London When it Rains

by C. Sean McGee

  “What is this therapy?” asked The Old Man. “What do they do?”

  “They teach how to die and how to lose our fear. And with no fear of death and no fear of inexistence, there is no need for you-know-who.”

  “I do not believe in God,” said The Old Man.

  “Then why are you here?”

  The Roommate dropped his hands. He dropped his guard.

  “Because you still do.”

  The Old Man pushed The Roommate onto his bed. The age difference was no issue; neither was their size or stature. The Old Man had bones and joints like crumbling bread. And his hands, they shook when he stood still as if he was constantly petrified at the thought of whatever came next in his life. The Roommate, on the other hand, was in his fifties. He was slender build. He wasn’t muscular or athletic in any way, but he looked like it wouldn’t be too much trouble to fend off a child or a drunk; or the old bastard that stood before him.

  He didn’t, though. He fell forwards onto his belly and put up nary a struggle. The Old Man landed on top of him with began strangling him with his dozen laces. He wasted no time at all.

  “Where are you going?”

  He spoke soft and congealing as if The Roommate were being felled by age or some incurable condition, and not cold, vicious murder. He spoke as if they were friends - as if this were an act of compassion. The Old Man stared deep into The Roommate’s eyes as if he were looking something, or waiting for a moment to appear. “This has to stop,” he said, as The Roommate’s body went limp.

  XII

  “I think it’s time to call in the army.”

  “I do not want to win anyone’s favour with fear or intimidation. They’re people. They’re us. They’ve just been inspired to think that we, they, all of us, are somehow different. If we bring in the army, it’ll only further their conviction. It will strengthen their cause.”

  There were so many people now. It was just a blur of faces – impossible to pick one from the other. Above them flew their flags and banners, and from their red faces soared their cheeky rhymes and impassioned songs.

  “Mam, how long do you think you have left before they break the barricades?”

  “That won’t happen. They are rational people.”

  “They’re frenzied.”

  “They want reform, that’s all.”

  “They want your blood.”

  “They’re rational.”

  “They’re desperate, Mam.”

  “Then we ease their desperation, but we don’t provoke it. Bringing in the army will only make matters worse. This is not a war. They are not an enemy. They are our constituents, and this is a discussion, that is all. They have every right to protest, and they have every right to be upset. They need to be informed, that’s all. They need to be told what is happening. They need to be treated as if their voices have been heard – as if they matter. They need validation and right now, they’re getting it from the wrong source. I should have stepped in earlier. I should have kept them in the loop from day one.”

  “What the hell are you gonna say?”

  “I have no idea.”

  The Administrator stared out the window at a young girl who sat on her father’s shoulders. She was in the middle of the crowd and she would’ve been invisible were it not for the coloured bows in her hair; one of which caught the sun, and reflected it in all directions as she twisted and turned, dancing to the rhythm of the song. And for just a moment, their eyes met. It was long enough for the girl to smile and wave her hand, though as she did, she thought she would fall.

  The Aide continued to talk. His voice was full of doubt and worry. It hissed like a burst radiator as he went on and on and on. He listed every worst case scenario imaginable, and in the gaps between one word and the next, he imagined several more. It wasn’t easy to drown him out - maybe it might have just been easier to drown him altogether - but The Administrator kept her attention on the young girl, raising her own hand to wave back. It was only a moment, but for that moment, she forgot about all of her problems. She didn’t even know that she could do that. She forgot about the city and all its problems, and she forgot about the deficit, the debt, and all the promises that she had made - of which none of them had come true. She forgot about herself most of all. She forgot about herself as being responsible and being to blame. She forgot about herself as having failed and being lesser than her intentions. She forgot about herself entirely. For that moment, she waved her hand and she even cracked a smile.

  “All it will take is one bad turn, and this will be out of our control,” said The Aide.

  XIII

  Lying completely still and saying not a word, The Leader and The Sniper studied the crowd that passed beneath them in the scopes that sat upon their rifles. Just as the crowd of Literals that gathered at the steps of City Hall numbered in the many thousands, so too did the number of Moderates who marched below. Their songs were just as boisterous, and though their message was anything but radical, both the hoarseness in their voices and the glaring look in their eyes said that; as conservative as they were, they were capable of anything.

  The Leader picked through the crowd with his scope. He moved swiftly through the crowd to read the expressions of every protestor; be they a parent, child, sister or brother – or be they lovers, strangers, or friends. His scope moved between the abled and the crippled, and from the recently born to the frail and terribly old without any prejudice.

  “Cleared hot,” said The Sniper.

  The Leader ignored the group marching below – those whose placards spoke of tolerance and the need to allow the passage of change to run its course. Instead, he followed The Sniper’s original coordinates away from the marching protestors, toward the centre of town where a child - no older than five - sat on her father’s shoulders, smiling and waving at people she didn’t know.

  The young girl was dressed in black like her parents, and her hair was tied in pretty coloured ribbons that glittered in the sunlight. Her older brother stood by their father’s legs, and the balloon that he was carrying was barely visible in the rifle’s scope. She was in the middle of the crowd that had gathered on the steps of City Hall, and she was singing along, even though she didn’t know any of the words. Her favourite colour was yellow. Her favourite food was spaghetti. Her favourite animal was a fox, but her favourite pet was a gecko that lived in the crack behind her bed. She was scared of monsters, spiders and fireworks, though the latter was recent. Before last week she loved them. She was always happy, except with bossy people. She had many friends in daycare and at the park too, but her best friend was her brother; even though he was a jerk most of the time. At bedtime, she liked to be tucked in tight, told her favourite story and kissed once on each cheek. Her favourite teddy bear’s name was Teddy, and she preferred climbing and jumping off of things more than she did, playing dress ups with tea sets and dolls. Her name was Lua and she was four years, two weeks and three days old to be exact.

  “Tango down,” said The Sniper.

  XIV

  The room they were in was quite high. From the window, The Old Man could see out over the city towards the dockyards. Every nook and cranny were busy - full of panicked commotion. It was hard to tell if it was the good kind, or if it was something worth writing home about. He had never seen the world from this vantage – he’d never seen it at such a height. Immediately he thought of the black birds which, when he looked to the blue sky, soared above in slow graceful circles; barely flapping their wings. But down below, it looked as if an entire colony of ants was hastily preparing for rain.

  “A city is no different to a person. It has a name as a person does. It can win awards and inspires change, and it can be revered and desired, or equally it can be spoken terribly ill of. It can be praised, lauded, and even immortalised in song; or it can mocked, teased, picked on and pushed around like some mangy, black-fleeced sheep. It can be drawn towards, or it can be driven away from. It can be a hero or it can be a villain, but it canno
t be both. And like a person, it has infrastructure. And just as we have bones, veins, cells, nerves, and capillaries, so too does the city have buildings and towers; and roads, bridges, sewers, and optic fibres too. And just as a person can be sick in body and mind; so too then can bridges buckle, buildings fall, and the wrong policy and ideas – impassioned, factless and dividing ideas – infect like a virus, and drive a city and its constituents to the edge of utter lunacy. And just as every city can be made up of identical infrastructure, it is the cells, the DNA, and more so, the good and bad bacteria that feed on every scrap of news and information which differentiate - and in turn determine - the nature of a city; where either health and prosperity can thrive, or disease and attrition can become so ubiquitous that they define its culture. A city is organic. There is nothing unnatural about it whatsoever. It is built from the very minerals as are you and me; as is the entire of our cosmos. Even the thousands of tonnes of space junk that orbits our planet is made of precious metals, minerals, and oils that were dug out of the earth or trenched from the bottom of the sea. They are no less natural than the rings of Saturn or Jupiter. A city lives. It breathes. And just as easy as anyone of us, it can be stricken with impoverishment, and it can suffer and die. As better people, we must learn not only how best to serve our city but as a city, how best to serve ourselves.”

  As The Therapist spoke, The Old Man continued staring out the window. The glass he looked through was like some giant microscope and through it; he was examining the microcosm of Corpus Industria.

  “I want you to all pick get into groups of five.”

  The room was abuzz. There seemed to be this genuine feeling of happiness. It was hard to take it seriously at first. The Old Man wore his cynical moniker like a vest. It didn’t distract from his social attire, yet it kept him safe and warm from the chill of bitter disappointment. The Therapist moved to the window and rested her hand on his shoulders. Instantly, he cringed.

  "Nothing is beyond salvage, and nothing cannot be saved.”

  She took The Old Man with gentle force and led him to the only group with less than five people; and with The Old Man, they made four.

  “We seem to be one short,” said The Therapist.

  She sounded as if surprise were not something to which she was accustomed; as if within these walls, there was a pristine order to all things – every cause had its coupling effect, and all were planned, scheduled, and part of a published curriculum.

  “Nevertheless, we can make do with four.”

  She gently nudged The Old Man into the group. He looked nervous. He wasn’t usually nervous. He could be pushy and belligerent when he wanted to, but most of the time he’d be quiet, standoffish, and observant. Very rarely, though, was he ever nervous about anything.

  “Surprise, surprise. And here I was thinking you were dead.”

  It was The Girl from the bar. She looked now, just as she had then, on the verge of catastrophe. Her eyes were glazed. The sunlight shone off them instead of into them. They didn’t catch the light, they reflected it back. And though she smiled and looked as if she were happy to see The Old Man, her smile was worrying. It was inviting, yes, and she did look merry, but it was kind of smile etched on the face of a young child who had been caught suffocating a tiny kitten. She didn’t look like she meant any harm or foul, but it did appear as if one or the other might very well be her nature – as if malice were her given name.

  The Old Man stared at her oddly as he would anyone whose affection seemed a tad overstated. The Girl didn’t take offence, though. She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed him so tight that he was worried that her belly might pop or explode; and whether this meant that he had to hug her back.

  Hugging as tight as she could, The Girl whispered in The Old Man’s ear.

  “You have to help me, please.”

  She sounded like a stricken animal, flailing on the side a road. The Old Man’s every instinct was to break her neck and put her out of her misery.

  “You’re the only one I know. You’re the only that cares.”

  He didn’t care. He didn’t even know her. Still, he didn’t say a goddamn thing.

  She looked as lost and helpless now as she did back at the bar. She wasn’t exactly hovering over cocktails and whiskies, but she had that same despondent look as if something unfortunate had, or were about to occur.

  “Pass around an envelope to each member of your group, and do not look at each other’s notes.”

  The Therapist handed four envelopes to The Girl, who then handed on to the two members of the group she had not before, and finally, she gave The Old Man the last.

  “Can anyone tell me the name of our first exercise?”

  A young couple at the back of the room raced to shoot their hands in the air. They barely waited for their names to be called. They could barely contain their excitement.

  “Go on,” said The Therapist, giving them just what they wanted.

  “Purpose,” they said in unison.

  They did everything together.

  “Very good. This is the Purpose Exercise. And can anyone tell me what is the purpose of the Purpose Exercise?”

  They were so quick. How could anyone compete? Two sets of hands were more robust than one. “To see ourselves as we are seen,” they said, in perfect harmony, “as the cause of our outcomes and not necessarily the meaning of our intent.”

  As they spoke, The Old Man imagined what it would be like to beat one of them to death; though he couldn’t for the life of him think of which he would choose - as long as one of them had to go through life alone, it didn’t really matter.

  “Excellent,” said The Therapist. “Now, please open your envelopes, and do not show your role card to any of your team members. Memorise the card and your role. My auxiliary will be collecting them shortly.”

  Around the room, each guest pinned their envelopes to their chests and slowly drew out their cards inch by inch. Each did what was asked of them – studying their task and role for some time before sliding the card back in its envelope. And they all wore the same stupid, wide-eyed expression on their faces as if they’d just had their cherries popped and were desperate to tell someone. The Old Man now felt exactly how he had at the bar.

  “Finished?” asked The Therapist.

  The rest of the room were electric. Their smiles were as mad as they were stupendous. They all rushed to give in their envelopes and then raced back to their groups. The Old Man, on the other hand, took his time. He waited for the auxiliary to come to him. And even then, he waited until he called him sir.

  “Ok, let’s start the first activity.”

  XV

  There was a great deal of excitement out on the street, but of the terrified kind. The Orator still stood on his podium –the post he had kept for days now. He did his best to quiet the crowd and to stop the trampling one another, but his voice wouldn’t carry any louder than the people’s screams.

  There were the screams of those on top, who scrambled over those below, desperate to get out of the open, and out of the sniper’s range. Then there were the screams of those below, those warm and muffled screams of last and final breaths being taken. They were the moans and screams that travelled the farthest. They reached the belly, and not the ears. They ached and pained the most because, for them, nothing could be done.

  The firing continued. It wasn’t rampant, but it was consistent. Each shot was a kill. Even as bodies pushed into and fell over one another, each shot was a kill.

  “Sir, we have to get to some cover, off the street.”

  “I have to stop the panic.”

  “Sir, we have to get you inside.”

  He wasn’t listening. He stood there, waving his hands like a crazed conductor, trying to reign in the wave of panic. It didn’t occur to him that he might be shot. Even if it did, it probably wouldn’t change a thing.

  “They’re gonna crush each other.”

  Between each order, The Orator took to the microph
one and urged everyone to stay where they were, but at the end of every sentence, another shot would ring out, and another child would fall limp in its mother’s or father’s hands.

  “Please, help the people around you. If you feel someone below you, lift them up. Help is on its way. It’s gonna be ok, I swear.”

  He could hear now - barely audible above the sound of weeping and pleading - the sound of angry protesting as thousands of Moderates came marching towards them. Their jubilant and riotous chanting carried like a gale, and riding within it, came the whirl of gunfire.

  “You will not die today,” shouted The Orator.

  As he did, another child fell.

  The Orator was the lone person standing. Beside him, on the stage, his auxiliaries all lay on their bellies, covering the backs of their heads with their hands. His security, along with what police still remained, huddled together in the midst of the crowd, firing their weapons blindly in the air. They had no idea where the shooter was, so they aimed their guns at where they thought he or she would most certainly be, and they began firing into the marching crowd; killing few but wounding a great many.

  “Good work, soldier.”

  The Sniper immediately began dismantling her weapon. She showed barely a nerve. Her hands didn’t shake and her breathing didn’t flutter. She looked as if he had just woken from a terrific sleep.

  “Take your secondary position,” said The Leader.