of the State Apartments didn’t extend behind the scenes. Here there were broken tiles, ancient fittings, dirt in the corners. Such is the shabby little hothouse of the Rock and Roll Reich, where every trapped soul knows what you mustn’t say to Fiorinda, where everyone jumps a mile if someone dares to mention the dreaded name. Oh fuckit, this is ridiculous, put it behind you, worse things have happened to plenty of nicer twelve-year-olds, I was asking for it, why am I fucking shaking? Thank God Fergal Kearney would never know the abyss into which he had plunged her—

  Shit, what did I say to Areeka before I scooted? I was filthy rude to her, I know I was. Shit. Have to fix that.

  Now I’m going back, and I’ll behave like a human being. I can do it.

  She opened the door. Sage and Ax were in the dark passageway outside (biological sex not an issue, but you don’t invade the Ladies at the San unless you are dressed like a lady). Ax had her bag.

  ‘Moving on,’ he said, tucking it onto her shoulder.

  ‘Raves to rave,’ said Sage, kneeling to put her sandals on her feet.

  ‘The night to explore.
’

  ‘What are you doing? I’m finem, we have guests, let’s get back.’

  ‘Not fucking likely,’ said Ax. ‘Fergal has had his audience. Let’s hit the town.’

  London was dark, motorised traffic scarce, but the night was warm and the streets were full of people: carrying their own lights, looking for the party. Sage and Ax and Fiorinda joined the shadowy carnival. Some unmarked time later they were in a club called 69 on the Caledonian Road, behind Kings Cross Station, dancing to Desmond Dekker, Marvin Gaye. Catching eyekicks of startled recognition in the fitful light, but no fuss from Ax Preston’s children. At the back of the crowd Fiorinda danced with Ax, easy and close, letting the bittersweet defiant mood of the ancient music lift her. It was so wonderful to be in his arms, and Sage right there (leaning against the wall, meditatively smoking an Ananda, tenderly watching his lovers). Not jealous, not hurting, loving this beautiful guitar-man as much as she did. Devil take tomorrow, what does anything else matter, as long as I have my tiger and my wolf—

  ‘Sage!’ she stage-whispered, over Ax’s shoulder. ‘I have to have this Ax. Find me somewhere sort-of private. Right now.’

  ‘What about you, Mr Dictator?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Okay. Leave this to me.’

  He led them out the back, to a car park, dank and dark, by the Regent Canal, buddleia and willowherb sprouting from the asphalt, almost empty but for a couple of rows of derelicts that might have been there since Dissolution. Sage lifts Fiorinda onto the bonnet of a flat-tyred Vauxhall, divests her of her pretty pants (he loves having her underwear in his pocket—) and stoops over her, the skull mask glimmering silver. ‘My brat, but you don’t like al fresco sex?’

  ‘This isn’t outdoors,’ said Fiorinda, hugging him with arms and legs. ‘This is an urban exterior, which is totally different, I love this—’

  One deep kiss and he moved aside, saying All yours, Sah—a little atavistic ritual happening here, part laughing, part strangely intense. Fiorinda took Ax, Ax silently powering into her, God, wonderful, while Sage kept watch at the end of the row. Then Sage was back, twisting Mr Dictator’s hair in a silky rope, biting the nape of his neck, big cat style: hey, brother, move over, I want her, and it was Ax’s turn to stand guard… The whole double act took about five minutes, and it was bliss.

  They sat in a row, backs against the defunct Vauxhall, passing a spliff: the rain falling on them like cold kisses. The air smelled of railway grime, puddles glimmered on black, cracked pavement. Fiorinda, a warm wall on either side of her, looked up into the opaque sky and couldn’t stop grinning. Nobody understands us, she thought. Not anyone in this fucking country, not our dear, protective, demanding friends, no one: because this is all we want. Nothing else, just this. Forever, ever, ever.

  ‘Good car to drive,’ mused Sage. ‘After a war.’

  ‘Very poky ride—’

  ‘Cheap to run an’ all. Couple of pints of snakebite and a handful of Bombay Mix, she’ll go all night.’

  ‘Lovely interior.’

  ‘Mm, and great road holding—’

  ‘You noticed that too?’

  ‘Hohum,’ said Fiorinda, pulling her hair across her face in two thick hanks of damp tangled curls. ‘Fiorinda remains problematic role model for liberated young women of England.’

  ‘Ah, no!’ They grabbed her, swept her onto the bonnet again and fell to their knees, pressing the cold, rosy soles of her feet to their faces, kissing away the gravel and rainwater and dogshit. ‘Fiorinda, angel, empress, we’re stupid drunks, we thought it was funny, we didn’t mean—’

  ‘Idiots. Let me down.’

  So they lifted her down and cuddled her close between them: a little sad now, a little crestfallen. Sage leaned over and kissed Ax: rubbed his cheek against Fiorinda’s hair and heaved a sigh. ‘Ah, well. Me and my ruined fortunes.’

  ‘Yeah. Me and my falling-apart band. Ouch, ouch, ouch.’

  ‘He doesn’t mean any harm.’

  ‘Just not the soul of tact, our Fergal. It’s not his fault we’re caught in this trap.’

  ‘As long as we can get pissed and fuck in a car park, in the pouring rain,’ said Fiorinda, ‘I reckon we have not lost the game of life.’

  ‘I love you, Fee, because you are so wise.’

  Sage went indoors to rescue Fiorinda’s bag and sandals from becoming the objects of a Cargo Cult. They headed for home on the all-night Underground, the carriage almost empty and weirdly bright, Fiorinda curled up on Sage’s knees, falling asleep. ‘I wonder what he’s really here for,’ she mumbled. ‘Fergal.’ Sage and Ax exchanged a wry glance.

  ‘I expect we’ll find out soon enough,’ said Ax.

  Building Management found Fergal Kearney a room at the Insanitude, which he seemed pleased to accept. He came to the maisonette in Matthew Arnold Mansions, Brixton Hill, by appointment; on a grey summer evening two days later. Mr Preston himself came down to let him in. Fergal followed the Dictator upstairs, and stood looking around. He saw a big room, simply furnished: a gas stove in an old-fashioned fireplace, a few pictures on the walls, a couple of good North African rugs. Tall windows at the back stood open to a brick terrace on which stood pots of glossy greenery. You might call the style minimalist, but there was nothing precious about it. Just travelling light.

  Here, on a stand on a bookcase, is the five thousand year old stone axe, the Sweet Track Jade, the one they gave him when he was inaugurated. Here’s a pair of car numberplates, AX1, which someone must also have given him. Mr Preston is way too arrogant for vanity plates, so they end up an ironic ornament. Here’s an immersion cell, in a flat screen: Sage Pender’s best work, Jaysus that’s a pretty thing, and better not look at it too long for it will suck you in. Here’s a framed piece of Arabic lettering, looks antique. The Irishman frowned. Ah, now, the Islamic question… The smell of cooking drifted pleasantly from further into the flat (Mr Preston’s an excellent cook, that’s also part of the legend). An open door gave a glimpse of a wide, low bed. A tortoiseshell cat crouched, glaring at the stranger, on one of the couches by the stove: poised as if not sure which way to run. He was trying to read the runes. How do they live together, these two beautiful, powerful men? How do things shake down between them: Mr Ax Preston, with the air of command on him that you could cut with a knife, and Sage, who surely to God (joking apart) is no feller’s bitch—?

  He already knew, from the way he’d been greeted, to expect a little distance. Mr Preston at home is not going to be the same person as Ax, relaxed and half-drunk at the Insanitude. There was nothing in sight that suggested Fiorinda, and this caused him concern. Why does she leave no mark?

  Ax had returned to the current jigsaw, seeing that his visitor was preoccupied, and sat by it on the floor, calmly sorting pieces.

  ‘You’re alone here?’said Fergal, at last.

  ‘Yeah. Sage and Fiorinda will be back soon. So, what did you want to talk to me about, or can it wait?’

  ‘Yez don’t keep any staff?’

  ‘Fuck, no,’ said Ax. ‘I spend my life managing people. I come home I want to switch off. We have a cleaner three times a week, because if we didn’t, with the best will in the world, the place would get disgusting. Other than that we do our own chores. Dunno what anyone sees in domestic servants, it’s a crap idea.’

  ‘That’s not exactly what I meant.’

  Ax grinned. ‘You mean where are the armed guards?’

  ‘Ax Preston is a very brave man,’ said Fergal, somewhat sternly. ‘That’s part of the legend, an’ I don’t doubt it’s the truth. But there’s Fiorinda to think of. Fockin’ Jaysus God, what if you two great lads was to come back here one day an’ find her raped an’ murdered? Would ye not be better with just a few of yer barmy army fellers around?’

  Brixton is my village, thought Ax. I run SW2 as my private fief. You don’t see the guards because I don’t need them: I own the neighbourhood. But Fergal probably didn’t catch the fascist junta issue of Weal… And one
day, yeah, maybe this life will become too dangerous. It’ll be time to get out, and take my friends with me. Hope I don’t miss the moment. He smiled. ‘The day we need to be protected from our people is the day we quit.’

  ‘Fine words. But suppose you find out it’s time to quit half an hour too late?’

  Ax shrugged. ‘Insh’allah. Please, make yourself at home. Sit down.’

  The Irishman came over and peered at the jigsaw, a National Trust classic, featuring many different varieties of British sheep. Fiorinda had found it in a Help The Aged shop.

  ‘You like sheep?’

  ‘Very keen.’

  ‘Hm.’ Fergal dropped the shoulder pack he was carrying and sat down. His complexion had a dull, magenta cast today: he moved with the deliberation of an old man, or a painfully sober drunk. ‘How d’yer Islamic backers feel, about you and yer man—’ He nodded significantly towards the bedroom door. ‘Do they not find that a wee bit hard to take?’

  ‘Jaysus fockin’ God, Fergal. Don’t be afraid to ask an awkward question.’

  ‘I’m just trying to get a clear picture.’

  ‘I think they might find the video hard to take,’ said Ax, ‘so we’ll probably hold back on that, until we’re really strapped for cash.’

  ‘Fockin’ wind-up merchants. Fock it. I knew that was a big leg pull.’

  ‘Sure you did… Fergal, I converted to Islam to end the separatist war in Yorkshire.’ Ax picked out a fragment of shaggy-brown big sheep. No, it’s a piece of rock. ‘The mullahs knew what they were getting. Some of the Faithful are appalled that I perform on stage with a stringed instrument… But they’ll live with it, because I’m their warrior prince. I don’t pretend to be conventionally devout, I behave with reasonable decorum in public, and it works. The leaders of English Islam are in this for the long haul. They see themselves heading for a golden age, England an enlightened, multi-ethnic Caliphate. I’m a move on the board, a step on the way. They’re not homophobic, they even believe in civil rights for women, and they don’t give a toss for my dissolute lifestyle, if I serve their purpose.’