Body Politic

by Paul Johnston

  It wasn’t long before I saw a guard vehicle pull up. A few moments later, my door burst open.

  “Really, citizen, you should be more careful. This music could start a riot.”

  “Why do you think I’m playing it, Davie?”

  “I brought you a couple of things.” He threw over a bottle of reasonable malt. “I owed you that from the Waverley, remember?”

  “Bit late. But not too late to open it.”

  It was mid-afternoon by the time we finished it.

  “How about it then?” Davie mumbled.

  “How about what?”

  “The job, asshole. Are you coming back into the directorate or not?” He pulled himself upright with difficulty. “I have a personal interest. You’d need an assistant.”

  “True.”

  “Am I going to get an answer?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I didn’t let you down, did I?”

  “No, Davie. What would I have done without you?”

  “Up yours.” He slumped down on the sofa again. “Pity about last night.”

  I nodded, thinking of Katharine and Amanda, still feeling an emptiness that the whisky hadn’t done much about. I looked out over the line of rooftops. The sky was the lightest shade of pale blue. Through the window came the roar of the crowd at the Friday afternoon execution. I wondered what had happened to Patsy Cameron. And if my mother had finished reorganising the Council. Was resurrection on the cards for the body politic? If there was enough new blood, I might be tempted to take the job. On my own terms.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” Davie said. “I got you this as well.”

  He tossed over a small plastic bag. It was an E-string for my guitar.

  I had to laugh.