Aijlan

by Andy Graham

  Rick groaned. “Stann, I’m sorry. I—”

  “Another excuse?” Stann placed the pen drive on the trunk, and pulled a battered packet of cigarettes from his pocket.

  “No, it’s just—”

  “Another excuse.”

  “Stann, please. You were best man at my wedding. Can’t we be civil? You named your son after my dad.”

  Stann nodded, lips twisted downwards. “I did, didn’t I? Donarth, Donarth Taille. Simple. None of this pretentious middle name crap.”

  “Stann, please, the pen drive.”

  Stann held up his hand. “Your family and mine go back to Green Fields, what my old man used to call Scream Fields. I’m surprised the blood lines have stayed separate for so long, but as far as I know the families have never intermarried.”

  Stann flicked a cigarette out of the pack. He rolled it between finger and thumb, leaving deep creases in the paper. The end flared red, and his gaunt cheeks hollowed as he took a long drag. “And as far as I’m concerned, they never will. I’m going to make sure of that if our two kids end up courting each other.” The smoke poured from his nostrils in matching grey streams.

  Both men lapsed into silence as a tractor chugged up the road from Old Town. Stann pinched the filter off the cigarette, and flicked it in the direction of Finn Hanzel’s pig.

  “Your dad stopped mine from beating me on more than one occasion,” Stann said, once the swirls of exhaust fumes had disappeared. “My old man told him to back off, keep his snout out of shit that didn’t concern him. Yours didn’t. Told him some things just shouldn’t happen. On one of those days, Dads took me to the pub, as part of my education. Two-thirds of a bottle of bathtub brandy into the evening he told me that there was no character flaw that couldn’t be compensated for by violence. That people used it as an excuse, as medicine. He said it was a way for people to ignore their own failures, that a fear of failure comes down to a fear of dying.”

  Stann picked at a stain on his trousers. “I’m not a genius like you, but I think Dads was all too well aware of his own mortality. He was obsessed with asking people their age, and made too many jokes once he hit forty that he was over halfway. I think that self-awareness was driving him to slowly poison himself.” Stann stood up in stages, pushing himself up from the low tree trunk with his hands. “My father was a very bright man. Had he been born to a family with the right bank account or surname behind him, he could have gone far. He was brilliant, but very flawed. I hope I don’t become like him. I’d rather just be average. I’ve decided that it’s best I avoid my Donarth just in case. And if I stay living in Tear, I can keep an eye on your Rose and keep her away from my family.”

  The last cloud fled as the sun got into its stride. Stann pulled his shirt away from his chest, a trail of smoke drifting up from his yellow fingernails. Patches of sweat were starting to appear on Rick’s shirt too; he could feel it dripping from his armpits.

  “Your old man was more of a father to me than mine, Rick, the last Franklin worthy of that surname. Naming my son after him was the least I could do for him.” He slipped the pen drive into his pocket. “I’ll keep your secret, take your evidence, and hide it. I’ll do the noble thing. ‘A Taille never turns tail nor tells tale,’” Stann quoted the family motto as he ground the cigarette butt on the trunk. He spat on the end to make sure it was completely out, and flicked it towards the pig. “Goodbye, Rick.” Stann jerked his thumb towards the road.

  “One more thing, Stann,” Rick said. He pulled the silk hanky from his pocket. “Can you give this to Rose? Tell her to hide it. Tell her I’ll be back when it’s safe to see them both.”

  Stann pocketed it without looking at it. “Anything else you want your little delivery boy to do?” he asked. The syllables were heavy in the sun-drenched air. “Any message for Thryn? I’d be happy to pass on a physical message, a kiss maybe.”

  Rick shook his head. “Don’t say that Stann, that’s not you. You’re trying too hard.” The other man spat on the floor.

  “And you still think you know me. You know nothing about me, Frederick Franklin.” He laughed, a harsh cackle that echoed back off the Arch Trees, and ended in a gurgling wheeze. The pig snorted and trotted into the tree line of the Weeping Wood. “And that’s what my dad used to say to me, another excuse to justify his behaviour. The man who claimed not to judge anyone as he lorded it over them from his bar stool with his snide one-liners and clever quotes.”

  “Tallest man syndrome.”

  “What?” Stann demanded, forehead puckering.

  “Got to be the best at everything, make something up if you don’t know the answer, that kind of thing,” Rick said.

  “Never heard of it, but it sounds about right. Dads always had to have the last word, the final put down to end all put downs. He bristled the moment he thought someone might not have anything less than a perfect opinion of him. And I’m beginning to wheel out his old cliches, react like he would have. Wonderful.”

  The bitterness twisting Stann’s face wrenched at Rick. They’d argued before, fought physically, but the cause had been forgotten long before any bruises had bloomed. He was using his old friend now, and hated himself for it. Putting Stann in a position he didn’t want to be in. Forcing him to deal with something he wasn’t ready for. But then, who was he to decide when Stann was ready to do anything? Maybe he didn’t know him as well as he thought.

  Rick held out his right hand. “Thank you, Stann, it means a lot to me.”

  The other man looked at him quizzically, all the bitterness wiped from his face in an instant. “I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for your dad. And your wife, the first woman I really fell in love with.” He glanced down at Rick’s hand. “Feels awkward, doesn’t it? Waiting for someone to shake your hand, not knowing if they will or not. How long do you hold it out for, hoping that they’ll shake it back? How do you quit without losing face?”

  Rick lowered his hand to his side.

  “Life’s too short to forgive, remember that, Frederick.” Stann’s face cracked into a crooked smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe I’ll start calling you Richard. That’s what Lieutenant Chel called you before you killed him. Richard Franklin. Has a nice ring to it, just like the ringing in my ears from the bomb that took my leg and hand. Just like the screams I hear every time I close my eyes, and the look on that girl’s face that I shot. I was so blood-drunk, I didn’t even know that pretty little thing was a girl until they showed me the picture.” Swann rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand. His voice was hoarse and quiet. “The army said the public would lynch me if they found out I’d skewered a dead girl’s eyeballs with my bayonet, that it was better for me to disappear. I bet they didn’t talk about that when they were honouring the hero of Castle Anwen.” Stann pulled out another roll-up, and turned his back on Rick. “I’ll pass on your messages, and stash your evidence, but get out of here. Now. Please.”

  Rick watched Stann’s chest heave for a few minutes, and then trudged to the jeep, the grass whipping at his ankles. Gripping the steering wheel, he prepared himself for the drive back to Aijlan-Karth, what he was going to say, and what was waiting for him. As he sped off, he saw Stann’s crutch leaning against a tree, out of sight of the playground.

  XXVII - Rigour Mortis

  Ornaments crowded together on a marble mantelpiece as if seeking safety in numbers. Maps and pictures decorated the walls, hiding the flaking paint. Some were crooked, not quite parallel with the lines of the floor and ceiling. Rick wasn’t sure if the pictures had been hung badly or the lines of the old building weren’t straight. He was going cross-eyed trying to work it out.

  It had taken him most of the day to get here. It hadn’t been easy, but it shouldn’t have been possible. Maybe the chaos of the revolution was working in his favour, or maybe the security systems were just substandard. A mixture of his reputation, implied favours, and veiled threats had got him this far. He’d dropped acronyms and names as fast as he could t
hink of them, sending out a silent thanks to Private Marka for telling him about VIPER. He’d finally resorted to using Beth’s name. Rick had wound his way through the damp tunnels she had led him down all those weeks ago, following the letter A marked on the walls. Captain Lacky had then led him up a long, twisting stone staircase, and shown him into the antechamber of the new presidential offices.

  The double doors swung open behind him.

  “Sir?” the captain said. “This way please.”

  Lacky gestured through a set of double doors, armed soldiers standing to either side. Rick thanked him, and got the hint of a smile in reply, one more line amongst the forest of wrinkles on the captain’s grizzled face. Adjusting his jacket, Rick stepped into the president’s office.

  The setting sun was already shimmering on the horizon, its heat still baking the city. Long spired shadows from the towers stretched across the capital like talons. They criss-crossed over the squat buildings that struggled for daylight amongst their taller brethren. The shadows reached over the River Karth. Beyond them, the sunlight glittered off the water, an infinite amount of constantly shifting flecks of light dancing and disappearing on the waves. On the far bank, still smouldering, stood the remains of the original city. Karth had been the capital of the country when Aijlan had been known as Selumor.

  The clock tower that towered over the home of the old parliament buildings was relatively unscathed. Rick remembered his dad bringing him to see the clock when he was a child. It had been called the submerged clock then. The bottom half had been filled with a deep blue water that sloshed gently as the hands ticked through it. The clock water had been gone for a few years now. Some wit had since renamed it the sunken clock.

  The tower housing the massive timepiece stood with quiet dignity as a single drone buzzed around it. On his journey up here, he’d heard that the decision had been taken to pull the military out of Karth. It was off limits, a dead zone.

  Luke Hamilton hunched over his desk, scribbling on a piece of paper. The nib snapped. He threw the pencil in a bin, and plucked a new one out of the cigar box next to his computer. After several long minutes, he pushed the paper aside and stood up. Brushing past Rick, he wandered over to a freshly polished drinks globe, leaving a trail of alcoholic vapours behind him.

  “Major Franklin,” said the new president.

  “Mr Hamilton.”

  “That’ll be President Hamilton, Major,” the president replied, pulling out a bottle. “But, please, stand at ease.” He placed the bottle back into the globe, and strolled back to his desk, moving with the grace of a man one step away from full-blown rigour mortis.

  Not even a well-tailored suit could hide Hamilton’s odd figure. His limbs seemed like they belonged on a much taller person. They stuck out of his round body like the figures Rose loved making out of conkers and matchsticks. His hair was lacquered back in immovable red-brown waves, and he had what Thryn had once described as a negative behind.

  Rick did as he was told, feeling the arteries in his neck beating against his collar. In basic training they’d been taught to keep their heads at the correct angle with pins sticking out of their collars, the sharpened steel pressing into their neck. There had been a penalty for anyone who got blood on their white shirt, no easy thing to avoid when you had spent the best part of a day standing at attention. Colonel Chester had campaigned to have this tradition banned. Now, feeling this man’s leech-like gaze crawling across him, Rick could almost feel blood trickling down from two pinpricks either side of his windpipe.

  “I understand you wanted to see me? Something about the revolution that only I could see.” Hamilton sat in his chair, the same model as Rick had been using in his little office.

  Hamilton turned his back on Rick, facing the view across the river. One foot tapped the rug in front of him, gently rocking the chair back and forth.

  Rick gripped his hands tighter, refusing to rise to the insult. “I’d like to see the president, sir, the real president.” He scratched at the wedding burns on his wrists, feeling one of his nails nick the skin.

  “Well, when you find him, please tell him to drop us a line. We have a lot of questions for him.” Hamilton chuckled and the tapping of his foot grew a little stronger, the chair rocking that tiny bit more.

  The tiny scratch on Rick’s wrist was smarting; he rubbed it with his thumb. The sweat stung. “No, sir. I don’t think you understand,” Rick said to the back of the man’s head. “I know he’s alive, and I know you know where he is. I have proof. I’ve seen the footage. The basement, the bodies: Dr Neumann, Josephus Pepika, Range Sergeant Jilji, and Private Marka from Rukan.”

  The chair stopped moving, the absence of the foot-tapping sound somehow louder than before.

  “Oh, come now, Major Franklin, Rick. I like a joke at someone else’s expense. It’s what makes a man a man. But this is just silly. Libellous, even.”

  “You got your finger stuck in the gurney, sir,” Rick said, eyes front. Those non-existent pins strafed at his neck.

  Silence settled across the room, cloaking them like mist. The chair turned in a tight circle. Hamilton scooted it over to the desk with a movement that was more of a jerk than a push. He tapped on the intercom set into the desk with a spindly finger.

  “Tell him he is needed, after all.” The intercom crackled off. Hamilton drained his glass, and walked over to the globe to refill it. Next to it was a high-backed Somerian chair. Carved figures with outsized tongues and genitals crawled all over the wood.

  The sound of a bottle clinking on glass grated on Rick’s ears.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing, Franklin,” Hamilton said, and raised his glass in a silent toast.

  XXVIII - Hydras

  Edward De Lette settled himself into the revolving chair. It creaked under his weight, the stiff fabric of the backrest stretching under his torso. The flickering lights set in brass sconces dimmed. The filaments gave off a sullen red glow, dust still visible on the curly glass tips. The bulbs were shaped like flames atop off-white plastic candles, complete with wax trains. It was a detail Rick found both unnecessary and irritating. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to clean them or pick the wax off.

  He had rehearsed his speech in the car after leaving Old Town, complete with hand gestures to punctuate the important points. De Lette had listened while Rick spoke, pushing the wooden cigar box that had been in his old office around with a pencil.

  The speech was over now. Rick couldn’t remember what he’d said, as if saying it had expunged it from his memory. His voice had sounded disjointed to him as he explained what he’d seen, what his demands were. He’d placed one word carefully after the other, taking long pauses between sentences to let the meaning sink in. He hoped the effect had been dramatic, rather than that of a child experimenting with its first lie.

  “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell us where this evidence of yours is? Nor what your backup plan entails?” De Lette asked. He ran a hand over his chin, patchy grey stubble sprouting out of his fleshy face.

  “No, sir.”

  De Lette clicked his teeth together. “The existence of that video is a problem that somebody is going to pay for. I should have trusted my instincts and gone nowhere near that basement room. No matter, done’s done.” He waved at the pseudo-president. “Get me a drink, Hamilton. Just one ice cube, this time.”

  The man did as he was told, filling the glass and shambling closer. His odd body was always one step away from falling over. De Lette took the glass off Hamilton without a word, eyes fixed on Rick.

  “I have a problem with your demands, Major,” said De Lette. “I didn’t instigate the revolution, as such. I merely supported the people who decided to stand up for their own, and gave modest financial support where needed to level the playing field. I was saving them. I can’t admit to what I didn’t do.”

  “Saving them from who, sir?”

  The president held his glass out to his junior. “I will have some more ice, after
all. Make sure the cube doesn’t crack when you drop it in. It ruins the flavour.”

  The other man squeezed his eyes shut. “Yes, sir,” he said, reaching for the glass.

  “Do you know much about politics, Franklin?” asked De Lette.

  Rick shook his head. He could feel the knots in the wooden floorboards under the thin rug, smell the dampness in the air, hear the sound of his own heart.

  De Lette smiled at him. “I guess not. You soldiers just fire where you’re pointed. Politics is the ultimate demonstration of humanity, of evolution; survival of the fittest at its finest. Revolution is no different. The seed is laid, germinates, sprouts, then bursts into vibrant, purposeful life. But by the time it withers and dies, it has been replaced by a new, stronger seed. The same happens in a revolution; by the time the people at the back end learn what is already old news at the front end, it’s too late. The goals and aims have shifted again, and the leaders fresh in the driving seat are now a target for the next rank of mutineers. So, a new wave of heads roll, often literally, and more eager victims step up to do the ‘right thing’, and the cycle continues. It’s always been done like this.”

  “Your point, sir?” Rick asked.

  The president paused, a smug grin spreading across his face. “I was never driving this revolution, at least visibly. And so I have quite neatly side-stepped this age-old problem. Heads may roll, but I will be watching, cheering from the side lines with the proletariat.”

  He gave himself a pat on the shoulder, and nodded for the glass to be put on the table. He laced his fingers together over his belly, his gaze following Hamilton as he slid back into the shadows.