by Patrick Ness
But then the questions, too: why motherhood so suddenly? Or was that just a question from the old Jacki, the mean one, the harpy (so Jacki had taken to envisioning her) who wanted the needle? Was this too much too soon? Was she just feeling good again, and thought that automatically meant that all the trouble she’d had with being a mother to two boys was just going to vanish? Was she giving in to simple irony that now that she’d stopped producing milk then that must be the signal to start feeling maternal again? And why would her boys even give her a chance after she had behaved so badly? What in blazes was she doing? Was she so far out on a limb that she was willing to try anything? Or did being on a limb free her? Which was it? Was there a right answer after all?
When the moment finally came, she didn’t think about it, finding herself suddenly dialing, and then doing everything she could not to pass out while it rang. She squatted down on her haunches and tried not to hyperventilate. Ring Ring. She was equally desperate that no one be there and that someone answer. Ring Ring. Maybe no one was home. Ring Ring. She could always call back, but the thought of gathering this courage all over again seemed momentarily unbearable.
—Hello?
Oh, my God.
—Hello.
—Yes?
The voice seemed out of breath.
—I’m sorry. Am I interrupting?
—No, it’s fine. I was out back. Who’s speaking, please?
Phrased politely, so it had to be Morton, the youngest, who would be what, fifteen? Sixteen? When was his last birthday? Her heart chilled in the few seconds that it took her to remember. She should have known immediately.
—Is that Morton?
—Yes. Who’s this?
Still friendly, still welcoming, still persisting in the question, one that opened up a landslide of answers. Mom? Jacki? Jacqueline Strell? Former prostitute, former drug addict, former slave to Thomas Banyon? Who was she now anyway?
—It’s, um … It’s—
—Yeah?
—It’s someone you know.
She winced. A stupid answer. You can’t get to the finish line and then stall, she told herself. Shit or get off the pot. A phrase, unbidden and unwelcome, that her ex-husband used to say with a cheeky grin on his face, waiting for someone to laugh.
—Who? I don’t really have time to guess. I’m doing yardwork.
Morton doing yardwork. Her sweet, sensitive youngest out in the yard with his flowerbeds and his vegetables and his shrubs and trees. A world that perplexed both brother and father, but one they nevertheless were a little in awe of as Morton coaxed all kinds of amazing beauty into their tiny yard. Jacki was suddenly overwhelmed with love for him. She placed a hand on the floor to steady herself. Whatever happened was whatever happened. She would move forward no matter what.
—Morton, it’s Mom. It’s your mother.
84. Triumph of the Will.
—You know, for someone who’s done precious goddamn little for this campaign, you’re sure throwing your weight around a lot.
—'Precious goddamn little'? Have you paid attention to anything, Thomas?
—I’m just saying your pushiness is getting a little boring.
—All I said was that you should have let me read the letter first before you sent it.
—It’s been a huge success. We’re getting a shitload of supportive phone calls.
—Phone calls mean nothing. All they reflect are the opinions of those crazy or lonely or annoyed enough to call. They are only tangentially connected to reality or how the city actually views you.
—It’s a success, Jon. The only reason you can’t see it is because you didn’t think of it.
—I didn’t think of it because it’s a bad idea, you overgrown bullock.
Thomas smiled. You were winning an argument if you could lower your opponent to name-calling. In fact, this whole exchange was turning into a great pleasure. A good opportunity to get out some aggression. He still didn’t have his own campaign office. He still had to memorize idiotic facts about idiotic subjects to impress slack-jawed crowds of idiotic voters. He was still spending copious amounts of money while this extremely rich pompous twat opposite him prattled on with his advice. It was time for someone to feel some heat, and if it was Jon then so much the better.
—I apologize for the name-calling.
Thomas frowned.
—You do?
—Yes, it was juvenile. We’re grown men. We should act like it.
—Fair enough.
—Also fair enough would be to run things by me, at least for an opinion, before splashing it before the eyes of every voter and, more importantly, every donor in this city.
—We’ve pulled in almost forty thousand since the letter ran.
—Thirty-seven thousand of that was already pre-arranged. By me. The remaining three thousand could be counted under regular daily donations. It proves nothing.
—It was more of a symbolic gesture. I was taking a stand.
—A suicidally unpopular stand.
—Now, there you’re wrong. Unpopular, yes, but it shows I’ve got guts. Plus, The Crash did kill that smelly pile of shit. I saw it happen.
—The trauma is obvious.
—Could you possibly come down from your superior tree for just one short conversation? It’s an unpopular stand. No shit. The Crash are an institution. But now they’ve killed someone. People aren’t going to know how to think about that. They’re going to wonder what to do. They’re going to wonder until someone tells them what to do. I’m there first. If we change their opinion, then Max, who is Crash Advocate-General, that fucking fake job he made up, he’s right in the cross hairs of public discontent. Check and checkmate.
—I’ll admit that the idea has some appeal—
—Thank you.
—But I don’t think it’s that clear-cut. You’re not absolutely sure you can swing the opinion.
—No one said it wasn’t a risk.
—My point is I could have helped you make it better if you’d had even the common courtesy to show it to me before you had it printed. And that was it, wasn’t it? You had it printed because Banyon Enterprises owns that paper, if I’m not mistaken.
—And your point?
—My point is that you looked like a buffoon.
—Now you go too far—
—No, Thomas, wrong. You looked like a half-literate moron in that letter, like an anti-intellectual jackanapes trying to stampede his way into power with all the finesse of a lovestruck buffalo.
Thomas smiled again. This was more like it.
—Why? What was wrong with it?
—Where do I start? How about the runaway capitalization?
—Emphasis.
—If you emphasize everything, then it just looks like you’re screaming. Plus, do you even know what a split infinitive is?
—No one gives a shit about split infinitives!
—Not consciously, but on some level, deep down, they can see that they don’t have to take you seriously.
—Wrong. Deep down, they can identify with me because they split fucking infinitives all the fucking time.
Oh, yes, this was turning into good fun. Jon’s face was apoplectically red. Thomas had never seen him this upset.
—Why do I even offer my help to you if you won’t take it?
—What do you mean not take it? I take your advice when I deem it worthwhile. You are an advisor on this journey, Jon, not the captain. That you keep forgetting is an unpleasantness that’s wearing on my patience.
Jon took a long, angry breath.
—I only want you to win, Thomas. Then you can do whatever the hell you like as Mayor. It’s only important to me that you win.
—Why? Why is it so important? We’ve come this far and you’ve said nothing except, ‘Oh, I have my own blessed reasons'. Well, out with them, Jon. Out with your bloody blessed reasons if you want to stay here and help me, Mr It’s-Only-Important-That-You-Win.
—My reasons are my own.
My help, which is more valuable than you can possibly understand, is what I offer.
—'More valuable than you can possibly understand'. Do you know how intolerable you sound when you say that?
Thomas leaned slowly back into his chair and reached into his pocket for a cigarillo. Before he got it to his lips, Jon smacked it to the floor.
—And quit smoking those goddamn things! You can’t be stoned and run a campaign!
—It’s a mild narcotic, Jon. Are you suddenly my mother? Because I’ve got news for you. She’s dead.
Jon cocked his head and was silent for a moment.
—I think this is just about enough, really.
—I beg your pardon?
—You’ll either win or you won’t. I no longer have any influence here, even though later on you’ll wish I did. I’ll still do what I can to see that you win, Thomas, even though you don’t remotely deserve it. But enough of this bullshit.
He stood from his chair.
—What do you mean?
—What do I mean? I mean you now command this boat alone. I’d wish you well if both of us didn’t already know that I wouldn’t mean it. Good day, Thomas.
Six brisk steps and he was out of the office. Thomas was astonished, and then he was pleased. What a nice day this had turned out to be. He couldn’t stop smiling even as he got down on his knees to look for the errant cigarillo.
85. Getting to the Bottom.
—I think I know what it is, Pastor.
—Come in, come in.
Jarvis was unnerved by both the ashen look on Mrs Bellingham’s face, a look he had only seen the once before when she related her disturbing dream to him (a memory that stirred up its own unsettling chain of thoughts) and by the fact that he had no need to ask her what ‘it’ she was referring to.
—Unburden yourself, Sister.
She looked surprised.
—That seems awfully formal, Jarvis.
—Sorry, Mrs Bellingham. I’m just on edge.
—And you think I’m not?
—Of course, of course, I—
—Forgive me, I’m wound up. I’m very upset.
—Tell me what’s bothering you, Sister.
She sighed deeply, as if she had at last found a place of rest after a long run.
—My friends Tova Kikaham and Evelyn Tottenham, you know them.
—Yes.
—Well, they paid me a visit this morning, which was unusual.
—Why unusual?
—Friends don’t really ‘drop by’ anymore, do they? You call on the phone. You see each other at church or out shopping or visiting someone on a birthday. You don’t ‘drop by'.
—I can see that.
—Can you? Good, because it didn’t feel right to me and I thought that was the reason. All I was sure of is that it felt strange.
—So I’m guessing it wasn’t a straight social call?
—I’m getting there. I’m sorry, that was curt. I’m just out of sorts.
—Take your time.
—I am. Sorry. Tova and Evelyn came by just after breakfast. They just knocked on the door, and when I answered it, they stood there like they were salesmen or something. It was very strange. I’ve never even had Tova Kikaham over to my house before, come to think of it. I just know her from church and that’s it. Evelyn’s been to a few dinner parties, I guess, but not for a while. Yet there they were, on my doorstep like they were going to offer me new carpeting. They had this look, this kind of eager look that I couldn’t figure out. This strange thing in the eyes, kind of spooky. I almost didn’t let them in, it shook me so.
—But you did?
—Of course! I couldn’t just slam the door on them, could I now? They sat on my couch, right on the edge, not leaning back, not relaxing at all. They wouldn’t take any coffee or cake that I offered, which was even stranger because you know Evelyn eats like a starved hyena. They just looked at me with their eyes all wet and sparkly, and I began to wonder who was getting married or having a baby. Then do you know what they said? They said, ‘Please sit down, Sister'. Sit down! Like I was visiting them.
She wrung her hands together tightly, and her eyes darted around the room. She seemed to be getting more upset as she went along.
—Can I get you something to drink, Mrs Bellingham? Coffee? I’ve got a teapot still warm from lunch.
—That would be nice, Father. I can’t believe how much this has unsettled me.
—I can tell. Sugar?
—And milk, yes. Thank you.
—Now slow down and just tell me everything they said to you. Take your time.
—Right. After they invited me to sit down like a guest in my own house, they started talking about Theophilus Velingtham.
—Ah.
—Yes, I know. I’ve never cared for the man either. Wields his faith like a blunderbuss, that one. No joy whatsoever.
—Well put, Sister.
—For the first ten minutes, it was Theophilus this and Theophilus that, like they were converts to a new Theophilus religion.
—That might not be too far from the truth, unfortunately.
—And then things got even more ominous. They started talking about ‘the dark wind’ and ‘the light wind'.
—The Book of Ultimates.
—Yes, even though you’d preached that wonderful sermon about it, it seems Theophilus is doing exactly what you’d warned against.
—The ruckus in church.
—Yes. There’s more. There’s someone else.
—Someone else?
—Apparently, Theophilus believes, and has gotten a bunch of other people to believe as well, that there’s someone in Hennington who is the prophesized ‘light wind'.
—You’re kidding.
—I wish I was. To see my own friends brainwashed or whatever it is that’s happened, talking like they’ve joined some terrifying cult, which I’m afraid is exactly what they have done.
—Theophilus believes that the light wind prophesized in the Book of Ultimates has arrived in Hennington as a man?
—Yes, the prophecy that you don’t even believe in. That I don’t even believe in. I agreed with every word of that sermon you did on Brandon Beach.
—Does Theophilus give a name to this person?
—It took Tova and Evelyn forever to get around to it, and they weren’t going to tell me even then, but I played along and finally got it out of them. It’s someone named Jon. They didn’t know his last name, but they know he’s working with Thomas Banyon to get him elected Mayor of Hennington.
—That’s … I can’t believe it.
—Do you know anything about this man? Have you heard of him?
—No, but Thomas Banyon?
—Yes.
—After all the awful things that man has done to the Rumour community?
—I know.
—All those lives destroyed at that horrible, souped-up brothel?
—I know.
—And Theophilus is saying that someone close to Thomas Banyon is the light wind that people should follow?
—There’s something worse than wrong about it. It’s almost evil. You should have seen their faces when they were talking. I tried to tell them exactly that about Thomas Banyon, but apparently Theophilus is hinting that it’s a front, that Thomas is the dark wind that this Jon person is going to blow away.
—I’m dumbfounded. I thought Theophilus was such an obvious lunatic that—
—It’s worse than we thought.
—They wanted you to … what? Join up?
—Something like that.
—What did you say?
—I said I supported the teachings of the pastor in my parish, like every good Bondulay parishioner should. Then I threw them out.
—Goodness.
—I was so upset, I came straight here. I had to tell you.
—Thank you for that, Mrs Bellingham. Thank you so much.
—Do you remember that dream I told you about?
—Oh,
yes. The one where your grandmother told you about someone or some force coming to Hennington, right?
—Yes. It seems she was right.
—I wish it weren’t true, but it looks like it is.
—What do we do, Pastor?
—First we pray. After that, I wish I knew.
86. The Debate.
[Selected, excerpts from the official transcript of the Hennington Mayoral Debate, moderated by Charles Jackson Foster, broadcast live from YYX3 Narrowcast Studios in St George, Hennington, 28 August, 7.00 p.m.]
Charles Jackson Foster: Opening statements, please, gentlemen. Mr Banyon?
Thomas Banyon: Thanks, Chuck. My Fellow Henningtonians. I stand before you tonight as a candidate for Mayor of our fair city. The Banyons have been residents and active members of Hennington society since the beginning of the Recent Histories. You all know the great achievements of my illustrious and respected father, Archie Banyon. Heck, half of you have worked for him at some time in your life. [Scattered laughter] Many of you have asked why I’m running for Mayor. It’s simple, really. I believe we’re at a turning point in the history of Hennington. Our Mayor is stepping down after twenty years in office. I’m sure you all join me in wishing her well. I hope you’ll also all join me in seizing this opportunity to put our city on track for a fresh start. The rigmarole is the same. You know it, and I know it. Our taxes could be lower, the government could be more efficient, unemployment has held steady at one rate for years and could be lower. These are all issues you know, and issues that I promise to tackle head-on with vigor. My opponent has been endorsed by Mayor Larsson and has worked all of his professional life in her office. What he promises, now that he’s changed his mind for a second time and decided to run, is more of the same. The same has been fine for twenty years now, but don’t you think we can do better? I do. That’s why I’m running for Mayor. With your help, I can make our great city even greater. Staying the course is no longer good enough.
CJF: Mr Latham.
Max Latham: Thank you very much, Charles. My fellow citizens, I believe in fate. I believe that sometimes destiny, or whatever higher power you individually choose to believe in, has plans for us that we shouldn’t question. It’s true, I had severe doubts about running for Mayor. As Mayor Larsson, my mentor and good friend, finally told me, if your heart isn’t in it one hundred per cent, then do the voters a favor and don’t run, because all of you out there deserve a Mayor whose heart and soul are committed to both the process and to the job. For a time there, mostly out of consideration for my ten-year-old daughter Talon, who I’m raising alone since the death of her mother, my heart and soul were not committed. So I withdrew, a decision I stand by as right at the time. I withdrew and waited with the rest of you to see who would come forward to run to replace the great Cora Larsson. It was only when Thomas Banyon became the sole entrant into the race that I reconsidered my position. The people of Hennington deserve a choice. You deserve a contested election that will pit different visions of our city against one another. And it is because I believe in my heart that my opponent’s vision for our city is so completely wrong, so much the antithesis of what has made Hennington great, that the fire in my heart and soul were rekindled. With the support of my daughter, who wants me to ‘win win win!’ [Scattered laughter] and with the support of Mayor Larsson, I chose to re-enter the race. I intend to race hard, and if elected, I intend to be the kind of Mayor that Hennington can be proud of.