From his den, he watched the gardeners pack up and lock the shed. At 19.00 hours by his phone, he decided to risk lighting a fire outside in an old oil drum. The flames would be hidden by the metal walls and the smoke would drift unseen on the night air. He kicked out a hole in the rusting base to vent it and added a piece of wire fencing mesh on bricks to let the ash drip through to the bottom. He was pleased with his new stove. He broke up bits of wood from his dung heap house and fed them into the fire as it caught. He laid four potatoes from a nearby vegetable patch in the ash cavity, ready to cook in the hot embers as they crumbled through the grille above. He could have two for supper and keep the others for breakfast. He wondered how his day would have been if his life hadn’t lurched sideways into war. Maybe today he would have been evaluating his performance, sitting in his office with its view over the city to the Forth, the faint hum of air-conditioning playing in the background, the lights casting a sunshine glow over his mahogany desk, the stained-glass panels of clouds and sailing ships – commissioned from a Dutch artist at great expense – drifting in a centuries-old, fantasy landscape behind the workers on the open-plan floor beyond. They had built barriers round their desks, customised with pot plants and family photos. All of the pods abutted each other in a maze of tiny cells, each illuminated by the sun of a computer screen. Compounds. The sandy walls he had climbed on a ladder.
His mind leapt back to his last meeting in that office, as he was read the litany of ‘it’s time to step down’, the creed of the parting of the ways. ‘What are the quality indicators in the framework of your performance, Archie – in your professional judgement? Professional judgement that, in your case, has been sadly lacking. Aspects of your output have been less than rigorous, and while you undoubtedly have major strengths, Archie, and your strengths outweigh your weaknesses, don’t get me wrong, you will concede that Forbes, Stock and Wilson are about market excellence, a benchmark that must be consistently applied across the board. Let me be quite clear about this, you have fallen short in critical areas and remedial action is required. It’s not personal, you understand, but we must meet the needs of our stakeholders and clients. You can’t underplay the legitimacy of their concerns and expectations. With all due respect, running round Afghanistan playing at soldiers doesn’t fit with the consistency of our standards of performance, and coming on the back of the Fitzroy Ltd debacle just as we were trying to close the Chinese deal – well, I’m sure you understand.’
Archie remembered his own silence, the puff of an air-freshener releasing a hiss of sandalwood into the office as the chairman of the board pushed back his chair.
‘It’s all about reputation. Reputation fosters reward.’ There was a pause. ‘Of course, we are all very sorry about the difficulties you have been having with your wife.’
Still no reply.
‘Have you thought about getting help, Archie? I don’t want you to feel that when you step down, that you have been pushed … into a position … where you might feel that … well, as I say, the shareholders’ expectations remain paramount … it’s out of my hands …’
Archie closed his eyes. He opened them again on the twigs above his new home. He should try to salvage his reputation. Make a start. Petal was somewhere out there. He pulled the scrap of paper from his jeans pocket. His eyes rested on the highlighted number in the glow from the embers.
27
Sleep was a cruel trick. In Petal’s dreams her life continued as before but when she woke it stopped. Was sleep the sugar pill, the promised land of nod that made anything, everything bearable? A land where there was no God, a land where the only god was imagination, where wishes came true, where the prisoner could escape. When life was full of fear, the bogeymen in dreams lost their power; they became insubstantial: trolls who could be sent scuttling back under the bridge by saying the magic words – ‘I’m dreaming. Wake up now.’ It was life that was problematic – its puzzles less easily solved, its terrors more solid.
Petal opened her eyes. It was morning. At some point Calum had come into the room and covered her with a duvet, but she hadn’t woken. She wondered if anyone was looking for her. Dr Clark might have noticed she wasn’t in, but equally he might assume she was on annual leave, or had called in sick. She had been due to meet her friend last night and that was her best hope. No one else would be looking for her. She only called her mum fortnightly, so she wouldn’t be expecting a call yet. No sign of her handbag or mobile.
There was the sound of a key in the door and Calum looked in over the chain. ‘Good morning,’ he said, in a cheerful voice.
She sat up and swung her legs onto the floor, but didn’t stand up. Her foot was still stiff. ‘Perhaps you could lie down again,’ he said, ‘while I bring in your breakfast?’
She lay back watching him. He put a tray with two croissants on the floor. There was a boiled egg and a small pot of honey, lumpy with broken hexagons of wax. ‘Bon appétit,’ he said, and rechained the door.
‘Don’t go,’ she shouted. ‘I need to talk to you. I need some clean clothes and some soap.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he replied through the door. ‘As I say, it all depends how good you are.’
‘I want to go home,’ she said. ‘People are expecting me.’
‘Try to think of this as your home now,’ he replied. ‘I can make it nice for you. I’ve texted your mum and your friends for you. There are quite a number on your phone. Interesting threads. LOL.’
She screamed: a raw, animal noise. She did it again.
He came in and clamped a hand over her mouth. ‘If you do that again, I’ll tape your mouth and I’ll tie you to a chair so tight that you’ll wish you had never been born. Do you understand?’
She nodded. His hand was suffocating her. He lifted it off her mouth. ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘I’m not a violent man. You’re putting pressure on me and I don’t like that. I just want things to be nice. To have a little company. That’s not a crime, is it?’ He looked at her and reached out for her hair. ‘I felt we had a connection.’ His eyes were dark, the pupils dilated so that their junction with the iris was lost.
‘Don’t kid yourself,’ she said.
He tightened his grip of her hair.
‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll be good.’
He relaxed his fingers and looked at the strand of hair lying in his palm. ‘I have to go to work now,’ he said, releasing it. ‘I’ll see you later. I won’t be late.’ It was the kind of thing a husband said to a wife.
She sat up once he had gone, trembling. The breakfast tray lay just inside the door, a tray that reminded her of a bed and breakfast in Amsterdam when she was inter-railing. She decided to eat. If she kept her strength up, then she had a better chance of escaping. If she could only work out what made him tick. I am a tourist she thought, in an unfamiliar land. I am Francine. It’s just a game. This trauma is navigable.
* * *
When he returned that evening, she smiled from her bed as he entered the room. ‘Let’s eat together tonight,’ she said, as he laid her tray on the floor. He looked up, crouching at her feet. He was muscular. His suit well-cut, stretched tight over his thighs.
‘Why the change of heart?’ he said.
‘It’s a long day when there’s nothing to do. I don’t like being by myself.’
He smiled. ‘I’ll be back soon.’ He returned with another plate of food. ‘Thai curry,’ he said, ‘with a coconut and lemongrass base, dressed with raspberries. The ingredients are anti-bacterial and anti-ageing. Very good for you. Preserve your youthful beauty. I wonder if you could wash your face and hands,’ he added. ‘If we’re going to have dinner.’
‘It’s not a date,’ she said.
‘Still,’ he replied, ‘it’s nice to make an effort.’ He passed her a linen napkin. ‘I’ll get you a fresh towel and some soap.’
When she came out of the
bathroom, he had brought in a folding table and two chairs. It was a garden picnic set, white curled metal, as if they were sitting on the terrace of a hotel. ‘Madam,’ he said, getting to his feet and pulling out a chair.
‘This is just a bad dream,’ she said to herself. ‘A quest.’ She sat down.
He put her napkin on her knee with a flourish. ‘I’ll fetch some wine,’ he said.
She watched him unlock the door and close it again, then she leaned over and spat in his food. The saliva pooled on the surface of the coconut sauce and she stirred it in with her fork. On an impulse, she switched plates.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked as he came back in. ‘The food isn’t drugged if that’s what you’re thinking. This isn’t a movie – one of your horror films.’
‘Isn’t it?’ she asked.
‘Don’t be silly, Petal,’ he said, taking his plate back. ‘As I say, I just want your company, that’s all. For a short time. This is all a bit of misunderstanding, if you must know. It’s moved a bit faster than I expected. I was going to take you home that night. It’s not my fault that you passed out.’
‘I don’t understand,’ she said.
‘Me neither,’ he replied. ‘So let’s make the best of it. See what develops. We both love good food. The organic things in life. We have that in common.’ He raised his glass. ‘To unexpected friendships. To the future.’
She stared at her glass. Her fingers were shaking as she reached out for it.
‘First date nerves?’ he asked.
‘You’re joking,’ she shouted. ‘You’re just a sick fuck.’ She threw the glass of wine in his face, watched it run over his cheeks and lips, drip into the gully of his mouth.
He jumped to his feet, swearing, and tipped the table over. ‘Do you want to play like that?’ he asked. A dog barked above the grille to the street. ‘Don’t push me, Petal.’ He pointed at her with his index finger. ‘Don’t push me. I spent a lot of time over that meal. I was planning to try a seafood espuma for you for tomorrow. I even bought a new nitrous oxide cartridge for my gun. I’m a gourmet. A gourmand, if you will. If you insult my food, you insult me.’ He walked out leaving the food and plastic wine glasses on the floor.
Petal sat down on the bed, heard a car engine start up in the street, and began to cry.
28
‘Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori – you were wrong, Horace,’ thought Archie, on day two in his nest. ‘It’s not glorious to die for your country if you only die on the inside. I’m a fucking zombie,’ he thought. ‘I’m walking about, but I’m rotting inside my own arms and legs. Are there any medals for that?’ He pulled out his phone and stared at the screen. No one rang him these days. He scrolled through the messages he had ignored when it all kicked off months ago. They were mostly from his best friend, his best man. The box was full and he deleted it without reading them – not that anyone would ring now. The space he had made was pointless. His thumb danced between the Google and Twitter icons; 1.6 billion search engine enquiries every day. The number had stuck in his head, a fly buzzing at the window. He googled ‘Why am I so fucked?’ The search engine returned eight pages of sites. He laughed in surprise and scrolled down the ‘So you think you’re fucked-up quiz’, the ‘How fucked are you really?’ comparison site, the ‘Hug-a fellow-fuck-up-ee’ meet-up, the fucked-up suicide attempt stories, and a Facebook page inviting him to ‘embrace your inner fucked-up-ness’. He had not expected any answers. It was a whole other world. A year ago he would never have asked the question. It wouldn’t have occurred to him. He would not have put it like that. The language was the key to the door. ‘Are any of us asking the right questions?’ he thought. Ol’ Twitter Jack feeding on ‘chirps from birds’ and ‘inconsequential information’, except that it wasn’t so inconsequential any more; if Rouhani and Obama were tweeting, then it was the temperature of the planet, the group psyche stretched bare, as if it were all spread out in God’s mind, as if the things previously known only to a supreme being, if such a being existed, were now laid out for all to read. It was all being channelled into marketing ploys and political analysis and economic opportunities – a stream of universal public opinion that could be mined for gold. But the big questions were still unasked, remained unasked, unanswered and unanswerable. The big questions he had asked under fire from three or four firing points – the why am I here questions, the what-the-fuck moment of death at the sharp, pointy end of an AT4 rocket launcher questions, the Striker, Javelin and Stinger questions. Even death had a barcode. The guy with the scythe was redundant; men were doing his work for him. He probably had his feet up in front of the telly somewhere, or was on a training course with Orange James to prepare himself for the modern workplace and keep up with new technology. Yields were up. The grim reaper had hung up his scythe, taken a back seat, but the harvest was bigger. Archie pocketed his phone, pulled a stubby piece of charcoal from his ashes with a stick and drew Death with an RPG on his shoulder on the planks of his burrow.
Outside he could see the teenage couple from the previous night, dancing in school uniform. They were sharing iPhone ear-pieces, jumping in front of each other joined by a thin white wire, laughing, their arms and legs mirroring each other, their pelvises together, dancing to the music of their universe in the lull of the afternoon.
His arms and legs were stiff and cold by the time the man with the bike locked up the garden hut and waved goodbye to his volunteers. It was a daily ritual driven by the seasons. Greet, dig, drink tea, dig, have lunch, dig, harvest, plant, bed. Archie envied him his connectedness to the land. The land that had to be humoured and fed, for it to give. Archie remembered how there used to be a season to war. How it would start in the spring after planting and end when the fighters had to go home for the harvest. The threat of starvation had been the biggest tyrant. Time limited the killing. Now war was supermarket fed; rows of gleaming freezers and wheat mountains served the new 24/7 warriors, who tore open chemically heated ready meals and kept fighting, never sheathing their swords. Death was gorged on his own food bank.
* * *
With evening, a mist descended over Edinburgh, as if the grey sky were a blind pulled down on the window of the view. A fine drizzle covered the plants with small glass beads, larger on cabbages than on grass. Archie ate some more berries, splashed his face at the stand-pipe and set off for Mike’s flat. He needed his bag of clothes, some food and to see a friendly face. There were a few people walking across the Meadows, their heads down behind umbrellas.
At Mike’s flat Archie climbed onto a bin, up onto the flat roof of the extension and caught hold of Mike’s kitchen window-sill. He pulled himself up, his arms trembling as they took his weight. Mike turned round as the window was pushed up, drawing back his arm to throw a glass at the intruder.
‘Oh,’ he said, as Archie levered himself over the sill. ‘Hello, Romeo.’
Romeo, alpha, bravo, foxtrot … Archie dismissed the call signs – heard the crackle of the radio in his ears, or the back of his mind, or wherever that memory sat, in the space that was inside and outside at the same time. He tuned it out. ‘Very funny,’ he said. ‘Shame you’re no beauty.’
Mike put his glass in the sink. ‘The police told me to phone 101 if you showed up,’ he said.
‘And are you going to?’ asked Archie.
‘I’m not a grass,’ he said. ‘I’m guessing you could use some food. You look like shit.’ He reached into his eternal bag of unpacked shopping on the counter. ‘Instant macaroni? Beans? Really push the boat out and have both?’
‘Both, please,’ said Archie. ‘I’ll pay you back. Do you mind if I go and get cleaned up?’ he asked.
Mike nodded, pouring the pasta into a plastic dish and adding water from a mug to microwave it.
There was no hot water from the bath tap so Archie climbed into the shower. A plastic duck with an eye patch stared at him from the soap dish as he washe
d. He towelled himself dry and wandered through to the alcove to get his SSRIs. There was no sign of them. ‘Where are my pills?’ he shouted, coming out into the kitchen.
‘Can you try not to look so fucking scary?’ asked Mike, and then pointed to his stomach. ‘I thought I’d give them a whirl,’ he said.
The Last Tour of Archie Forbes Page 13