At the Edge of the Game

by Power, Gareth

  ‘RTE has just gone up.’ He says it not without a measure of cheer.

  A high column of black smoke rises over the rooftops in the direction of Montrose.

  I pick up the remote control and start flicking. Nothing now on any channel.

  Lost power again. Back to the quavering, puttering candles. Dusk reveals that Dublin is burning. Distant noises - tapping guns, grumbling bombs. Interesting, the trajectories of tracer projectiles, the arcs they follow. Gravitational geometries of beguiling asymmetry – idealised processes playing out in a far-from-ideal situation. Beguiling. So long as those arcs do not end anywhere near us.

  Tired again, really tired. We’re sleeping in our room tonight. Restoration of tolerable outside temperatures means we don’t have to huddle near the fire to survive. Utter luxury it is to get under the covers. Her voice is soft, her head pillowed on me.

  ‘I thought you were dead.’

  ‘I understand. I’m sorry for putting you through that.’

  I went through some unpleasantness myself.

  ‘I never told him I would go.’

  ‘I think we should go with him. It makes sense.’

  It really does make sense. I’m not just being nice to gloss over things, although there is that too. No getting away from the fact that there’s nothing here for us now.

  ‘You know I love you, George.’

  ‘I know.’

  Hearing this she rolls over to her side of the bed and breathes a long sigh. The noise coming from the sundered city is in a way soothing to the ear. Not at all connected in my consciousness to recent close-hand experience of armed combat (owing, no doubt, to shutting-down brain departments), nor even to - also a recent memory, this - Urban Guard basic training, which I have had to undergo every year for the past several.

  Each year it is more useless than the last. Never has it served me on the plateau. The endless grasses ripple in the moist air flow from the south. Here is so unlike the familiar aridity of home, just a few miles distant but belonging to an utterly different climatic zone of arid sparseness.

  The post to which I and my comrades - Private Connor and Corporal Masqle - have been stationed is a ramshackle cabin with an open-air latrine dug into the earth. Humble though it is, it stands in a remarkable position, so that through one window one can view the verdant African grasslands, while through the window opposite a spreading vista takes in the steep, rocky two-mile descent to the Salt Desert, the dead and dense Terminal Sea and Dublin Far City. The city surfaces reflect the sunlight in a brilliant, sparkling display. The lifeless northern horizon, far beyond which the peaks of the European continent rise, is gaunt and forbidding. The white clouds of violent salt storms break up the clean line of that horizon, frequently whipping up into frenzied vortices that can rise to a hundred stadia and then dissipate in seconds.

  Away to the east of our post stands the nearest of the silver pillars that delineate the limits of Dublin Near City. The wide M50, having tracked the Liffey northward from the heart of Africa, splits our sister city in two, and then spans the void that separates the African Wall from Dublin City Cylinder. Web-like systems of cables, barely visible at this distance, support the weight of the wide toll bridge and the thousands of vehicles it conveys to and from the Cylinder's three-hundred-and-eighty-sixth level each day. Whereas Dublin Far City is a centre of government, of learning, of law, Dublin Near City is one of commerce, of markets, a home to traders from many lands.

  The greatest of its citizens live in vast apartments on the huge archway built over the precipice of the Liffey Falls. Beneath the archway is an abyss ten stadia deep and another ten wide. This is the canyon the Liffey has gouged for itself into the African continent. Dublin Near City river port is at the bottom of the canyon, its cranes, jetties and slipways serving vessels from every nation. They feed the voracious appetite of the diverse Cylinder cultures for the wares of Africa, and the appetite of the nations of the Africa for the wares of the Cylinder. Most residents of Dublin Near City reside in underground arcades on each side of the canyon. The more privileged ordinary citizens occupy apartments furnished with windows that look onto the ceaseless activity of the port. Good portions of the canyon walls are now glass rather than stone.

  The great auroch herd numbers in the millions, covering an area many days’ journey to the south and west. At night they can often be heard moving about outside the hut, snuffling at the human smells that linger here, but they never come close in the daytime. Occasionally in the distant grasses a male will throw his huge head high, delivering a bellow that can chill the blood. Rarely now does any female respond with the higher, longer call that signals readiness to mate. The fertile time was three months ago, when they still sheltered in the southern forests of the Country of Ir. Now that winter has ended, they have come north as a single united mass to graze at the edge of the continent. Eventually they will return to the forests with their newly weaned calves.

  Connor and Masqle are sitting on the roof of the hut, from that superior vantage watching the closest group of aurochs through binoculars. Masqle beckons me to join them. On the roof I am handed the binoculars. I observe the aurochs for several moments before realising that amongst them is our quarry, the bull Aleph-29, the reason we have been posted here. The bull, a year or two past his prime, but still a formidable beast, has an unmistakeable slash of bare skin across his right flank, a broad white scar in the deep blackness of the rest of him. Around him are seven or eight pregnant females and a couple of immature males, horns still mere stumps. Neither comes close to matching his powerful frame, perhaps never will. He holds his forward-curving horns high, looking in our direction. I feel that he is aware of my scrutiny, that he instinctively remembers the ancient enmity between Humanity and his kind, that he knows our goal is his destruction. We take no pleasure in it, none of us, but Aleph-29 has been selected for the cull. His genetic legacy is one of aggression, of defiance in the face of human expansion into the territory of the auroch. The governments of the human nations wish to make their particular legacy the pacification of the great herd through the destruction of the finest bulls. We conscripts of the Urban Guard are expected to play our part in the attainment of that goal.

  Connor picks up his weapon, a sniper's rifle with telescopic sights, and tries to take aim. He delivers a blasphemous oath as Aleph-29 tosses his head around, delivers a low exclamation, and ambles forward in the knee-high grass so that the females are between him and Connor's line of fire. Then the group, as one, turns and begins to move away, descending a slight depression on the way towards a copse of young trees several stadia further away.

  We argue amongst ourselves for a minute or two. Connor says that we should stalk the aurochs until we achieve a good opportunity to bring Aleph-29 down cleanly. Masqle, the more experienced soldier, veteran of the culls of two previous years, maintains that to do so would be too risky, that Aleph-29 is not likely to move far from this area, it having been the undisputed territory of his exalted bloodline for many generations, so we are likely to have similar opportunities to dispatch him in coming days. Though Masqle is a corporal, he is also a conscript like us, and he does not like to invoke his rank against us when we are alone at our post. As a consequence, my comrades look to me for the casting vote. I state my belief that we should follow Connor's plan. The sooner we have dispatched Aleph-29, the sooner we can return to the command centre at the edge of Dublin Near City, and the sooner we can make contact with our families again. It has been ten days since I have spoken to Helen. Masqle grunts with annoyance, but accepts the decision of the majority. We fill our canteens with water, pack some ammunition, and trek out into the grasses, rifles slung over our shoulders, in slow, stealthy pursuit of the aurochs.

  The sun is hot in the hazy sky. It has not rained for over a week, but the grasses are still tall and lush. Headquarters has informed us that heavy rain should return to the area within the next two days. It will be a welcome respite when it comes. There are large
boulders strewn over the general area, half-obscured by the grass. We skirt them warily, mindful of the danger of ambush by hungry predators. This is ever a possibility in these lands. We are also watchful of where we set our feet, alive to the perils of venomous snakes.

  We regain sight of the aurochs. They are some way ahead, still moving towards the distant copse. Masqle assumes the air of one in command. He tells us we should try to get to the left of the aurochs, to overtake them on a parallel course, taking advantage of a group of rocks set on a low ridge. We nod briefly and follow him ahead, crouching slightly for cover. We unsling our rifles, loading them as quietly as we can. I push an extra round into the breech and wipe the sweat from my brow. The countryside seems to have suddenly gone quiet. The birds have stopped singing, the aurochs are silent, even the insects seem to have set down for cover. The only sound in my ears is the faint rustle of the grasses in the light, warm breeze. We are tense, and crouch lower down as we draw closer to the aurochs. But there is noise, and the birds take to the air, and the aurochs are unsettled. They will bolt at the worst possible moment, and speaking of bolts I’m bolt upright and it’s still dark outside and Helen is lying awake looking at me.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Morning.’

  Her face is wet.

  ‘Are you crying?’

  She twists to look at me.

  ‘We have to get out of Dublin.’

  Heathshade, a man moulded for these savage times, is to be heard through the wall. His snoring is a battering ram. The house too is making noises - noises in some way organic, as though this warm bed were the womb of a creature with growling innards. There’s a painting on the wall – a terrible, unattributed stock painting from the Sixties or Seventies depicting an old harbour at night, a ship at anchor in the foreground, warehouse and taverns and hovels on the background slope, bright stars overhead, heavy-laden clouds approaching. I perceive it with all senses, tasting the bristled air, feeling the scratch of coarse fabric, fearing the next storm, the cruel blundering swell of blue-black waves.

  The jeep’s turning wheels propel curls of dirty meltwater high and wide and some dejected unfortunates on the pavement are drenched. Heathshade beeps the horn and bellows his pleasure.

  ‘Why did you do that?’

  He just laughs.

  Thousands are fleeing the city. Some are on foot, children already tired and bewildered, uncomprehending of this sudden uprooting. Adults watching the passing traffic with eyes that dully accuse.

  What help have we to give them? What have we that they don’t have, except a stolen car? They should steal their own cars.

  Helen is lying across the back seat, hands resting on her enlarged abdomen, and there’s no room in here for anyone, not even a small child, and anyway who would hand one of their children over to a car of strangers?

  Got nearly a full tank, enough to get to the South East. Rosslare or Waterford. Depends on where the relief ships decide to dock. Got to keep a weather ear on the radio to keep up to date on that score.

  Broadcasts are still intermittent, but at least they’re back to some extent. Gives one a measure of heart, although little mention of the fighting, and absolutely no information about who is winning. At least the line south from the canal towards Wicklow seems to be under Government control.

  We should be at something resembling a destination by nightfall, surely, even if the roads are still bad along the way. Probably sleep in the jeep overnight and sort ourselves out with a place to stay tomorrow, a base of operations from which to gain passage abroad. Perhaps Helen’s pregnancy will prove an asset in that regard. And Helen and I have an ace up the sleeve… Heathshade doesn’t know it, but concealed on my person is quite a lot of cash, our last reserves. Should money prove to still work down south, we should have some leverage with which to get ourselves sorted.

  The traffic is stopped up ahead at the Stillorgan junction. Uniforms, guns. A roadblock.

  ‘Christ,’ Heathshade mutters. Then louder: ‘Stay cool, all right?’

  Each car is being checked, the driver questioned. Heathshade himself is far from cool. I can see the tension in his neck, his jerky movements, the way his feet play on the pedals, as though he is ready to make a break for it. This fool could land us all in jail yet, or worse.

  We’re next. A soldier approaches.

  ‘ID please, folks.’

  Heathshade hands over our passports.

  ‘You’re a UK citizen.’

  ‘That’s right, mate. Trying to get home. Taking my friends with me.’

  The soldier looks us over carefully, scans the car’s interior. Long seconds of pounding chest, roaring ears, rigid neck. But this particular crisis blows over .

  ‘Thank you.’

  He hands the passports back, taps the roof. Heathshade drives on.

  ‘See?’ he crows, like he knew it all along.

  The number of walking refugees dwindles as we progress through the south-city suburbs. After Cabinteely there’s only traffic. Clusters of dark-windowed houses and bare shadowed tree-forms, reaching branches like clutching claws, we the prey just out of reach. Willows like chandeliers with the bending weight of dripping icicles glittering when the sun hits through the wind-driven clouds.

  Heathshade reaches across and opens the glove box. It’s full of CDs.

  ‘What kind of sounds have we got?’

  ‘You want to play a CD at a time like this?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘What about the radio?’

  ‘All right, then, the radio. Whatever.’

  I scan the frequencies, all the bands, but there is nothing intelligible. No bulletins, nothing. Dead air. Is there a bleaker sound than beating long-wave static?

  Heathshade reaches in and grabs a CD, gives it a quick look and sticks it into the stereo. Some god-awful metally crap. He cranks the volume up. I crank it back down.

  ‘Jesus, it’s like travelling with two OAPs.’

  The traffic is slowing, condensing. Walking pace now. Heathshade losing his cool again, blaring the horn. Pointless nonsense. Sets off a chain reaction along the line of cars.

  The cause of the slowdown becomes clear – a stationary car blocking the road. A dull grey Clio containing dried-up dead people. Here as we drive slowly by sits a woman at the wheel, mummified. In the back two girls, a teenager and a child preserved in like fashion.

  ‘Caught in the storm.’

  More invaluable insight from Heathshade.

  A cohort of armed Gardai works on moving the dead car to the hard shoulder. None of these officers wears full uniform. They have the rather disconcerting bearing of ill-disciplined militia. Just keep looking straight forward and drive on.

  Here on higher ground the snow is still patchy in the fields. A piebald landscape, that’s what it is. The perennial indicator of the saddle-point between the seasons, chill water black with dirt, fills the roadside.

  Smoke is rising from Bray. Maybe that’s why the traffic is slowing again. Rubberneckers. Heathshade slams his fists on the steering wheel.

  ‘Fuck, this is too slow.’

  Something of this scene puts me in mind of the drive back from the funeral of my parents. I was sitting in the passenger seat, and my uncle was driving. Muddled, he stalled the car at some lights. The car behind started beeping and then roared past. ‘Asshole!’ the driver shouted, sticking a finger up.

  More police are at the next bend. Soldiers too. A helicopter rises and veers away in the direction of Bray. These police are not interested in us. They wave us through with hardly a glance. They have a bulldozer, which they are using to push three downed electricity poles to the side of the road. There are craters in the road. Not the kind you usually come across on Irish roads either, formed slowly when rain seeps into and breaks down shoddily put-together pavement. No, these are of that more troubling kind formed quickly when explosive charges detonate.

  And now that I look about more closely, how were the trunks of those
trees chewed up so recently, and why are there splatters of red over there, close to where that black plastic sheeting is weighted down with rocks?

  The road passes through narrows. Those steep wooded slopes might surely offer tactical advantage to an enterprising guerrilla unit.

  The traffic stretches in a long, slow-moving line far ahead up a steady incline as far as the ridge a couple of miles away, where the ascending valley, in which we are such sitting ducks, opens onto a plateau.

  Heathshade is muttering to himself, jaw clenching, face red. He snarls and starts spinning the steering wheel. The car squeals to the right, and we are speeding up a boreen with withered hedgerows on either side, plunging into the dark woods.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Taking the initiative.’

  ‘You don’t know where you’re going.’

  ‘South.’

  We are not heading south. We are heading west. And we are also heading into those sullen hills.

  ‘Come on, turn around.’

  ‘You don’t like it, mate, you get out and walk.’

  At a junction he skids down a laneway going roughly south.

  ‘This is driving,’ he says. ‘This is making progress.’

  He turns the stereo back on, cranking it up loud. We reach a y-junction and the jeep bounces left, roaring through a tunnel of hanging pine branches until with almost no warning we reach the hill’s summit and we’re clear of the trees, now in open countryside with all of south Leinster seemingly visible before us.

  ‘See, you arsehole? Always listen to me!’

  He pushes the car to seventy, seventy-five, eighty around blind bends on this road barely wide enough for one vehicle, let alone two.

  I look around to make sure Helen’s strapped in.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Fine,’ she says, and seems to mean it.

  Four in the afternoon. Sunset not far off, and we are in what is beyond any morsel of doubt the middle of nowhere.