Castles Made of Sand

by Gwyneth Jones

  ‘Only you have to leave Ax and Sage, and all of Ax’s friends, alone.’

  ‘Hm.’

  ‘Forever.’

  ‘Now, Fiorinda. I don’t sign contracts that say forever.’

  ‘I think you do. I think you’ve signed one already, why not another? Come on, don’t balderdash me. Say yes, why piss around? You know you’re going to.’

  He laughed again, soft thunder. ‘My bossy little girl. You haven’t changed!’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘think about it.’

  Rufus raised an eyebrow, incredulous. ‘I should think about it?’

  ‘Listen. You don’t just want me, you want the Rock and Roll Reich. I know you do. You want it partly to get back at Ax, but you really want it too. Ireland’s still living in the modern world, and you don’t like that. Ax’s England as your private fief would suit you down to the ground. You took your time putting this together. You were the one who set David up, with the human sacrifice ring, and then brought us the evidence so we’d have to do something about it; and Ax would be forced to take power in a way he never wanted. You sent me those bad dreams. You knew I wouldn’t tell them what was happening, and it would make big trouble between me and my boyfriends. You’ve been very patient. Why rush it now? Sage is gone. Ax isn’t coming back. They’re finished. You know that, and I know that. The people need time to get used to the idea. What you should do is you should court me. You court me, you win me over. Gradual change, we both have our credibility intact. Do we have a deal?’

  The three barnies were looking nowhere, doing nothing. Fergal Kearney, the dead man, stood unoccupied, like a strange, awkward polychrome sculpture. Rufus sat and smiled, not at all displeased at having his own plans explained to him by his little girl.

  ‘Let me see.’ He rose, a haze like smoke around him, crossed the floor and leaned over her, appreciation gleaming in his eyes, the thick shining curls of his hair seeming to touch her shoulders. He stroked his lower lip, weighing it up. His hands were manicured; the oval nails stained, not varnished, deep blood-red.

  ‘If you run away I won’t come after you. I’ll stay here like a fox in a chicken-run. You don’t want that. If you tell anyone what I am, I’ll know it and I’ll worse than kill them instantly, man woman or child. They will be where Fergal is. Do you know where he is? He is in Hell. A real, physical scientific Hell, Fiorinda. It doesn’t matter that his body will die eventually, for him it will never end. Do you understand? I can make eternal torment a reality.’

  She nodded, as far as the bridle would let her. ‘Okay, got that.’

  ‘If you leave your body, at any time: the same. I will put your friends in Hell.’

  ‘Leave my—?’ said Fiorinda, and then, ‘Oh.’

  Rufus chuckled. ‘Yes. You understand. But you know so little. You have no idea, my child, my only true child. Don’t you want me to teach you? Aren’t you even curious?’

  She stared back at him, unafraid. ‘About what? There isn’t anything special about what you can do. Magic is just power. You have the power. I know that. The rest is verbiage.’

  ‘Ah! You still have your thorns. My briar rose.’

  He stooped, as if he would kiss her.

  ‘You’ll take me when we seal our bargain,’ she said. ‘Not before.’

  Rufus laughed, stepped back and bowed. ‘So be it. I consent. I can wait.’

  He returned to his place and sat for a while watching her. The living ghost vanished. Fergal came back to life; the squaddies returned from their blank patch, the men left. When they were gone, the Roman chair reverted to its normal state. Fiorinda dropped to the floor, arms round her knees.

  Well, that didn’t go too badly.

  When she could walk without her legs giving way she went for a prowl around the building. She thought what had happened must have had an effect: she’d find people crying, hiding under their beds. No one had noticed anything untoward. Everything okay? Yeah. G’night, Fiorinda.

  They liked seeing her around at night.

  Back in her rooms, she crouched by the dying fire. My father has sold his soul to the devil (I don’t believe in the devil, but it describes the situation). I don’t know the extent of his weaponry, I don’t know how I can stop him in the end. But one step at a time. One step at a time, that’s the way. He likes to listen to me talking bullshit. I have real power over him, power he chooses to give me, but it’s real. Have to see how long I can spin that out. He’s old, there might be something there. And I’ll think of something, it will come to me. Oh, fucking hell. I can’t protect forty million people!

  But I can try.

  Fiorinda ran the Few ragged through the dreadful length of that summer. She never stopped. She spoke to the nation officially (such of the nation as could reach a Big Screen or a working tv) only once, making a firm plea for calm. But she spoke to the Counterculture, and the crowds at the Crisis Management gigs, incessantly. Schmoozing every front row, trailing around every campground, as if she’d made up her mind she had to tell the people of England one by one: that Sage would achieve the Zen Self, and return in triumph. That Ax would come home with the end of data quarantine in his pocket; and meantime, business as usual. Utopia on a liferaft, stick together against the dark.

  We’ll do this for Ax. He trusts us to keep on track.

  The bricks-and-mortar media folk had finally started noticing that the Celtic Movement was the majority in the English Counterculture. Fiorinda didn’t let that idea go unchallenged, she insisted that the Celtics were also Ax’s people, but she puzzled her friends by ignoring the resurgence of things like illegal ritual sacrifice. They began to wonder at some of her behaviour.

  The anniversary of Ax’s inauguration ended the nonstop Festival Season. Sayyid Mohammad Zayid, Ax’s sponsor in the Faith and the leader of English Islam, came to London on a delicate mission. He and Allie met Fiorinda in the small office she was using at the Insanitude. It was October the fifteenth; there had been no news of Ax since he had disappeared in May. Mohammad and Allie had to tell Fiorinda that her relationship with Fergal was causing scandal. He’d become her most trusted advisor, and people didn’t like it. The Islamics, especially the young men who were Ax’s passionate supporters, felt that Fergal was influencing Fiorinda so that she favoured the Celtics whenever there was trouble…(There’d been several outbreaks of bloody street-fighting between ‘Celtic’ ‘Islamic’ and ‘techno’ gangs over the summer, despite Fiorinda’s efforts).

  Their cause was just, but Fiorinda in person, spruce in her dove-grey trouser suit, bearing her terrible grief with grace and pride, defeated them. They tried to talk to her, but she was a stone wall. She would not take their advice.

  Mohammad Zayid believed that Aoxomoxoa’s love for his friend’s wife (in his mind he had always called Fiorinda Ax’s wife), should have remained chaste. Sage had been right to repent, and dedicate himself to the great scientific project which was also a spiritual quest. But he attached no blame to Fiorinda, this brave dedicated girl, protector of the poor. The woman is never to blame.

  ‘Aye, well, we’ve spoken and we’ll leave that. But five months now, lass. The troops need your encouragement. You must speak to the nation.’

  ‘There’s nothing new to say,’ said Fiorinda. ‘We hang on, keeping the Celtics on board, until Ax comes home. End of story. I don’t want to say it too often. I’ll get tired of repeating myself. I’ll sound insincere.’

  Mohammad, the badger-bearded Yorkshireman in his good, subdued tailoring, was looking older, and very weary. He had loved Ax like a son.

  ‘I know it’s hard, Fiorinda. I’m not asking you to give up hope. But—’

  ‘Did you do anything about getting a new kitten?’ asked Allie, helplessly.

  Ax’s cat had disappeared when Fiorinda moved to Rivermead. It’s the way cats behave, but Fiorinda had loved Elsie, and she must be so lonely—

  Fiorinda rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Allie, er, sorry, Mohammad—’

>   They went together to the Office. A much-travelled Jiffy bag had turned up, that the postroom thought the Few should look at. There was still masses of this kind of stuff: the fanmail of Ax’s disappearence. At first they’d opened it all personally. Now they let the postroom and the police filter everything: and the loss of that chore had been another small death. Fiorinda sat by Fergal Kearney, substitute bodyguard. Mohammad, with a curious glance and a reserved nod for the Irishman, took the place on her other side.

  The Few were united again, their quarrel over the Zen Self long forgotten. Everyone was here today; except Peter Stannen, who was in North Wales, at Caer Siddi in North Wales. The Heads believed that Sage was still alive. They were taking turns at staking out the Zen Self HQ, obstinately trying to get in contact with him; to tell him what had happened.

  ‘This could be a live one,’ said Chip, brightly, ‘if you go by the stamps.’

  The others set their teeth. But the boy can’t help it.

  ‘It’s been through quarantine,’ said the techie who’d brought up the packet. ‘It passed through at port of entry and ended up in our normal mailbag. We’ve given it the usual tests, and then some. It’s harmless: I mean, you can open it.’

  Fiorinda looked at him. He kept his face blank. She put on latex gloves and goggles. The techs insisted on that, even while they told you a strange packet was perfectly okay. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth; her heart had started thumping. Layers of parcel tape had been stripped away, the seal loosened. She finished the job, aware that this was ritual. I must, officially, be the first to see—

  There was a sheet of folded paper. She glanced at it, and passed it to Mohammad. There was a ring. Everyone knew the ring. There was a bundle of surgical dressing, stained with old blood and other fluids. Fiorinda peeled it open, releasing a faded waft of putrefaction. A silicon wafer lay there, clotted with tissue and tangled with a few long, dark hairs. Fiorinda took off her goggles and stared at it, breathing slow.

  ‘It’s his warehouse stack. They’ve sent us his brain implant.’

  Verlaine gave a sob, and stifled it with his fists. No one else made a sound, but the circle of tables rang with shock, and acceptance. Terrible relief.

  ‘Oh God,’ whispered Felice, at last. ‘Oh, Ax—’

  ‘Ah,’ breathed Mohammad. He bent his head and murmured in Arabic, prayer that no one here could join, a part of Ax’s life that none of them had understood.

  ‘He isn’t dead,’ said Fiorinda, tallow-pale. ‘He is not dead.’

  ‘Be Jaysus,’ said Fergal Kearney, shaking his head, ‘this is doing no good. Ye might be better off to face it, Fiorinda me darling. Time’s up.’

  Typical Fergal, crashingly tactless whatever the circumstances. Even at this juncture, the Few winced and looked away. What does she see in him?

  ‘Time is not up,’ said Fiorinda, distinctly. ‘This is not the moment for any sudden changes. That would be crazy.’

  Fergal cleared his throat. ‘Maybe yez’ll change your mind.’

  She ignored him. ‘I’ll have to call David. Allie, I need you too.’

  The Prime Minister came at once: Fiorinda and Allie spent the afternoon with him. The packet, the ransom note, the chip and Ax’s carnelian ring were taken away for forensic. The news was despatched to the US search operation, via GCHQ. The data quarantine was still in place, the connectivity deal was going through, but it had been delayed by Ax’s disappearence.

  The kidnappers wanted a global ban on the manufacture of synthetic cocaine, an end to European taxes and regulation on imported recreational drugs (except alcohol and tobacco), and a large but not huge sum in hard currency. They wanted these terms made public, and publicly accepted, on all major global tv channels and news-sites, or his friends would never see Ax Preston alive again.

  ‘We could offer them the money,’ said Fiorinda. ‘Can we find the money—?’

  ‘We can’t do any of the other things,’ said Allie. ‘But we could try that.’

  ‘I let him go,’ said David. ‘I was the last person to speak to him, I was excited and I told him he should go. I had no right. I can never forgive myself.’

  They thought they ought to draft a press release, because they knew the news would be leaked (the Insanitude was not secure); but it was beyond them. They decided it could wait until tomorrow. Fiorinda went back to Brixton, refusing to let Allie come with her. She desperately needed to be alone. She knew David and Allie had been humouring her… Ax had to be dead.

  The bad guys cut his head open. He’s dead.

  The flat was immaculate. The night her father had revealed himself she’d tried to clean the cat shit, piss and blood from the rug where Elsie had died. William the cleaning person had done a much better job. The aching cleanliness was an expression of William’s love and sympathy, but the place felt like a morgue. She fetched Ax’s old leather coat, which had been sent from Amsterdam where he’d left it behind, and sat hugging it on the couch by the cold gas stove. Will they give me his ring? When can I have his ring? She couldn’t cry. She just wanted Ax’s ring. She would have stayed like that all night. But something started to grow in her: a horrible premonition. Finally her phone rang.

  ‘Hello, Fiorinda.’

  His voice was slurred, oh, shit. ‘Hi, David. What is it?’

  ‘I…just…wanted to say I’m sorry… He was so good to me. You guys, all so good to me. I should have stopped him. My fault. America. Not safe.’

  ‘David, where are you? What are you doing? I’m coming round.’ The phone went dead but thank God it had been a landline call and she could trace it.

  David had started using heroin again. Fiorinda had spotted him, challenged him over it and made him lay off: but now she was very scared. She took a taxi to Battersea to pick up George and Bill and the Heads’ First Aid kit. Within an hour from the phone call they were at Canary Wharf, where the Prime Minister had a bolthole. She’d kept trying to call ahead all the way: no answer. They went straight up. David’s Secret Service minder was sitting in the lobby outside the flat, watching tv. He thought the PM was asleep. He was shocked to find that somehow his own phone had switched itself off, which was why Fiorinda had been getting no response. The front door was locked, bolted on the inside, no response from within. Fiorinda was incandescent. She insisted they must get inside, at once, right now—

  And there he was, the Prime Minister of England, dying in his sad hideaway furnished from a style-catalogue, with his needle and his spoon—

  They should have been able to save him. George and Bill were perfect masters at drug-related First Aid. He was still breathing, all the signs were of a simple overdose. But it didn’t work out. When they got him to hospital the whitecoats discovered massive, irreparable brain damage. Twelve hours later Fiorinda, who was at Battersea waiting for news, got a call to say that David’s wife (they were amicably separated), and his grown-up son, had been advised that there was no hope. They’d decided to let David go.

  The media of the three nations kindly called it a tragic accident. Crisis Europe tabloids invented a conspiracy masterminded by the ex-Royals, linking the death of the PM to Ax’s disappearance. The English, Countercultural and otherwise, took it for granted that David had topped himself due to horrible stress; and forgave him. He’d had his faults, the old raver, but he’d been much loved. He had a cracking funeral, watched by millions on the big screens of the Countercultural Very Large Array.

  Allie put the most hopeful possible spin on the ransom note, and the media folk backed her up as best they could. It was lucky they hadn’t briefed the press already, before David died. They were able to make something of the pooignant irony: if only David Sale had lived to know the ‘terrific good news’.

  Fiorinda understood that her bluff had been called.

  Time’s up.

  Ferg called, Fiorinda. He says you invited him to stay the night. Shall I make up a guest room? Fiorinda’s friends were suspicious, but the Rivermead housekeeper had no ide
a. She wouldn’t dream of questioning Fiorinda’s behaviour, no matter what, but she thought of Fergal Kearney as a harmless old geezer, a kind uncle, a shoulder for Fiorinda to cry on.

  ‘Yes,’ said Fiorinda. ‘Any of the bedrooms on my floor, that’ll be fine.’

  The night was dark. The Rivermead Palace had no draughts, no sighing woodwork or rattling windowframes, but there was a wind blowing somewhere. The leaves on the Tyller Pystri oaks were tarnished green and gold. Somewhere, anywhere, three people could lie under a hedge, rain on their faces, without a house or a home, no direction known, don’t care. And I loved them both. Plenty of people have weird relationships, why shouldn’t we? Nobody understood, nobody knew. It was just us, and no one else.

  She stood in front of the tall, metal-framed mirror where she had seen her mother, in her cream and green kimono. It was very pretty. Such a fresh green, reaching up from the hem in abstract fronds, into magnolia-petal clouds. Dr Barnado’s, Battersea. You get a better class of charity clothes at Dr Barnado’s. Why should I be afraid? Ax loves me, Sage loves me. I love them both. Everything real is good, and this will work. Until I think of something. She let the gown fall open and looked at her body, still yellow-brown wherever it had been exposed to the summer’s sun. He likes his daughter to be white, gets a kick out of having a white girl-child in bed; but tough. It’ll have to do.

  This is my body, for the last time.

  She went to meet her father.

  Olwen Devi was in the Zen Self main space, helping to dismantle one of the more complex neuroscience rides. It was a cold and rainy morning; the dome was empty except for Zen Selfers. They were making their preparations for departure quietly, so that when they were ready they could vanish overnight… Fiorinda wandered in, her shapeless old rain jacket over the violet satin sheath, bare legs, army boots. She came over and watched, head down, fists buried in her pockets.

  ‘Rats leave sinking ship,’ she said. ‘Very wise, Welsh rats. Where going?’

  Olwen straightened. ‘Yes, we’re leaving. I’m sorry, Fio, but we must.’