Star Sailors

by James McNaughton

  Le Stratton turned to him, panting, rain running down his face. ‘You fucked up, J-man. It’s okay… I’ve done worse… than Consolidated… Much worse.’

  Jeremiah’s expression said: You have? You know about it?

  Le Stratton nodded. ‘Gully would’ve made out you should… suck his dick for saving your job… Fact is… mistakes are real-life training… They budget for it… You’re still way in the black, buddy. Relax.’

  They turned around and ran back to New Hokitika. The rain abated and a few minutes later golden light crowned a high shelf of cloud in the west, far out over the sea. It was a sign: his job was safe and Karen and Mandela wouldn’t leave him after all. Never before had he seen such beautifully grave shades of blue as on that run back to town.

  As Jeremiah enters the Grand’s lobby, he notes there is only one solitary umbrella in the basket. It’s Le Stratton’s. He’s alone at the bar, blond head over his screen. Probably working on a reporter, Jeremiah thinks. His exploits are becoming legendary. But while the stud routine’s working for him now, Jeremiah suspects that management will turn on Le Stratton out of jealousy if his run doesn’t stop soon.

  The Grand seems bigger when empty, and grander. It was built by Venture Group for the story and is apparently modelled on a bar once situated on the Mekong River in Cambodia, called the Press Club, but four times the size and with a mezzanine section. Le Stratton’s so engrossed in his tablet that his posture has gone. He must be trying to get laid. Shame and regret at his impotence stab Jeremiah. Le Stratton jumps when he slaps his shoulder.

  ‘Jesus, J-man.’

  ‘Les.’

  ‘You’re still going with “Les”?’

  ‘Only when I’m happy.’

  Le Stratton fires an approving look. ‘The lumbering beasts will arrive at the green waterhole any minute. I rashly tackled the big one, Jeremiah: Gravity’s fucking Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon. Well, it’s pinchin’ my balls, is all I can say. It’s, like, one gigabyte and the only thing I can say with any authority about it is that it’s set in World War II. How do you think that analysis would go down?’

  ‘It’ll be about money, Les. Like World War II was. All the rest is just smoke.’

  Le Stratton slips off his bar stool and slaps Jeremiah’s shoulder even harder than Jeremiah slapped his. ‘J-man,’ he laughs, ‘you’re on fire. How did the novellas go? Animal Farm is about a farm run by animals, right? It’s like a kid’s book, you bastard! You’ve gone the money angle?’

  ‘Of course, Les. That’s what a farm’s for.’

  ‘Give me your findings on it then and you can take Heart of Darkness.’

  ‘Heart of Darkness didn’t happen. It’s in old Polish English or something.’

  ‘Eh? What are you drinking? Shit, they’re here.’

  Radley and Hodge have entered the lobby and are shaking their umbrellas dry. Radley is tall and lean, similar in shape to Bill in a way that suggests they could be related, but while Bill’s leanness appears to be a result of activity, Radley’s seems due to dissatisfaction with the world’s foods.

  Hodge, by comparison to Radley, is brown. Yet his better pallor doesn’t make him look healthy. His fatness suggests that dissatisfaction with his shortness and the world has driven him to over-eat. Both are black-suited and sombre, as if they’ve come from a funeral. The one trait of Hodge’s that has no opposite or complement in Radley is his custom of plunging his hands into his trouser pockets between shots and jiggling his balls.

  ‘I’ll set up a table,’ Le Stratton says. ‘You get the drinks for Jack Sprat and his common-law wife. Give me at least a sentence on Animal Farm for Christ’s sake, to get the ball rolling.’

  It occurs to Jeremiah’s that he could feed Le Stratton an interpretation guaranteed to arouse the wrath of the old Gutenburgers. But we have each other’s backs now, he thinks, casting his mind back to their run in the rain and the way Le Stratton relieved him of the heavy burden of Consolidated and the threat of his family’s disintegration at one stroke. But Le Stratton’s string of sexual conquests fires Jeremiah’s jealousy. Le Stratton should have prepared something at least, Jeremiah thinks, for his own project, remembering the hours he has put in alone in his hotel room with his e-reader while Le Stratton was out fucking himself senseless. ‘Animal Farm,’he tells Le Stratton, ‘is about the risks of developing an innovative business strategy with an unskilled workforce.’

  Le Stratton winks, collects his things and makes for the full-sized pool table at the back of the bar.

  Jeremiah is both dismayed and excited at his dastardly underhand tactic. Le Stratton will go down in flames. He’ll be effectively banned from Comms work for life. Surely he’ll see the funny side? As Radley and Hodge enter the bar, Jeremiah turns and hails them. ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen. What can I get you?’

  The croggle and bang of balls draws their expressionless eyes away from him to the table, where Le Stratton is setting up pool balls.

  ‘Whisky. Better make it a double,’ Radley says.

  ‘Make that two,’ Hodge says.

  ‘Make that three,’ Le Stratton calls.

  ‘Scotch, single malt,’ Radley adds.

  A barmaid has appeared. ‘Got it,’ she says, and begins lining up whisky tumblers. The round will cost a fortune.

  Behind him, Radley voices his disapproval of the game of pool, which is like draughts compared to the chess of snooker, he tells Le Stratton. A child’s game.

  ‘Wow,’ says the barmaid, ‘I’ve never seen two guys so annoyed at being bought a Scotch.’

  Jeremiah exhales discreetly in reply. His thoughts exactly.

  ‘I can make them Johnnie Walker. You think they’d notice?’

  ‘Probably. You’d better make it Talisker.’

  ‘Four?’

  ‘Yeah. They’ll probably test me on the bouquet.’

  The cost registers on her face. It probably adds up to about four hours’ work for her this Saturday night, he thinks. She’s about thirty and petite, with dyed blond hair tied up in ponytail and bright blue eyes. She must get hit on a lot.

  She has to use a ladder to reach the bottle of Talisker, displayed in pride of place at the centre of the top shelf. Her skirt is short. Is it just his imagination that she mounts the ladder not cautiously but seductively, inviting him to look? He’s afraid. What if nothing happens? It strikes him he should stop ignoring his impotence and at least read up on it; after all, he would never have come to positive humility and active listening on his own after Consolidated broke. One of her feet lifts off the ladder and swings up as she stretches for the bottle. As her foot rises higher behind her he runs his eyes right up her legs, up to where her inner thighs curve in at the tops and the bulls-eye of red panties flashes.

  ‘Oh.’ Her hand grasps the bottle by the neck.

  Nothing. It’s like his dick has retracted. Embarrassed for both of them, he activates his screen and has another look at Heart of Darkness. Embroidery. When it’s time to pay and look up, he remembers the positive humility strategy he’d adopted when he believed his job was in danger. ‘I’m Jeremiah,’ he says, making eye contact, ‘nice to meet you.’

  It works. She smiles. ‘I’m Sal. Hey, did I just see your short friend play with his balls? I mean, like, jiggle his testicles?’

  ‘Yes. That’ll be pre-match tension.’

  ‘Remember to shake hands after the game.’

  ‘Right. Thanks.’ Pleasant interaction in the end, he thinks. It occurs to him there could be more room for positive humility in his everyday dealings.

  Radley, the taller and more openly aggressive of the pair, takes a whisky from the little tray Jeremiah holds before him and says, ‘I suppose you can’t play chess either?’

  Jeremiah is so staggered by the man’s rudeness that it takes a moment to answer. ‘Not much good, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You know the rules?’

  ‘Well, yeah, but…’

  ‘He knows the rules,’ Radley tells Hod
ge, who is eyeing the tip of his cue sceptically as he chalks it, as if he expects it will break.

  ‘En passant?’ Radley asks Jeremiah.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘En passant… Yeah, I thought so.’

  ‘A real chess player, this one,’ Hodge says.

  ‘I’ve found that there are two kinds of chess player,’ Radley says to Hodge. ‘Those who know the rules of chess and those who don’t.’

  The judgement is correct. Jeremiah doesn’t actually know the precise rules of chess. He’s embarrassed. Hodge continues to chalk his cue so Jeremiah places his whisky on the table next to him. It is not even acknowledged.

  Le Stratton lifts the triangle from the table. ‘I’m afraid we’d need a refresher on checkers as well, I—’

  ‘Not like that,’ Radley cuts in. ‘You can’t group the balls like that.’ He takes the triangle from Le Stratton, shaking his head in disgust.

  Hodge, who has picked up his whisky, sniffs it, looks at the balls, and laughs coldly. ‘Planning on breaking, were you, Le Stratton?’

  For once, Le Stratton is lost for words.

  Radley shifts a few balls and lifts the triangle. ‘You can break now.’

  Le Stratton is yet to select a cue, so it falls to Jeremiah to break. As he settles over the white in thick silence, he is intent purely on survival. To play one game and get out without any further unpleasantness is the new goal. The scheme to build a bridge with books is clearly impossible.

  But no, the cost of the round and their rudeness burns him. He will extract one common courtesy at least. He stands, slowly lifts his glass from the table as if it weighs 25 kilograms and says, ‘Gentlemen. Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers, J,’ comes Le Stratton’s energetic and good-natured reply.

  Radley sniffs his drink. Hodge lifts his. Finally they meet his eyes. With all the warmth of crocodiles, they sip. As Jeremiah settles down over the white again, Radley says, ‘This is a fine whisky, Jeremiah.’

  Surprised by the use of his name, Jeremiah abandons the break and stands up. ‘Thanks, Mr Radley.’

  ‘But it’s a post-prandial dram,’ Radley adds. ‘Talisker, by definition, is post-prandial, not pre-prandial.’

  Jeremiah breaks and the white leaps off the table.

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ Hodge mutters. He and Radley look at each other significantly. ‘It’s not about brute force,’ Hodge tells him. ‘It’s about placement. Pool rewards hit and hope, but you won’t find that approach works so well on a full-sized table.’

  Le Stratton fetches the white, which has run a considerable distance, and returns it to the D.

  ‘I’d rather not,’ Hodge sniffs.

  Radley stands over the white, vulture-like. His nose wrinkles as he surveys the lie of the table, which Jeremiah takes as his continued critique of the game of pool.

  Le Stratton comes over, glass held high. They clink and Jeremiah drinks a proper mouthful of the smoky burning liquid. A glowing sensation keeps coming and coming, as if the whisky has reacted with his mouth, gullet and gut, and has begun to break them down.

  Jeremiah’s eyebrows go up. ‘Huge finish.’

  ‘Aye,’ Radley says, not unkindly, as he knocks an over into a side pocket.

  ‘Endless follow-through,’ Le Stratton adds.

  Radley sinks another in the corner, screwing the white so he has a straight shot for the next in the opposite corner.

  ‘Shot,’ Le Stratton says.

  ‘Not really,’ Radley counters.

  Le Stratton turns to Jeremiah and winks. ‘How’s the novel going, J-man?’

  Jeremiah flares and narrows his eyes: No!

  ‘Novel?’ Hodge asks.

  ‘It’s going okay,’ Jeremiah tells Le Stratton while moving away from him. The books project is over, in his mind. A bridge is not buildable. And even if it were, a professional relationship with the Killers is not desirable. They’d be endlessly pedantic in the worst possible way. They’d take sadistic pleasure in dropping urgent work late at night. He doesn’t need them and neither does Le Stratton.

  Hodge leers. ‘Writing a novel set in New Hokitika, are we?’

  ‘Writing? No.’

  ‘Reading a novel set in Hokitika?’ Hodge says, as if that were more remarkable. He jiggles his balls.

  ‘No, not set here.’ For the first time ever, Jeremiah notes, he has Hodge’s full and undivided attention. Le Stratton was on to something about these old Gutenburgers. But he won’t let Le Stratton throw him to the wolves like this. ‘Le Stratton recommended Animal Farm by George Orwell. I’ve just started it.’

  ‘Oh, Orwell’s version,’ Hodge says.

  This is apparently amusing enough for Radley to abandon his methodical clearance of the table and take a drink. Jeremiah’s ears start to burn. There are two balls left for Radley to sink and then it’ll be over, he can leave.

  ‘What did you make of those talking animals, Le Stratton?’ Hodge asks, as Radley leans over the table again.

  ‘Well, I don’t have a lot of time for talking animals, generally speaking, but it works in Animal Farm.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  Jeremiah and Le Stratton take another drink.

  ‘Well,’ Le Stratton says, rocking up his heels, ‘they never get the lips quite right.’

  ‘We’re talking about a novel, Le Stratton, not a cartoon. Why do talking animals work in this novel?’

  ‘It offers a fresh perspective, I suppose…’

  Radley and Hodge look at each other. Their lips curl back, revealing their teeth.

  Le Stratton fires Jeremiah a look, but he avoids it by chalking his cue. ‘Talking animals offer a fresh perspective on what?’ Hodge demands.

  Le Stratton takes another sip. Jeremiah knows it’s time to try and save his friend, because they have each other’s backs now, but the horrible silence is intoxicating.

  ‘What was that you said about it, Jeremiah? About the…’

  ‘Haven’t read it yet.’ It’s a kind of nail in Le Stratton’s coffin. It’s not funny, but he does it anyway.

  Les Stratton’s face brightens regardless. ‘About the perils of innovating with an unskilled workforce.’

  Jeremiah doesn’t know where to look. Radley, who was about to sink the black, abandons his shot and stands up. Hodge puts his drink down. They both stare at Le Stratton.

  ‘Are you serious?’ Radley demands.

  Jeremiah has the impression that if it were the old days a duel would be proposed. A glove would be produced and Le Stratton’s face slapped with it. At sunrise tomorrow, someone would lie dead in the rain. He’s never seen Le Stratton so uncomfortable, so speechless, and with nothing to hide behind but a cue he probably won’t get to use. And Jeremiah likes it very much on some level. It’s justice. Le Stratton has been sleeping around too much and has come unprepared for the Killers. That’s the lesson he can take from this.

  Le Stratton turns to him. ‘Everything comes back to money, right, Jeremiah?’

  Jeremiah says nothing, chalks his cue and makes an ambiguous expression as if considering the merit of that proposition and not finding much.

  ‘So speaketh the corporate lawyer,’ Hodge says. ‘Fuck me, they don’t even bother to try and conceal it anymore.’

  ‘The Bible’s about money too, is it, Le Stratton?’

  ‘Well,’ Le Stratton says feebly, ‘Judas played a key role.’

  ‘Yeah, he would have made a great lawyer.’

  Before he knows it, Jeremiah has stepped in to help his friend. ‘For me, Animal Farm suggests a reading of the role of labour and money in all literature. Even…’ He pauses, mind flailing for the title of the fat book about World War II Le Stratton has abandoned. What was it? Something Fucking Rainbow? His lawyer’s memory doesn’t let him down. ‘Even in Gravity’s Fucking Rainbow.’

  Le Stratton splutters into his whisky.

  Radley shoots and sinks the black.

  Jeremiah braces himself.

  But when Rad
ley brings himself up to his full height, a genuine smile is etched into his gaunt features, an expression striking in its rarity and disarming in its strength. ‘Well, I didn’t finish it either,’ he says, and looks over at Hodge, who shakes his head in mock sorrow and then smiles. Incredibly, the Killers are happy with him.

  ‘Thanks for the game,’ Jeremiah says.

  ‘Thanks for the drink,’ returns Radley.

  Le Stratton smiles. ‘Well played, guys.’

  ‘Don’t thank me,’ Hodge sniffs. ‘I didn’t even need to take a shot.’

  ‘Jeremiah,’ Radley says, ‘we’ve got a bit of a backlog in Comms press releases and the like which just need signing off. Easy process stuff. I’ll pay overtime. Interested?’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Radley.’ Jeremiah offers his hand. The shake is firm.

  Le Stratton waves cheerfully. ‘Thanks again, guys.’

  He’s ignored.

  17

  The alien’s first messages to the waiting world came easily to Bill. ‘Thank you’; ‘I can hear you’; ‘What kind of place is this?’ They were variations on real messages Sam wrote 62 years ago, which were not considered newsworthy at the time. They created a sensation. Released daily, in three triumphant waves, they have returned Sam to the spotlight and kept him there. The third message, ‘What kind of place is this?’, made a particularly big impression. The simple question resonated. People everywhere responded to the question online and even suspended rioting to demonstrate peacefully in the streets, communicating in simple terms so that Sam would understand what kind of place it was to them as people, not consumers, employees, criminals, beneficiaries or aspirationals. Demonstrations sprung up all over the globe in which hundreds of thousands marched bearing placards and projected messages responding to Sam’s question. The world was a polluted place, a dying place, a cruel place, an ugly place, an unfair place, a place without honest leaders.