We Float Upon a Painted Sea

by Christopher Connor

“What do you expect, the Greenland ice sheet melted, fucked up the North Atlantic thermal conveyor belt and devastated the vineyards of Southern Europe. What a fucking awful inconvenience for you. You probably ordered tonic wine by mistake,” said Bull unemotionally.

  Patrick shuffled to the bar, leaving Bull alone with his thoughts. More large drones passed overhead. Bull ignored them, concentrating on his cigarette disintegrating in the rain. Patrick returned with a glass of beer. Looking back up to the sky, he said,

  “Something is going on. Lots of military UAV’s today, more than usual anyway.” He tasted his drink cautiously and then stated,

  “I ordered bitter, this isn’t bitter.”

  “They don’t call it bitter in Scotland, they call it heavy.”

  “So what do they call lager?”

  “Lager, only they say it much quicker than we do.” Patrick went back to the bar. Bull shouted after him, “Try not to insult anyone.” Finally, Patrick returned with a single malt whisky. He sipped it and smiling with approval he said,

  “She could have disappeared. People get snatched off the street all the time, particularly anarchists and hippy types like Saffron.”

  “No, she left of her own accord. She left me a note and told me she was leaving me, and taking Boris with her.” A thin smile spread across Patrick’s lips. He said,

  “Being honest about her new lover, you have to admire that.”

  “No, Patrick, Boris is our Terrapin, Maurice is her new lover.”

  “You have to adapt brother, its evolution – those who adapt survive and those who don’t perish. Change is a natural progression.”

  “I don’t want change. We were meant to be together. We were joined at the hip, like Siamese twins,” sobbed Bull.

  “You mean conjoined twins. You didn’t actually wish to share the same internal organs with each other, although, if you did it would have been much harder for her to leave you.” Bull blushed with frustration and then groaned as if in pain. He said,

  “Is this an attempt at humour, Patrick? It’s not working. How would you feel if you came home one day and the wife had left you?” Patrick thought about the breakdown of his marriage. He thought back to the elation he had felt after the wedding, it was like an aura he carried around with him, until a perpetual fog of disenchantment had engulfed him. He thought of the lonely nights he had endured sleeping in the spare room, the frosty silences between him and his wife and the feeling that his children had turned against him. But what infuriated him most was the prospect of having to move out of his family home. He had already viewed a number of flats, all homogenised bachelor pads with 4D printer furniture, downloadable from Ikea.

  Patrick put his hand on his brother’s wet shoulder and said,

  “I’m just being honest. Anyway, isn’t it you who always evangelizes on the subject of humour being the finest remedy when life goes tits up – well that’s what you said to Deirdre when she found out that her boyfriend, Thomas, from the margarine factory in Eccles, was cheating on her. Didn’t you say, some guys just liked to spread their love more than others and that you were utterly butterly devastated for her. So don’t criticise me for serving you up some of your own medicine. I’m sorry she left you brother, I really am, but a dose of realism is what you need right now.”

  “I suppose you’re right. I just didn’t see it coming. She had been spending quite a bit of time with Maurice – a French photographer. We were going through a rough patch but out of the blue, I get a letter telling me it’s over?” Bull handed his brother the note Saffron had left him. Patrick studied both sides of the piece of paper and said,

  “You don’t see many of these anymore. Did the digital revolution pass her by?”

  “I don’t think so, she knows her way around a computer. Once I had a problem with some software I was running and she resolved it like she was fixing a children’s puzzle. She just doesn’t like digital methods of communicating. I think she might have been a hacker in her past life and maybe that’s why she doesn’t trust computer networks, mail servers or the internet. She doesn’t wear a Shackle, use Bitcoins or use even the internet. She doesn’t even own a toaster.”

  Patrick wasn’t listening to Bull; he was rubbing his chin and reading the note. Finally, he said,

  “She likes her metaphors doesn’t she? I suppose it makes a change from the usual drivel.”

  “What do you mean?” Patrick affected a whining voice,

  “It’s me, not you, or its just not working out the way I thought it would, or I’m changing into something I’ve always despised, or you’re a pig and you disgust me...” Patrick crouched down. He looked into Bull’s face to see any reaction, but detected only grief. He said,

  “Relationships end, it’s a fact of life, just enjoy them while they last. At least she was honest enough to explain her feelings to you in a letter.” Bull rubbed his forehead. He felt the onset of a migraine. Finally, he said,

  “Thanks for rushing up here from Cheshire to be by my side.”

  “I didn’t rush up here to be by your side, Faerrleah. I’ve got a meeting with PricewaterhouseCoopers in Glasgow. I was busy packing when you called me last night.”

  “Thanks anyway.”

  Patrick sipped his malt whisky, casting his glance across the city and to the rows of grey high-rise flats, their rooftops lost in the low lying cloud. Each building paraded a large brightly coloured number for aerial identification. To the south of the city he could see thick black smoke rising from several locations. Police sirens wailed in the distance. Patrick said,

  “Saffron was right about one thing: we all have a part to play, even if we are only tiny cogs in a greater machine.”

  “Saffron said that to you?”

  “No, it’s in the note.”

  “She is right isn’t she? We are just cogs in a machine.”

  “You’re not Faerrleah. You’re like a spanner in the works. Look, are you sure you wouldn’t rather come inside where it’s warmer and dryer?”

  “No I’m fine. I’ll take my chances in the rain.” Patrick sat down on the bench and shifted closer until his umbrella covered both of them. The beer garden was flooding. They were the only people foolish enough to be braving the rain. Bull listened to the muffled sound of the rain thumping against the shelter of the umbrella. A moment of calm washed over him in his impromptu shelter. Patrick said,

  “Why didn’t you call Deirdre? She’s usually better with these delicate matters than I am.”

  “I did but she’s doing double shifts at the hospital.”

  “Treating all the injured from the riots, most likely. The trouble seems to have reached Glasgow by the look of things. There’s black smoke rising in the south of the city. It’s spreading.”

  “What is?”

  “The riots. Haven’t you been watching the news? The curfew is being rolled out across the country. It’s not just London anymore. They say we’re at war, a cyber war. That’s why I had to drive up to Glasgow; our network was hacked. The news said that the national grid, transport and military networks have all come under attack.”

  “Who said?”

  “The woman who reads the news...”

  “What would she know about it?”

  “She’s not some investigative journalist who broke cover to spill the beans on a big story, you know. She just reads what’s in front of her. There’s no point having a go at the woman.”

  “Sounds like you have a crush on her.” Patrick sighed. He said,

  “What if I do? She’s very attractive. I can’t believe I’m the first person to tell you this. Have you not heard about the last set of floods in Europe? The world is turning to shit. Scientists are saying there is no way back and the planet will be unrecognisable within our lifetime. Things are looking bleak. The word extinction is being used quite a lot.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I am telling you about it. Where have you been living, in a cave? You certainly look like you have been
.”

  “Well I’ve been a wee bit preoccupied. I haven’t had much time to watch the news.”

  “Or shave or eat or sleep or take a bath by the looks of it.”

  Patrick brought up some news feeds on his Shackle and tried to show them to his brother. Bull grunted and looked away. They sat in silence. Finally, Patrick said,

  “What about Dad. Did you tell him Saffron dumped you and ran off with a good looking French bloke?”

  “I never said he was good looking.”

  “The French are always better looking. They are sensitive lovers and fantastic cooks.” Bull buried his head in his hands and then drained the last of his beer. He stared at Patrick with sceptical eyes. Patrick grimace sheepishly and then said, “What did he say?”

  “Dad said things are tough and the world was cruel and I need to move with the times. Then he banged on about the plight of the Levellers after the English Civil War. You know what he’s like – he has a tendency to start talking about historical tragedies rather than personal tragedies to avoid engaging on an emotional level.”

  “He’s right, Faerrleah. You need to stop crying into your beer and get moving on with your own life. Saffron and Boris will be moving on with their lives and that’s for sure.”

  “You mean Maurice.” Bull’s voice trembled with self pity. Patrick stared into Bull’s bloodshot eyes and said,

  “Sorry, I meant Maurice. Look, you don’t even know she left with this Frenchman. There’s no mention of him in her note. Maybe you are just focusing your resentment at him in preference to where the real problem lies.”

  “And where is that?”

  “The problem lies with you. You deceived her.” Bull froze and then gave Patrick an aberrant look. He remembered his alcohol induced discussion with him on the phone. Bull said,

  “I see you brought your umbrella. Good. Can I borrow it for a moment?” With a baffled look, Patrick handed over the umbrella and watched as his brother withdrew a container from his rucksack. He began spraying the fabric. Patrick protested,

  “What are you doing to my brolly? These are hard to come by these days.” When he was satisfied with his work, Bull attached a magnetic clip to the metal shaft of the umbrella and then handed it back to his brother.

  “What was all that about?”

  “Did you know that Umbra is Latin for shadow?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Did you know that parasol derives from the French parare which means to shield?”

  “Ok, Faerrleah, no more booze for you.” Bull tried to force a smile as he held the canister up. He whispered,

  “This is an electromagnetic spray so what I’m about to tell you can’t be detected by surveillance drones or satellites and this device scrambles sound waves.” Patrick put his hand on his brother’s shoulder and whispered back,

  “I need to know one or two things before I allow you to proceed. Has your spray ruined my brolly? Are you going to buy me a new one?” Bull’s face slumped. He said,

  “This is serious Patrick. I’ve been lying…”

  “I know, you told me about your lie. You told Saffron you were overseeing flood prevention projects around the planet, but you were in actual fact working for the fossil fuel industry.”

  “I wanted to tell her...”

  “Tell her that in reality you were involved in the methane hydrate extraction and that instead of protecting lives from flooding you were involved in drilling ventures in the Arctic. That you are part of the capitalist system, that you were aiding corporations implicated with accelerating climate change, that you were in part responsible for trampling over vulnerable communities and devastating their environment. Yeah, considering her beliefs, that might have been difficult to explain.”

  “I wasn’t advising fossil fuel companies on drilling methods and procedures. I wasn’t even working for them.” Patrick’s face stood to attention.

  “I thought you said you were working for some engineering company who kept sending you to the Arctic?”

  Bull sat his glass on the table and rubbed the temples of his head.

  “This is the lie I’ve been trying to tell you.” Patrick’s face stiffened.

  “Go on,” said Patrick peering into Bull’s eyes.

  “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I need to speak to someone. I’m going to go mad by bottling all this up inside.” Bull took a deep breath. Under his brother’s umbrella he felt a strange sensation, like he was inside a makeshift confessional box.

  “Go on,” said Patrick, but this time with more force in his voice.

  “Do you remember when I got sacked from the BAe Systems for disclosing sensitive information to the Press?” Patrick nodded his head and listened to his brother intently for the first time. “Well,” continued Bull, “It wasn’t sensitive information, it was classified information and I wasn’t sacked, I was convicted and ready to go to prison but I was offered a conditional reprieve.”

  “What sensitive, sorry classified information?”

  “I can’t tell you. At first they threaten me. They put me in a MoDs prison and wouldn’t allow me access to a lawyer. They said they were going to make me disappear and that it happens all the time. I didn’t budge but then they threatened the family. They showed me surveillance information they had gathered on you, the kids, Dad and Deirdre and said they could destroy your lives over night if I didn’t cooperate.”

  “Fuckers. So how did you wriggle out of it?”

  “They offered me a deal. I was to work as a Filter for the Defence Intelligence Committee, part of the MoDs. They work out of GCHQ in Cheltenham. I had one job to do and at the time it seemed pretty straightforward. I had to infiltrate the environmental protest movement.” Tears began to well up in Bull’s eyes, but with them came a perverse sense of relief that after years of secrecy and deception he could finally come clean. Bull continued, “They said that some of the groups had links to underground anarchist organisations, which were a threat to national security. I went to a rally on Kelvin Grove and it was there I met Saffron. She was the leader of a protest group but they were relatively minor - a bunch of students and peaceful intellectuals who like to demonstrate, smash up the odd animal testing facility and indulge in the odd bit of graffiti. I wasn’t recalled so I just continued with life, almost forgetting what I was doing. I think I got in way over my head.” There was a moment of silence. Bull looked at Patrick’s confused face, eagerly awaiting his penance. Eventually, Patrick said,

  “I don’t know what to say Faerrleah? I don’t know what to believe with you anymore. Are you like an informant? What about the engineering company you have been working for? How do they come into it?”

  “This is where it gets really complicated. The Green Movement contacted me through one of Saffron’s friends and asked me to apply for a job as a hydraulic computer modeller. The company is contracted by Gazprom who are drilling for methane hydrate in the Arctic. I got the job and I’ve been manipulating data and supplying them with duff information ever since. We’ve scuppered most of their drilling activities in the Arctic, but it won’t be long before we’re caught out.”

  “Impressive. So they just accept everything you say at face value?”

  “Fuck no, my findings are verified by other modellers who are also GM people, but even if they find a discrepancy, it delays the process and gives the ELF’s enough time to arrange a sabotage operation.” Patrick scratched his head. He said,

  “Are you on medication Faerrleah? Who are the ELF’s?”

  “The Earth Liberation Front.”

  “Never heard of them.”

  “Nobody has heard of them because every attack they carry out on gas pipelines or rigs are blamed on Islamic State or Al-kabab or whatever.”

  “It’s Al-Shabaab. You’re not very good at this are you Faerrleah?”

  “It’s close to lunchtime and I’ve sunk a few lagers - get off my case. They are the military wing of the GM but it’s always denied. Most of th
em are ex-military who have become disillusioned with the system. They’re not the type of people to be messed with. They are very secretive – very well funded and impossible to penetrate. A few Filters tried and have never been seen again.”

  “Does Saffron know what you have been up to?”

  “No. I wanted to tell her but it might have put her at risk.” Patrick scratched the side of his head. His face was contorted and his eyes darted around from side to side as if looking for something to settle on. Finally, he said,

  “What are your real employers going to say about your extra curriculum activities?”

  “There was no remit other than being involved with the GM. I had carte blanche to do as I wanted.”

  “Hence the pony tail, earrings and tattoos? And I thought you were having a midlife crisis. So what is the end game? I take it your employers don’t come round one day, rap on your door, sit you down and ask you some questions over a nice pot of tea?” Bull grimaced,

  “They use a FMRI – a brain scan. In the original briefing I was told to go deep, it didn’t matter how or what I did, only that I penetrated them.”

  “I think you’ve been doing your fair share of penetrating for king and country, Faerrleah.”

  “That’s a bit harsh, Patrick. I didn’t ask for this.”

  “Fuck me Faerrleah! How the hell did you get yourself trapped in this web? Why would you introduce her to the family if you were a Filter, isn’t that a bit of a dumb thing to do, or were you penetrating us too? What about this conversation, will that come out in the brain scan?” Bull rubbed his temple lobes with his forefingers. He said,

  “I’m sorry, I really am, but contact with family members was part of the procedure. In the past, when the Metropolitan Police used to infiltrate anarchist groups, their informants all had the same profile – they were only children or orphans with no friends or family. They had no baggage, so no way of being traced, but most of them eventually got sniffed out.”

  “That was wrong Faerrleah - you shouldn’t have got your family involved. You might have put us at risk.”