

LONDON WHEN IT RAINS

C.SeanMcGee

London When it Rains

Copyright© Cian Sean McGee

CSM Publishing

Published at Smashwords

Araraquara, São Paulo, Brazil 2016

First Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means including photocopying, recording, scanning or digital information storage and retrieval without permission from the author.

# I

"So what happens now?" asked The Old Man, looking clearly uncomfortable and not at all sure what he should say or do next.

The Manager scratched away at her notepad and said nothing; not a word. There was just the grating sound as the nib of her pencil ground away under the weight of her authority. It didn't sound promising and it was worsened by how mean her face looked - scrunched into an unpleasant scowl. She looked as if she were being berated, mocked, or offended by whatever it was that she was writing. She didn't look disinterested - not in the slightest. She looked disgusted, disheartened, and dismayed.

No, none of this was promising.

The Old Man stared at the clock that hung above the door. The minute hand hadn't moved since a quarter to nine; and the second hand was caught in some rhythmic spasm, jerking back and forth between the same goddamn second. How long was this going to take? How long had he been here? If he were to die right now, who would feed his cat? He wished he had the courage to just get up and leave.

He wished, but he hadn't.

"Do you have any questions," asked The Manager.

Her page was full of scribbles and geometric doodles. There were hundreds of notes, maybe even thousands but there was not a single answer to any one of her questions. Still, The Old Man breathed a sigh of relief.

"Yes," he said, thinking he had already born the worse.

The Manager put down her pen and turned her attention to tired looking man before her. She tilted her head ever so slightly to the right as if she were leaning into the apex of her avid concentration.

"What do think happens when we die?"

She smiled. Maybe she wasn't expecting such a rudimentary idea.

"We cease to exist," she said, plainly.

It was a tone that did not exaggerate because it did not have to.

"Do you believe that there could be more after life?"

"I believe that there is a great deal more in life that we are yet to discover and a great deal more to explore. I believe that there are depths of perception and physical dimensions that at the moment are merely theoretical, but that the human race will one day acquire and traverse with as much normality as we do in crossing the once impassable mountains and seas at the merry whim of our evolving and explorative ingenuity. But death is death. Inexistence is not figurative, nor is it explorative; it is definitive."

"Do you believe that there could be some kind of order – like a centre to the universe, a point from which all life expands? But one that is outside of time and space."

"Inexistence?"

Now it was her that looked confused.

"God," he said.

She gave him a look. It was the kind of look you gave to crazy old men, the kind that had just lost their wives and been abandoned by their children, that, like mangy old dogs, wandered about purposeless, cursing and ranting about how things used to be and how terribly they had changed; and who behind their barking mad personas, wanted nothing more than some quiet attention, and maybe a cup of tea or a scratch behind the ear.

"Which one?" she asked.

It was obvious that she was well read. You could see it in how her head tilted to the left as if her creative and imaginary side were now dominant and limbering itself to stretch and exaggerate at its own merry and poetic will. I bet if he asked her, she could name them all.

"Any," replied The Old Man.

It was hard to read his indifference. He sounded like any sound and rationale person who - for some unforeseen reason - was asking a completely unsound and irrational question. Maybe there were too many gods from which he could choose. Maybe it was something else; something he would prefer to keep a secret.

The Manager looked over her shoulder before she spoke. An air of apprehension settled on her skin. The tiny hairs on her arm stood up on end; as did those on the back of her neck. She was scared, and she every right to be.

"I'm sorry," said The Old Man. "It was a terrible question to ask. I didn't mean to question your character. I humbly apologise."

"It's fine," she said, cutting his words short so as to quickly compose herself before his rambling apology exposed how she really felt. "I read a lot when I was a child. Mostly about windmills and freight trains, and a little on aerodynamics; but I was always interested in ancient cultures and the mythology that died along with them. I must confess," she said, now straightening herself up so it was almost impossible to know if she were telling a lie or the truth. "I preferred the primitive mythology; where the upper-worlds and under-worlds ran like factories with a god at the helm of each department of mankind's dire wishfulness. Though I can't imagine it myself, I can understand how all those cultures gambled their civilisations on continuity."

"Would you trade it?"

"Trade what?"

"Where the hell was he going with this?" she thought, "The crazy old bastard."

"Inexistence for eternity," he said. "Nothing for everything; and the physical for the spiritual - that which lies outside of time and space."

"The contrary to life is not eternity. The contrary to life is death. The contrary to eternity would be if it were a plausible premise, inexistence. But you and I exist and we will most certainly one day die."

"Some sooner than others," said The Old Man.

"So if there is life, what we experience now, then the contrary to that we know is death. It is inexistence. It is simple binary. The opposite of one is zero. The opposite of two is zero, and the opposite of one trillion is zero. No matter the size of the number or the measure of the mass; its absolute contrary is zero. And life is no different. There is existence and then there is inexistence. Zero and one. There cannot be an afterlife - if for the simple fact that we exist."

"But would you?"

"Would I what?"

"Would you trade inexistence for eternity?"

Her heart was starting to flutter and thump, and she could have sworn it skipped a beat. She didn't dare turn to the door, though, lest that give her away.

"Would you?" she asked, turning the tables.

"No," he said.

"Are you sure?"

"No," he said again.

She didn't look at him, she couldn't. Instead, she licked the point of her pencil and for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, she wrote a word. They both sat there silent for some time – she; staring at the word on her page and him; dying to know what it was.

"Was that a trick question?"

The Old Man sounded nervous. No, nerves would suggest there was something at stake; that he was building to some expectant conclusion. No, he wasn't nervous. He was impatient.

"There is no God," said The Manager.

Her tone suggested that this was something he should have known.

"And there's no Devil too. There are no angels or demons. There is no Valhalla, no Eden and there is no Aaru. And there is no Heaven, just as there is most certainly no such place as Hell – outside of fables."

"Well then, what is there?"

He cursed himself for being old – for how he clung to tradition.

"There's nothing."

"Nothing at all?"

He knew the answer but he wanted to hear her say it.

"Nothing," she said.

Her look was still and expressionless. It wasn't wrinkled or contorted by factless opinion. Her eyes were not glassy. Her face didn't redden. And her voice was calm and helpful for that matter; as if she were stating an absolute truth – which of course she was. There wasn't even a hint of debate in how she sat or in how she spoke. The questions he asked did not rile, and they did not get under her skin.

"How can you be so sure?"

What an absurd question.

"We really should get back on track," she said.

"But I still don't know if I want the job or not."

"Well, then why are you here?"

There didn't seem to be an appropriate answer – nothing that he could have said off the cuff anyway. And even if there was, would it really matter?

"Can anyone answer that question?" he asked.

"Yes, yes they can. Because they're all here for a reason, Erik, even you."

The Old Man looked at his left breast.

"That's not me," he said stuttering. "Well, I mean, I'm not him...I..."

He looked lost, as if he had just discovered evidence of an hour in the day that he had – until this point in his life – not known existed.

"I must have picked it up," he said, twisting the name badge. "Sorry."

The Manager made a mark on her page. It looked as if she had scratched something out. The Old Man wondered what that could have been. What is more favourable or not, now that he was no longer who she thought him to be?

"Whether you know it or not, you have a purpose and it's no accident that you're here right now at this point in time."

"Then what's my purpose?"

"That's for you to tell me."

"Well, what did the others say?"

"Ambition, obligation, necessity. They are all here to either serve themselves or someone else. But they all have direction. They all adhere to a fitting purpose."

"Why should I have a purpose if life itself has none?"

"A life is defined as having been lived, Erik."

She stared oddly at the name badge on his chest once more.

"Silly old fool," she thought.

"Then why am I here?"

"I don't know."

There was an awkward silence. It was maybe a second or two before The Old Man got up and thanked the lady for her time, and then apologised to her for the things that he had said. What a horribly uncomfortable second it was.

"If you like....."

The Old Man turned.

"Take this with you," she said, handing him a half torn piece of paper. "It's good for one large order of fries."

The Old Man smiled and tipped his hat.

"What is your name?"

"I'm not sure that it matters anymore," said The Old Man, closing the door.

# II

It was the year 6 N.E, and it was any particular day really. The weather was fair - as it generally was at this time of year, and downtown was a flurry with people looking busy, doing exactly what busy people did. There was a great deal of cussing going on, just as there were gestures that could easily be taken the wrong way. The sidewalks were more tussle than they were bustle, and they required a great deal of patience, courage, and grit just to get where one hoped they were going.

Traffic was at a standstill too, and that had a lot to do with the commotion that was building only two blocks away. Then again, traffic was always at a standstill in this city. That you could count on. The trains, trams, and buses ran late without fail; and there was always a car or a truck broken down in the right lane. There'd be a flat tyre or an engine would have caught on fire, or it'd just be stopped for no good reason at all. Yeah, traffic was always at a standstill – always. It seemed like nobody was ever getting anywhere on time.

But it was the year 6 N.E and it was a grand era; one built on the backbone of promise and praise. It was one of wilful determination – for a city to strive to do good for its people, and for its people to do the very best they could for every new era to come. It was an era of presence and accountability. It was one of cause and prescribed effect. It was an era that not only embraced change, but it was one that sought it out; wishing to distance itself from the tumultuous events that had transpired barely a decade before. It was an era of hard work and austerity, and it was one of little reward for such taxing compromise. But it was an era which was so unlike any before it; and by its own definition, different from any that it would beget. It was an era that promised to be just and humane; not only to those who voted it in but to the generations to come whose votes had yet to be heard. It was a grand era indeed – one of untold potential; but in the year 6 N.E, it was a new era that had failed to deliver upon any of its elected promises.

"For six years we have seen this administration do little more than coddle and favour those whose actions, thoughts and principles were the very reason that we – as civilised, secular people – were driven to point of absolute extinction. For six years we have seen promise after promise being labelled with excuse after excuse. War and famine are still epidemic; disease is rampant, and the gaps in the social divide continue to forever widen. Unemployment is at the worst since before the new era. I see factories closing every day. That's honest and hardworking people like you – people with families; people with lives at stake – being thrown out onto the street with not a penny in their pockets to put up food for their families, or even get the last bus home. So where are our taxes going? It's not going to roads. It's not going to the rail. And it sure as hell ain't going to the schools or to the hospitals. And none of it is going back in your pocket. So where is it? After six long years – six arid years – what do we have to reap? Where is the fruit of our labour? Where is the promised and goodly end that justifies this seemingly endless tirade of sacrificial means? Where have our taxes gone? Do you have them? Do you?"

The Orator stood on a stage that had been built on the steps of City Hall. He wasn't a handsome man, but he wasn't unattractive either. He was average build and average height and had a face that was as common as any other. Were he not on the stage, he would be barely distinguishable from the faces that stared wide-eyed and hungered upon his every word. He wore plain black clothes that were neither impressive nor drab; and his hair was trimmed – practically short.

Behind him, members of The Administration piled up at each window, eyeing -with a great deal of caution and dread - the ruckus and commotion that was going on below. They looked like a pack of small, harmless critters, crammed into the last rotting tree, watching as a great and wrecking fire swept up below them.

The Orator looked like any of his followers. He did not have any striking features or any eccentric demeanours. He was as common as common could be. But what did differ about him was how he spoke and how – in the midst of delivering even the banalest passage – he seemed indomitable as if nothing on Earth – nothing man made at least – would ever be able to quench the inferno that raged in his heart.

He stalked the stage; pacing back and forth. And when he said 'you', you can be sure that he was pointing right at you and that he wasn't speaking to the 'you' as a collective; he was going one by one and he was speaking to each and every person whose eyes met his, and he cursed like a madmen at those whose didn't. But that was rare; for even those who were in absolute discord to the fervour of his ideas were inexplicably drawn to his discourse - whether it be at their doorstep or on the other side of the world.

When he spoke, a certain kind of magic happened.

"Your money, my money, all of our money has been spent on rehabilitating the very people whose senseless endeavours wreaked havoc on our economy and our society as a whole. A vote was cast. We all voted. Even they," he said, turning his attention to the worrisome faces cramming up the windows in the building behind. "They voted too. We all did. We voted for a new way – a society on moral and rational intellect; one of just goodness that is abated from the scourge of fear and superstition – a society and an ordering rule that does not discriminate. And yet why is it, after six arduous years, all we see is the opening of more rehab centres and the closing of emergency rooms? There is more palliative care in religious deprogramming right now than there is in paediatric oncology. And I don't blame the doctors, I don't. They're being poached by this guilt-laden administration whose focus is only on securing votes and keeping themselves in office. How is it that all this money is spent on helping the very people who caused our near demise, and yet we - who were this way from the beginning and who stepped in when our race needed it most - we are not only offered nothing, we are left with nothing? Where is our coddling? Where is our just reward? Are we not the ideal? Well? Aren't we? Then why are we treated like peons? Why are our days forever potentially numbered? Why do our feet ache as if we've walked to the ends of the earth only to be told to move to the back of the line? Why do our hands sting as if we have been toiling day and night, picking thorns from flowers for those who despise us and for centuries, kept us enslaved to their contemptuous and vengeful ways? And why are our hearts constantly breaking every time we have to tell our children that we are unfortunate for having been right all along? Why do we go without so that they can have so much? Why? Why? Why do we – the right and just citizens – pay the toll? Why?"

He turned to The Administration building.

"No more," he shouted, pointing his finger to the eighth floor. "No more."

And then, those two words became a mantra or a call to war as thousands of red-faced and vein bulging followers joined him in throwing their rights hands back and forth like swinging axes – pointing their jagged fingers at the only window on the eighth floor.

"No more," they chanted, over and over. "No more."

It was deafening at first, but it quickly turned hypnotic.

From inside their offices, members of The Administration stared out of their windows, dumbstruck as the chanting grew louder and louder, and along with it, the threat of imminent danger.

"What should we do?" said one party member to another.

"I've no idea," said the other in return. "Police? Army?"

In the only room on the eighth floor, The Administrator paced back and forth racking her brain for some type of a quick fix to this furore – to this spiralling polemic. No amount of pacing would suffice, though, for she was not a woman of quick fixes.

"Am I wrong?" she asked, or stated; no one in the room could tell.

"Nobody could have predicted how fast they grew, Mam. This is not anything that any of us could have envisioned. It's..."

"It's absurd," she said.

"It's absurd," they all agreed.

"Have I not met each and every one of my promises?"

She was stopped now and staring out the window at the tens of thousands of protestors below her window – a number which had already grown to dangerous proportion and which grew in scores with every passing second.

"Mam, the people aren't interested in the good you have done and in the promises you have kept. They're only concerned about the ones you haven't, and in their eyes, those failed promises are to blame for the conditions and outcomes of their lives which are out of your control. You're the reason they have no money in the bank; not because they're reckless and ignorant in how they spend other people's money or in how they reward themselves for great things that they have yet to even start. Right now, at this fever pitch; the fault is not in the banks for lending them money and it's not in their bastard employers for making them work so much to pay it all back. No, the fault is entirely yours and because of your moderate policies. They blame you for everything. They blame you for the state of their affairs. They blame you for the way that they look. They blame you for ageing and they blame you for being too damn young. They blame you for their cheating husbands and they blame you for their disinterested wives. They blame you for their jobs; their uneven haircuts; their disobedient children and in the end, they blame you for their laughable lives. They blame you for all the decisions they have made that have absolutely nothing to do with you or your policies."

"They wanted everything to change overnight. They thought that," she said, staring straight down at her foe who was cursing on his podium and looking right back in her eyes. "Look, it takes time for change. Why the hell can't people get that?"

"It's been six years."

"And?"

"Well, I think people are asking...How long will they have to wait?"

"How long is a piece of string?"

"You do understand their frustration, though, Mam?"

Her aide waited for her response.

"I know too well," she said, her eyes falling upon a building across the street; one whose sign was barely visible from the plumes of black smoke the poured out from inside it.

"At the end of this, in the ideal era, who will be changed? What will be different?"

The Administrator turned sternly to her aide.

"We will. All of us. We will be better. We will be improved. The human race will be improved; and because of it, so too will everything that we touch or encounter."

She turned back to the window.

"I can empathise with their frustrations," said The Aide, though he looked in the opposite direction. "We were them. They were once moderate, like us. And it's true, they did vote in this change. But that's it, you see. Up until now, the change hasn't been about them, has it?"

"The change has been for them."

"Yes, but it hasn't been about them, and it hasn't been to them. They haven't been a part of it. The Literal Party grew out of our well-intentioned absenteeism. We were the mother and father who were there, but never there."

"Don't go to such tragic analogy."

"How would you feel if all the money in the world was being spent to change all the people in the world into someone that was just like you? All of this money, time, and attention on everyone else; everyone except you. That's why they're angry. Their pockets are still empty, just like they were before. Their bellies are just as bloated – stuffed on sugar and flour. Nothing about their lives has changed in the last six years – in the last fifty even. It was religion that ruined their lives in the first place. We can't forget that. It ruined their fathers and their forefathers, and it ruined a lineage of humankind – until six years ago. These people who voted you in; they are the example that we have set for humanity."

"What kind of example is that?" she said, pointing at the masked youths, rolling cars onto their rooves; and setting fire to anything that would accept the challenge.

"How would you feel, though, if it were you?"

"It is me. And it is you. It is all of us. You don't think I'm not bearing the brunt of this too? You don't think part of me wouldn't just like to say fuck them; they fucked the world, they fucked our city, the fucked the human race? You don't think I can't feel that way too; that I wouldn't like to just scrap the deprogramming and build another city somewhere else – leave this crumbling shell for the very bastards who tore out every damned brick. You don't think I feel this way too?"

"They blame you."

"They do."

"Because of your policies."

"That's true."

There was a degree of cold silence as they hovered over the truth.

"They hate you for the single reason they loved you."

She and The Orator stared one another in the eye.

"They didn't vote for me based on my policies, did they?"

"No," said The Aide. "They most certainly did not."

"And they didn't vote for me because of my background."

"No."

The Administrator did not flinch; not for one second.

"You're a woman," said The Aide – quite obviously.

Still, The Administrator didn't flinch. Her eyes locked on that of her foe.

"They loved you for it. They thought you would change the world. They thought they would wake up in different beds with different wives; in different jobs, with different friends and different kids and different lives. They thought all of their problems would vanish overnight. You – the first woman administrator. What an incredible thought, and an incredible thing to be true. But a horrible thing to find out then that you did not work with miracles, and that a woman was indeed no different to a man."

"I did not hold myself in this way. I did not paint myself in this light. They were supposed to be rational people. They are rational people. So why did they expect so much of me? Why did they treat me like some kind of a fucking...."

"Saviour? Messiah? A God?"

"Where is their rationale?"

Outside the window – at the steps to City Hall and all along the surrounding streets - the rising unrest of the now swarming mass looked as if the railings that kept them at breach might break at any second, and whatever rationale was conserving this mass' moral and abiding temperament, might very well break with it.

"What rationale?" said The Aide. "Desire is the itch upon which only belief can reach."

"God has been extinguished."

"But what is there in the absence of God?"

"Enlightenment," said The Administrator. "There is science. There is absolute and explicable truth. There is knowledge; and there are road maps, signs, and answers where once there was only folklore and superstition."

"The absence of God is as divine as God itself."

And just as the words were spoken, so too did her eyes careen into the trapping stare of The Orator down below; unable to pull away. And it was not out of weakness; it was out of something far more troublesome.

"Was I the right person? Should it have really been me?"

"You're the only one who can be you. It couldn't have been anyone else. This may all go to hell in a handbasket tonight. Everything we've built might be stricken with onerous blame and burned to the ground. But that doesn't mean that any of it was wrong or should have been done differently. And it doesn't mean that you were not the very best you could have been."

"What does it mean?"

"The kind of change that they expect is not rationale. This change is not probable; not yet anyway. It takes time – decades; a century even. The first children born into the new era are now only six years old. They are children. The change that they represent is invisible behind dismissive condescendence. Nobody notices children, and so they fail to see the change that has already taken place. All these rational people are intellectually and emotionally linked to the past. They all remember what happened. Some – if not most – still bear the physical scars; let alone the psychological toll. The fact is, as far as this new era is concerned, they – as the moral and philosophical example – have not changed. And it's not necessarily the change they crave, it's the attention. The absence of God is no better or worse than God itself. This irrational change that they hold onto in their minds; it has taken the place of God. And the further you take them from their delusions of idealism, the more emotional they will become – regardless of their intellect or of their chosen profession. Six years might as well be sixty."

"What would you do?"

The answer was plain, but that doesn't mean it was easy to pronounce.

"You know what they want? If you serviced this one request, all of this would quieten down. If you gave them this one thing, they would give you your sixty years without any quarrel."

The flames in the building across the road were now visible as they crept out from beneath the black smoke. In the distance, sirens roared as fire trucks raced towards the city centre; but they could get no further than the protestors would allow. The firemen fought the best that they could; turning their water cannons with precision and agility, but the endless barrage of bricks and explosives was too much for three small trucks to contain.

"What they want is murder."

"They want what is just. They want what is fair."

"They want retribution. That's not just. That's not fair. If we punish The Monotheists for what happened, then it's not for the betterment of our society; it's just to gratify their vengeance. No good can come of that. Rehabilitation is a vital part of our change, and it's only temporary. Why can't they see that?"

"Then centralise them. Have one clinic, and move it out of the city – out of sight, out of mind."

"The point of this was so they wouldn't be ostracised; so they could ease back into society."

"The point of this..." said The Aide, pausing to address the tumult on the steps below. "The point that led to this is exactly because they weren't ostracised. You have invited the very wolves that wreaked havoc in their pen to sleep beside them at night on the proviso that one day they too will lay eggs. And you have taken food from their plates so that you can feed and domesticate the very wolves that to this day, still cough up the feathers of their young chicks."

"Centralised. You mean like a prison."

"It would be a start to reconciling and it would buy us more time."

"It would be an end of our philosophy."

"It would pale in comparison to what they intend to do."

# III

The Old Man struggled to make his way to the bar. The room was dark, and it was loud and crowded too – on the far side of capacity. He could hear it in the pounding feet upon the dancefloor; and he could smell it in the warm, humid air that reeked of vodka, sex, and drug-laced perspiration. But those kids weren't the problem. As stoned and as salacious as they were, they were polite enough to let the old buffoon pass without so much as a nudge or a mean-spirited stare. No, the problem wasn't youth. He didn't stumble about blindly on their accord. And it had nothing to do with music, flashing strobes or orgies; no, for The Old Man, the problem was age. And of that he carried plenty.

"Excuse me, lad," he said, finally getting to the bar.

It was little use. Not only could he not be heard, but the barman refrained from eye contact with anyone. The Old Man, though, had his hand up like an eager schoolboy, tucking his left hand into his armpit to extend his reach even further. In the tips of his two farthest fingers, he clutched a hundred dollar bill which he flapped about like a hoisted flag.

"Young fella," he said as the barman slid past him.

But there was nothing going. The barman didn't notice; either that or he didn't care. He did stop at one point, though - right in front of The Old Man. It was long enough for him to take an empty glass by The Old Man's hand before he disappeared to the other side of the bar to serve someone else.

The Old Man hit his fist on the table. He was getting frustrated now and he could see a pattern developing. The bar was a semi-circle that stuck out into the dancefloor like the edge of a continent. On one end there was an exit which may or may not have been blocked by a stack of crates and containers; and on the other end were a toilet, a crack room, and the manager's office from which he had just come. To The Old Man, it seemed like the barman was serving only one side or the other – never at the bend where he stood.

"Bugger it," he thought, leaving his place and hobbling along to the far end of the bar, finally settling in under the green, neon light. "Young fella," he shouted, this time with the vigour of a man half his age – yet still twice as old as the nearest veteran in the room. He had his arm outstretched just as far except this time he clung to a handful of bills from a rainbow of denominations.

Still – nothing.

The barman now served that exact spot that he had left and then he was off again, moving from one side of the bar to the other like some inanimate pendulum; his eyes never lifting further than the palm of his hand.

"That's no good here," said a girl sitting beside him.

She barely made eye contact herself – that seemed to be a recurring theme here. But she was speaking to him, and from underneath her long, knotted fringe, she could see the silly, old bugger waving his money around like a maniac. He looked lost, desperate and confused; and that was a pretty terrible combination no matter how old you were.

The Old Man sneered at The Girl with the full of weight of his insulted pride. Were they dogs, he would have bitten at the neck of whatever male was closest; and he wouldn't have stopped until there was either a great deal of blood; or from her, a vocal and public apology.

"What's your poison, old timer?"

The Old Man sneered once more. She meant no foul. It was just an idle expression – a term of endearment. But for The Old Man, it was more like an insinuation or some kind of mocking threat.

He looked at her – leaning over a dozen full glasses of spirits, cocktails and warm frothy larger; and between them, a handful of fluorescent shots that looked more like a scientific experiment than they did harmless entertainment. They looked as if they could cool a jet engine, or shrink a tumour. He stared at her and then at the drinks; and then back at her again. Her eyes – he thought – looked cold and hollow as if their contents had leaked away over many sorrowful salutations. They were not abuzz like the rest of the patrons. They looked like they might fall out of her head at any second and dissolve like a sugary treat into one of her many drinks. And then he stared worryingly at her belly as if it were packed with explosives.

The Girl eyed the little blue ticket clutched in The Old Man's other hand.

"Yeah, I wouldn't do that either," she said.

The Old Man followed her eyes to the ticket in his hands. He might as well have been holding an unpinned grenade – such was the weight of her caution.

"I wouldn't if I were you. The food here is utter shit. People don't come here to eat. They're doing blow out of each other's assholes for fuck's sake. They come here to drink, fight, and fuck; and to dance too. Nobody comes for the food."

The Old Man stared at his ticket once more.

"Seriously, I'm doing you a favour."

She pushed her many drinks slowly got up from her stool.

"Come on," she said, "let's get something to eat. I know a good place not far from here."

The Old Man stared at her.

"You know it's rude to stare, don't you?" she said, cheekily. "In a place like this it can mean one of two things, and neither of us is in that kind of shape."

The Old Man smiled – he let down his guard.

And then a bomb exploded at the back of the club.

# IV

The ringing in his ears was loud, but the screams from terrified boys and girls were louder. The endless ringing and the screaming, and the sound of falling rubble too, they were loud – they were deafening - but that horrible music, it was louder. The air was thick with dust and concrete and when he wasn't choking on bits of the wall and ceiling, The Old Man was suffocating on hot plumes of black smoke. But that horrible music would not let up.

Someone screamed, "Run!"

The word, though, seemed foreign. The Old Man understood what the person meant but for whatever reason, he did nothing about it. No one did. They all lay there, crumpled beneath the ruins and scared to death \- even the person who said it. The far end of the bar was on fire and the rooms behind them, they were reduced to a pile of rubble and dead bodies. The thought of escape hadn't even entered The Old Man's head.

Fight or flight, my arse.

The first bit of light to break through came from the tip of a fireman's axe. It spilled onto The Old Man's feet and it grew larger and larger as the axe chopped through the exit door. Then came the first sound that wasn't ringing or screaming or that poor excuse for music. It was the sound of capacity, spilling out over itself – like a belt being undone, or air being let out of a tire. It was the sound of tragedy being met with shocked curiosity in the early morning air. It sounded like absolute silence - the kind of silence that said more than words ever could, and that was met with pain-numbing adrenaline. It spoke of the most gruesome kind of injury and fatality, and it echoed of sheer disbelief. It was the kind of silence that drowned everything else out; even the ringing in one's ears. It was the kind of silence that for a mere second was like a blanket on the direness of this predicament.

"Go, go, go!"

And then the silence was broken; and with it came panicked screaming, the rapid panting, and shortness of breath. And then came the desperate pleas for help, the hysterical shrieking, sobbing and even laughter - over lost friends and lost limbs.

The Old Man stared at body after body as he was carried by his rescuers out of the burning building. They were all so young - just children; no matter how grown up they'd profess to being. To The Old Man, they were just kids.

"We need more black tags," shouted someone in Triage.

"Just use green then," was the response. "Green is the new black."

They weren't gentle in how they dumped The Old Man's body onto the ground. The thump of his buttocks hitting the grass was only marginally worse than that of the back of his head. But this was hardly the time for gentle consideration.

"Excuse me," he said, holding his hand up in the air – still clinging to burned notes.

Someone stood over him for a second. They didn't look like a doctor or a nurse, and they certainly didn't look like someone trained or prepared to be of any use in a trauma of this magnitude. The person took one second to evaluate The Old Man before hanging a coloured tag around his neck and then moving on to the body that lay beside him.

"Excuse me, someone, please," he pleaded, still flapping those notes around as if he were still eyeing off those complimentary fries.

It was dizzying now as The Old Man lay on the grass, listening to the sirens blaring. It was a sunny day like most days were. The sky was blue and filled with long, white vapour trails; and there some large birds way up high – like small black dots – soaring with their wings abreast. They looked bold and majestic.

Though the might have been drones.

"Please," said The Old Man.

Body after body was passed over his head. He saw the faces of his rescuers for seconds before they again vanished; with each body – like him – left tagged and unattended.

"You have to tell me," he shouted, grabbing at someone's leg.

The person stopped and looked at him for a second.

"What colour am I?" he asked.

The Old Man was covered from head to toe in blood, though it was hard to tell how much of it was his. And with the clumps of white dust and rubble stuck to the side of his face and powdered over his body, he looked like a half-battered steak.

The person didn't respond. Instead, they looked right into The Old Man's eyes, as if they were trying to put his face to a name that was on the tip of their tongue. They looked at him as if he were a piece of a puzzle, but one that was almost too tattered to be of any good. Still, though, they stared at him, and it was so unlike how others were being looked over, looked after or looked at.

"What colour am I?" pleaded The Old Man, unable to see - or even reach for – the tag around his neck.

"You," said the person.

Their voice was barely recognisable under their gargling throat.

"It's you," they said again, their face pale with disbelief.

The Old Man felt none of his injuries. This worried him. Were he a yellow or green tag- or even a red tag – his cuts, abrasions and broken bones would be wreaking havoc on his senses. He'd be screaming and shouting and begging for either morphine or his mother. He'd sound like the rest of the yellow tags who were either moaning or wailing, and could not be consoled. But what worried him was that he felt nothing. He felt no tightness in his chest, and he felt no tearing of his muscles or breaking of his skin and bones. He felt no gaping wound at all. There was no stinging and there were no aches and pains.

There was nothing; no pain at all. Yet he did not feel unscathed. He did not feel as if he were walking away from this. The silence beneath his skin and in the blur of his thoughts, it worried him. The kinds of injuries that the mind chose to ignore were always the very worst and most fatal kind. And that was all that he felt – worry.

"Please," he said again, seeing only a person in front of him and not the person that they assumed they actually were. "What colour am I?"

Just by looking at him, he could have worn any tag.

The person stumbled backwards, nearly falling over a young couple who, though beyond rescue, still clung to one another, as if they had died that way.

"No," shouted The Old Man. "Help me, don't go."

The Old Man couldn't see. To him, the person merely vanished, as did the clouds and the tiny black dots that circled overhead. Were he able to tilt his head, he would have seen the person clutching at their open belly, keeping their stomach and intestines from slipping to the ground. Were he able, he would have seen how futile such an act truly was; and he would have seen the person collapse on the ground with a look on their face as if at that very second, they had finally solved the missing piece of their lifelong puzzle.

But The Old Man didn't see; he was watching nothing else but the blue sky and the return of the circling, black dots above his head. It was the only thing he could focus on. It was calming – a kind of meditation. And it helped him to drown out the noise of all those bloodied injured and dying people. The lesser injured were always louder. They complained a great deal more.

He watched the black dots circling overhead until he fell asleep; and when he woke, his hand and legs were bound, and his eyes were taped shut.

# V

The sound of the explosion had sent all of the protestors to their knees. Their bodies now lay twisted and entwined like woven braids; and for the moment, sheer panic had them crippled and dumb. Still standing on his podium, The Orator turned to his loyal followers and spoke in a kind and benign manner.

"There is no reason to be afraid. The worst that they can do is to wound us, and for that, we have science and medicine on our side. Let me be clear, and let me be adamant; you will not die here today. Your neighbours will die - and your brothers and your sisters too. Your mothers and your fathers, and even your loved ones too; they will all die here today. The person beside you - to your left and to your right - and the person in front and behind you; they will all die here today. But you will not. You will not die."

He looked at each of his followers, and he repeated, thousands of times over.

"You will not die."

Smoke billowed in the distance. From her window, it was all The Administrator could see. It had turned the once blue sky into smouldering charcoal.

"I refuse to step down," she said.

"Mam, you may not have the luxury of choosing."

"Bullshit. I will not be forced out office by bullies. As long as I can breathe then I have a choice. No-one will ever take that away from me. We stay and we fight."

"Who is 'we'?"

"Why? Who's left? Who stayed?"

"There's no-one left; no-one that can make any kind of difference. Just some clerical staff and some interns. But none of them is here out of any loyalty. Most of them have already turned - if not all. They're all just too scared to leave. As for your adversary...His party has almost full approval. That's almost unheard of. There's nothing to fight for anymore."

"There's always something to fight for."

"Not this time. Look for yourself. What do you see out there?"

They both turned to the open window. Below them, the tens of thousands of protestors were no longer huddled in fear. They were on their feet embracing one another. They shook hands and hugged, and even some of them kissed. They shrugged off their worry with little bother as if it were a tassel or some discardable accessory. Mothers and fathers held their children in their arms and absolute strangers stood shoulder to shoulder – some of them holding hands, and others holding onto things to either throw in anger or in a fit of celebration.

And the police and army too – of which there were almost a thousand; maybe more – they lowered their shields and then turned away from the crowd they had been paid to disperse. They took off their helmets and covered the insignia sewn onto their breasts so that they looked indifferent to the thousands of other faces around them. Like everyone else, they looked fed up. They looked like they wanted change and, like a child, they would break as much they could and tear everything apart until they got they got what they wanted.

And there were so many people now. They spilled out way beyond the city centre and from every office, house, and delicatessen; and from every factory, hospital, restaurant and back alley brothel – they all came. Those who couldn't, hung banners and flags from their windows and sat on the edges of their sills, beating wooden spoons on rickety old pans. Those on the streets marched as far as they could until they could march no further, and then they joined in on the chanting and singing.

The atmosphere was carnival – at least for now.

"They marched like that for me," said The Administrator.

"And now they march for your successor."

"He is no successor of mine. He's a thug and a nihilist."

"Have you read his manifesto?"

"No. I don't need to read it to know how absurd his ideas are. He's a maniac."

"Maybe. But his ideas hit home with the average person. I have to admit, some of them aren't so absurd. Radical, yes; but absurd?"

"You can't agree? You've seen what he intends to do, right? Their entire philosophy is built upon the dismantling of our culture - on erasing our history."

"What is history? If we can let go of it at our deaths, why can't we let go of it any sooner? Why shouldn't it be constantly discarded?"

"Because our history is everything. It's what outlives us. It is our proof."

"Proof of what?"

"Proof that we were here."

# VI

"Do you know who you are?"

The Old Man struggled for a second but he couldn't break free of the shackles. He lay there, staring at the back of his eyelids, counting to fifty. About a third of the way through, he settled down somewhat. His breathing calmed, his rage subsided, and those blasted shackles stopped their rattling and clanging. He was still for some time, convincing himself that there was nothing strange about this ordeal. He imagined that he was lying on a park bench under a cold, fluorescent sun. He dreamt up the trees and the sky and beautiful green grass. And he dreamt up a lake too where on one side, a gang of cheering children raced electric boats while their younger siblings ran away from the ducks and geese they had been teasing. He dreamt up a white sun and then he painted it yellow, but at some point, he set it back to white again. On the grass, he imagined a young family having a picnic. He imagined them shaded by some magnificent tree but he couldn't think of any, so instead he only dreamt up its cool and far-reaching umbrage. He imagined the young couple kissing as their child frolicked by the water's edge, watching his little blue balloon slowly drift from his grasp. And on the other side of the park, he dreamt up an old lady; a lady as old as he. He gave her bright red hair and purple lipstick, and he had her looking like some kind of vagabond or a ne'er-do-well thug. He imagined her smiling and smoking a cigarette, and breathing – on her own bloody accord.

"I'm going to remove the covering for your eyes now."

The voice was now standing over him. It sounded like a young man; in his fifties maybe. But the way he spoke, and in how he cautiously approached The Old Man, you would swear he was about to pick a bone from a crocodile's mouth.

"Do you know your name?" he asked.

In his thoughts, the old lady took a drag from her cigarette and before The Old Man could call out to her, she disappeared in a cloud of thick smoke. And with it went the colour that he had thought up so vividly. The lush green grass turned brown and prickly; and became infested with ticks, spiders, and stinging ants. The young children by the lake vanished for no good reason while out on the water; their boats all collided and sank. And those geese eventually caught up with their pesky siblings as the young couple turned from their kiss and gasped in disbelief.

"My name is Doctor Jennings."

"Given name," said The Old Man, barely audible under his dry, crackling throat.

The Doctor looked at him for a moment. He might have been threatened, intimidated or even insulted, but he didn't show it. He smiled.

"William," he said. "Doctor William Jennings. Now can I ask your name? Do you know your name?"

"I'm not sure," said The Old Man.

"Do you know where you are?"

He tried to look around. He did the best he could but his head was strapped to the mattress, as were his wrists and ankles. He could only see what his eyes would let him see. The room was beige. Their walls were empty, aside from some charts and a calendar. And on the ceiling there was a picture that someone had painted of the sun and about a dozen or so hot air balloons; but whoever painted them hadn't the decency, the interest, or most probably the skill to even paint people inside of the balloons - and the sun was yellow.

"You are at The Goodreach Wellness Institute. You were in an accident. Do you remember anything at all?"

The Old Man closed his eyes again. He tried to dream up the park but he might as well have been painting on his own tears. The colour ran down the back of his mind with each pitiful stroke; and time and time again, all he could see was the back of his eyelids.

"No," he said.

"Can you tell me what year it is?"

"It's five or six something."

"6 N.E. Good. Very good. Do you have any family; anyone that we can call?"

The old lady's face appeared in his mind for just a second, but it was barely visible behind the wafting smoke. It was enough, though. She was beautiful. Behind her ageing skin and beneath her brittle bones, she was timeless. And though hers was coming to an end, the joy and tireless passion in her eyes spoke as if her journey had yet to begin.

"No," he said.

"Do you know why you are here?"

Clearly, he did not, but still, The Doctor persisted.

"The firemen who rescued you, they said you had many questions for them. Do you remember what they were?"

"No."

"They said that you asked them about death and the process of dying. More worrying, though, they said that you asked them about God – and not in any political rhetoric, and not in any metaphorical sense. They swore that you asked in a way as if you believed that such an incredulous idea was true. Do you remember?"

"No," replied The Old Man.

It was a reflex more than anything; like a child, denying the patently obvious and the arguably true. He may or may not have remembered, but his instincts built a quick defence.

"That is why you were brought to the institute."

The Doctor flipped through the pages in the chart in his hands. Though he wasn't a doctor of the body, he acted as if he were – as if the knowledge from decades past were still fresh in his mind. He nodded his head and he said the words, 'Yes', 'I see', and 'Interesting' as if his agreeance were the necessary final seal.

"No internal injuries. Your hearing seems fine. You escaped with nothing but a few scrapes and bruises. You were in the right place at the wrong time. You're a very lucky man."

"What happened? Why can't I move? Am I in prison?"

"Oh, dear no. The restraints are just a precaution. Let me get them for you."

The Doctor undid each shackle and even went so far as to roughly massage The Old Man's wrists and ankles; as if it were something he was trained to do. As he did, The Old Man stared up at the ceiling - at the pilotless balloons. He saw only empty vessels drifting aimlessly through a clear, blue sky. And it made him remember before the explosion, how all those young kids danced about with the same sense of misdirection.

"One can't begrudge the past, so every new guest is restrained until after a full psychiatric evaluation. And in your case..." he said, obviously pointing out The Old Man's frail, obese, and wrecked physique. "Well, we don't see many gentlemen of your prestige causing too much of a ruckus."

"Am I a patient?"

"You were asking about God, my dear fellow."

"Am I in trouble?"

"Trouble? No, dearie, no. You're sick, that is all. And you're here, as a guest, so that we can cure you."

"How long will that take?"

"How long is a piece of string?"

The Old Man thought about every piece of string he had every bought. And he thought about each and every tiny knot that he had made. Then he thought about how much string had been so needlessly thrown away. "A knot," he thought, "could not be tied any other way."

"Rest assured; our success rate here at The Goodreach Wellness Institute is one hundred percent. We will rid you of this existential doubt and you will leave here a fearless and more apt gentleman. You will be more decisive; you will sleep better, and you'll find yourself being more compassionate and fair-minded in the presence of unjustness and disappointment. More so, you will be a better human being. And because of it, you will be the better part of a better world. Now doesn't that sound like something that's worth as long as it takes?"

"This bed is terrible. It's too rigid. And I don't like this plastic mattress. It's like you're expecting me to piss my pants, which makes me think that maybe the person who slept here before had pissed theirs; and I don't wanna sleep in anyone else's anything. I'm too old."

"Oh, dearie no, sir. This is just our evaluation room. I do apologise for its stark appearance. It is, though, a procedural room, and as we deal with a variety of bodily fluids from time to time, it must remain clinical – hence the beige. You'll find the rest of the facility quite to your liking I'm sure. Our focus is on comfort and assurance. This facility has every amenity you can imagine to help you on your way to religious emancipation. I'm sure the hardest part will be convincing you to leave. Now, if you're feeling up to it, I'd like to show you around the centre and introduce you to your roommate."

"I think it would be best if I slept alone."

"Oh, but nobody sleeps alone."

"Even still, if you could pull some strings... I'd hate to be a ruckus, especially if I didn't have to."

"It's part of your therapy. You'll see and you'll understand in time. We're never alone, not even if we will it so."

The Doctor helped The Old Man out of his restraints and out of the bed. And when he was standing, The Doctor took his hand and guided him out of the room.

"Did you like the balloons?" asked The Doctor, looking over his shoulder.

The Old Man stared back at the ceiling.

"I don't care for them," he replied. "I much prefer my two feet right where they are."

"Do you mind if I hug you?" asked The Doctor.

His arms were already wide open before he even said a word. His mind was already made up. The decision on whether or not there would be a hug had already been made; probably long before The Old Man even woke.

The Old Man didn't want a hug. He was sure that nobody in the world ever did; but he also felt that this was some kind of a test, so he lowered his guard and he smiled somewhat. Though it must be said, it was less like a smile and more like a spasm – as if he were stroking.

The Doctor embraced The Old Man and hugged him for an inconsiderate amount of time. It was long enough for the experience to pass beyond awkward, inappropriate, and upsetting, to being one that was quiet and relieving; and it was at that time that The Doctor let him go.

"Do you like table tennis?" asked The Doctor.

"No."

"Bowls?"

"No."

"Cards?"

"No."

"Swimming?"

"Do I have to wear a costume?"

"Yes."

"Then no."

"What about crafts?"

"Like pottery?"

"Amongst other things. Painting is popular."

"I don't paint."

"You could learn. That's what the classes are for."

"I am not at the age to be terrible at things."

"A fundamental part of the therapy is for all guests to undertake new learning activities. What was the last thing you learned?"

The Old Man thought of the last three things he had learned. One involved cable ties, the other an oven baked dish, and the last was something an old Turkish man said as his throat was being slit.

"Seni affediyorum."

"What is that?" asked The Doctor - intrigued and a little amused.

"I've no idea. Something that stuck with me."

"We have language classes too. Maybe we can find out what that means."

"I enjoy music," said The Old Man.

"Fantastic. We have some excellent composers residing here at the moment. Wonderful electronic arrangements."

"Blues," said The Old Man.

You'd swear he'd cussed, or stepped on a wee puppy; such was the look that The Doctor gave.

"That type of music is prohibited. Anything else, though."

"Jazz."

Again with the face.

"Sir, in order for you to be better, you must distance yourself from that which subconsciously conspires with your thoughts and emotions. This branch of music that you mention – blues, country, and rock – is laden with the seeds of redemption. It is riddled with God and anti-God. It is the filthy needle to your heroin. These kinds of music are not only unsafe, but they are also not tolerated and are strictly prohibited. There are very dire punishments for this type of contraband. As I said before, a man of your merit is not the kind of man to make a fuss or a ruckus. And as for music, we have a host of wonderful composers who work to create upbeat, positive beats as the kids say – music for better people; music for a better world."

"Can I ask you – before we go any further....."

For The Doctor, conversation was a tool of mathematics; it was a measure of probability. He knew what The Old Man was going to ask before he even thought that he had a doubt in the first place. He knew because everyone did. This type of question was the last cigarette, the last chocolate pudding, the last bloodied syringe, and the last torrid affair. It was a reprieve of sorts, but more so, it was an awakening and an acceptance of a problem; a problem that they were incapable of resolving on their own.

"I would be worried if you didn't ask. Go ahead."

"Do you miss any of it?"

"Not at all. Was it the music that you enjoyed the most?"

"It was."

"In the body, viruses can mask themselves as seemingly healthy and purposeful cells. Even some diseases present symptoms which can cause guests to actually rethink treating their life-threatening illness. The music you loved was the mild euphoria that clouded your deeply syphilitic mind. It was the beautiful colour, to the berry's venomous nature. The detrimental effects of God cannot be lessened by its supposed rewarding side effects. "

"What is life? What does it mean to be alive? Is there a purpose? And where does life go when the body dies?"

"You are old. Does it scare you, the thought of not existing one day soon?"

"I know I'm old, and I know my end is coming, one day soon; I just don't know how I am supposed to feel about that. Some days I am scared, others I am angry, and but most of the time, I don't really care. I wouldn't call it relief. I'm just lazy maybe."

"What do you think the purpose of life is?"

"Everything we do is felt, thought of, or spoken about after the event itself. If someone falls, we turn and look. If that someone is hurt, we quickly rush to help them. If it rains, we pack an umbrella. And if it's windy, we shake and shiver, even under our woolly coats. If we're scratched and it pains then we wince. But if we're scratched and it tickles then we laugh. We read a book, a poem, or watch a movie and we spend days, weeks even a lifetime, reviewing it, debating it, deconstructing it, and doing our best to understand it so that we can either relate to it or distance ourselves from its meaning. The ambulance follows the screams and shouting, which in turn follow the silence that follows a horrific crash. And then the investigation quickly follows suit. The purpose of all things is defined after the event, but there is no finite end. One event always leads to another so I ask you, how can you be sure there is an end? And if there is, what is its purpose?"

"Good. I was afraid you had no questions and were oblivious to your own predicament. Betterment comes only after one asserts that they are much worse than their proposed cure or solution would have them being. We treat all kinds of people, from all walks of life. And the time needed to cure each person is relevant to their individual condition. You may have heard the expression that the darkest hour comes before the dawn, yes?"

The Old Man nodded.

"That's not entirely true. The darkest hour, in fact, is several hours before the dawn. After the worst pain you can imagine, there is still a great deal more pain to endure. There is no immediate cure. There is no next-day-solution. The very worst that you feel right now in your existential abandon will feel only slightly less bad tomorrow, and only marginally less worse in the days and weeks that follow. The path to recovery – to normality – is, like our life, yet to be defined. It is yet to be carved out. There is no pill, and there is no wishing upon a star."

"What is there?"

"There is a process – a logical and humanistic process. And we begin almost right away. I'll take you to your room, first of all, let you meet your new friend, and to unwind a moment or two, before this afternoon's therapy."

The way he spoke, The Old Man didn't get a sense that he was leaving anytime soon. He spoke in such a calm and passive manner, as if The Doctor knew there was absolute no chance to escape; be it over the wall, or by learning and manipulating the system. The Old Man could feel this. He could see it in The Doctor's smile. Anger was a fearful defence. The Old Man knew, through his many years, that people who smiled a lot were always capable of a great deal of harm.

"Shall we?"

There was only one sufficient response. The Old Man went with The Doctor out of the evaluation room and into what looked and felt like, the lobby of the grandest and most spectacular hotel that could ever possibly exist. If there was a railing it was golden and if there was surface it shimmered and glittered. There was not an inch of space that didn't warrant awe or applause. The Old Man had never stepped foot in such wealth and exuberance. He walked as if he had spoiled his pants – carefully lifting each leg and gently placing each foot, for fear of scuffing the floor.

"What do you think?"

"Amazing comes to mind."

It was amazing; and a stark contrast to the bleak developments and dilapidated social housing across the street and for as far as the eye could see.

"It is only when we bathe ourselves in opulence that we can truly see our state of disrepair."

Outside on the street, barefooted men and women with scabs on their fingertips, filth on their faces, and lice in their hair, fought over dented cans of aerosol while their children wrestled with scavenging and disease-ridden dogs, just for something to do. While inside, a young couple in pin-striped suits brought The Old Man a glass of wine and set of pyjamas.

"Let's see that room of yours," said The Doctor.

# VII

The heart of a city is not at its centre. Little is drawn to the heart as much as is drawn to the city's thoughts and ideas, the colour of its eyes, the trim of its beard; to the depth of its neckline, the stripe in its suit, the shadow in its lashes, and the spunk in its voice. The heart cannot be dressed. It cannot be worn on the city's sleeve. Instead, it beats beneath a wall of sound. It is silent, for the most part, and beneath all the lauding, applauding and revelling cheer, it goes entirely unnoticed and unattended.

The heart of this city looked as any heart should. Row after row of avenue, street, and alley was paved in asphalt and cement; and from them stood magnificent concrete structures. And like a heart, hundreds upon hundreds of factories of every breadth, depth, and height. And there were factories of every shape, colour, and dimension. Were a single dollar to flow through its superior vena cava, it would turn into a hundred thousand more; and it would inspire a wealth of new ideas and technologies.

This was not a diseased or rotting heart. Its paint was not chipped or peeling away, and its arteries were not laden with potholes; nor were they lacking proper signage or infrastructure. This heart – though as still as it was silent – looked as if it were entirely capable of proper function. It looked as if it could turn a single cent into an entire fortune. It looked like it could turn an inch of risk into a mountain of prosperity.

Each factory still housed their many machines, and they all looked as useful and as valuable as they had the last time that they ran. And at the end of nearly every line in every factory, there lay pallets, still waiting to be loaded with boxes; and there sat jacks and forklifts, waiting to load trucks that filled every space in every loading bay.

And in every office, desks were still decorated with invoices, receipts, schedules, and calendars; and they were prettied with pictures of somebody's children, somebody's wife, and somebody's cat or dog. There were plastic ferns in the corners, the kind that glimmered, as if they'd just been watered; and there was not a whiteboard without some kind of a plan or strategy, just as there was no sink that was not piled to the brim with cups and plates, and clumps of old coffee powder.

This heart had not outlived its purpose. It has not stopped beating by any fault of its own. It did not end for lack of resource, and it did not end for lack of demand. It merely ended on the odd occurrence that somebody said so, and then an entire city acted as such. Beyond disrepair, it was not. It could - were a drop of blood spared to it \- start again as if it had barely skipped a beat. It had so much potential. It could, by the look of it, carry its city to the peak of its potential – where the air is most thin; and then carry back to solid ground again.

All it needed was a single cent.

But the heart of this city was an organ of discard and abandon; and it had been as such, long before its final beat. It did not fail suddenly. Its demise was fractional and it took years before it passed the point of no return. But when it did pass that point, all the bickering in the world; and all the pointing, blaming, and needless debating could do little to stem the bleeding. The hammers stopped hammering, the machinists stopped machining, and the wheels eventually stopped turning. It was gradual at first with shop after shop and factory after factory slowly grinding to a halt, but the term crisis quickly turned into epidemic until one fine day, the heart could longer beat. The last machines went quiet and the dust began to settle in.

It had been nearly a year now since the last trucks cleared the last lines of production. It had been even longer since a single cent had been made. This part of the city had been forgotten and discarded. It was not maintained, monitored, or even policed. For over a year, it was not been visited, driven by, or even spoken of. Nothing resided here. Nothing stayed, and nothing passed through. This part of the city – the heart of the city – it did not exist. So strange was it then, for bursts of blue light to be spitting out from beneath a roller door; and with it, the sound of metal being ground and beaten into shape and position.

"Load the ammunition and explosives as close to the gas tanks as possible, and food and rations at the front of the buses."

Between the flickers of blue light, a group of heavily armed militia – both men and women; young and old – prepared themselves for war. It was hard to pick one from the other. They each looked as forceful, pristine, and lethal as the weapons they carried in their hands. Their sizes and shapes differed, it was true, but the same could be said for the bullets they loaded into their guns, and for the knives, daggers and swords they carried in their boots, on their belts, and sheathed behind their backs. Not one person appeared any less violent than the other, or any less capable of harm.

"How soon 'till the cages are complete?"

Inside the last bus, the flickering of blue light stopped. The Welder looked at The Leader and firstly nodded, and then he smiled. His mouth looked like a quarry. The few teeth he still had were yellow, twisted and rotting; and there was a fleshy stump where his tongue had once been. It wiggled when he smiled.

"One minute – max," said The Leader.

The Welder nodded once more and peered back into the flickering blue light. He didn't wince for a second. The Leader stepped off the bus and addressed the militia.

"I do not take lightly, our role in any of this. We will be looked upon at first with fear, and then, as the wounds heal, we will be remembered in disgust and dismay. Our legacy will be infamous. Those of us who survive will be hunted. Some of us will be trialled and imprisoned, and others will be stoned and tortured. Our family names will end with us tonight. They will not carry on. Our brothers and sisters, and our cousins, uncles, and aunties – they will change their surnames and they will live with great, silent shame if ever they are made to remember us. I and you alike will be chastised. Our graves will be unmarked and it will be a crime to remember us in passing. I do not take this role lightly, and neither should you. Without us, there will be no great change. Without us, everything that we believe in – every ideal that we live and strive for – will turn to dust. The flower of humanity that we have sewn will wilt and wither away. All that is good will never be."

The Leader loaded his vehicle with arms and ammunition. The rest of the militia did the same. There didn't seem to be a nerve out of place. There was no fright or worry – there was barely even a trace of thrill or excitement. Each person filed into their vehicle; be it the armoured buses and holding cells, the jeeps and motorcycles, or any one of the utilities that were strapped with explosives, accelerant, and shrapnel.

As the keys turned and the engines roared, The Leader spoke gallantly.

"Though the letters of history will damn us and condemn us for what we are about to do, and though it shall never be proven or admitted, we are the saviours of this city; just as we are its villains. Without us, there is no chance of betterment – there is no new age."

# VIII

"Cheese?"

The Old Man hadn't eaten any in years; his pension couldn't stretch that far. But that's not to say that he didn't crave it incessantly. His first instinct, though, was to politely decline and then hope that he would be offered again.

If he had his way, he'd eat the whole damn platter. Instead, he eyed it with a ravenous appetite and acted as if he had just been fed. There was a protocol after all to wanting which helped to differentiate it from begging; a kind of mannerly dance. Being courteous was etched in The Old Man's genes – offering what he did not intend to give; saying thank you for that which he did not want to get; apologising when nobody was at fault; and smiling, when all he wanted to do was snipe and curse. And so, though he most certainly wanted the cheese, his damned instinct - of which he had no say about whatsoever – had him politely decline.

"No thank you," he said, expecting to be asked if he was sure.

Instead, The Roommate ate the entire platter. He didn't look up until he was done, and he barely slowed to chew or even take a breath. The Old Man stared at The Doctor as if some kind of punishment were to be handed out, but The Doctor merely smiled and took the empty platter when The Roommate had finished licking it clean.

"And how was your death last night?" asked The Doctor.

The Roommate smiled and stretched out his arms – yawning with his mouth wide and gaping like a rude and unlearned child.

"It was very good."

"Do you feel any worse?"

"I am without pain, and without worry or bother, Doctor."

"Any nightmares?"

"Not last night. I had good dreams, sir – the colourful kind."

"Well go on, don't keep me in suspense."

The Doctor didn't at all look or even sound patronising. It was like he was genuinely interested. The Old Man watched The Doctor, while The Doctor watched The Roommate.

"I dreamt I was unwrapping a birthday present, except it was not my birthday. There were a cake and some candles, and there were streamers and balloons that were taped and pinned to the ceiling and also walls. And the icing on the cake said 'Happy Birthday', and so did writing on the balloons. But it was not my birthday. I didn't know any of people there. Maybe they know me, but they didn't say. Maybe they just wanted to spy on what I was doing, or to see what I got. My sister was there, but she didn't say a word. The dream was just me unwrapping the present. Unwrapping and unwrapping. I never got to end. Every time I removed one piece of coloured paper, always there would be another colour below. I thought that maybe, if I was careful to remove the coloured paper with no ripping, maybe I would get to the present."

"Did it work?"

"No. It hurt my fingers less, but it was more frustrating. At end of the dream, I forgot about the present and just tried to guess what colour would come next."

"How did you do?"

"It was hard because I only know the names of simple colours. I didn't learn the rainbow so most of them were green and purple. And then I woke up on the blue paper, and then I ate the cheese."

"Wow," said The Doctor, still sounding so damn genuine. "That's amazing."

"It's just a dream," said The Roommate.

"It is. And do you know what it means?" asked The Doctor, winking to The Old Man.

"My dream?"

"Yes. Do you know its significance? What does your dream mean? Why do you never get to the present? Why are you always stuck on blue? What does it mean?"

He barely needed a second to think or respond.

"Nothing."

"Nothing? How can you be so sure?"

The Doctor turned and smiled at The Old Man as if he were showing off his prized bitch.

"It's only a dream, Doctor. Dreams have no hidden meaning or purpose. Dreams have nothing to decipher, correct?"

The Roommate looked certain, but it was still his nature to feel unsure and to question himself. He was only human after all, and he was an educated man at that. As an infant, he had always looked to his mother and father for each and every one of his giant conquests – from lifting and tilting his head, to his first steps, his first words, and pissing in his musical potty. And then as a child, answering every question that his teacher asked - knowing too well that one and one equalled two, but always needing and waiting for her tick of approval before there was cause for bragging. It was his nature then, to tag every statement and fact with just a dash of insecurity.

"What do you think?" asked The Doctor assuring.

The Roommate concentrated. He looked less unsure now.

"Dreams are the result of my conscious mind rebooting."

The Doctor looked at The Old Man and patted his back.

"You're making remarkable and terrific progress. Soon I think we will have to say goodbye."

"I'm ready to move?"

"It seems so."

"Up, down, or out?"

"We'll see. But definitely with that improvement in attitude, you definitely won't be moving up."

The Roommate grinned manically.

"We are all very proud of you and proud of the better person you have become. Soon, you will be as good, if not better, than all of the good secular citizens out there making for a better society right now."

The Roommate blushed. He couldn't help it. He imagined himself being driven along a magnificent red carpet that stretched down Main Avenue while bucket loads of streamers and confetti were being thrown on his motorcade from windows and rooftops. He imagined hundreds of thousands of people, lined up behind barricades; cheering and wooing, and clapping and chanting his name. He imagined jet planes flying overhead, and some type of grand ceremony where he would be presented with a large medal and a golden sash. His dreaming, though, was cut short by The Doctor.

"Now, I trust I can leave our new friend in your better hands."

"Oh, of course, Doctor."

"If you could explain how things work around here – what is expected and such – I would be very grateful. Take him to collect his belongings too. I'll check in with you both after games this evening. I'd best be going, and you too have therapy very soon, so you'd best be getting ready I can see you two are going to get on splendidly."

He pushed The Old Man forwards so both guests stood awkwardly close to one another. The Old Man could feel every one of his muscles tightening up. He could feel all of his senses closing off. His body was reacting to close proximity.

And The Roommate hugged him. He wrapped his arms around The Old Man and squeezed him as hard as he could. He squeezed the awkward fear out him and he didn't stop until he squeezed the defensive and sexually oppressed bigot out of him too. He squeezed long and hard, ignoring each twist and turn and each push and shove. He hugged and squeezed until The Old Man gave up and hugged him back. It took a long time, and in the end, it may just have been exhaustion and old age that turned the favour.

"Therapy's after lunch," said The Roommate letting go. "I like a tidy room but you can keep your side messy if you like. I haven't had a roommate in a couple of weeks. It can be kind of dangerous, but I'm good at dying – I barely need anyone to watch over me. The nurses only come in because they have to, otherwise they probably wouldn't. They all know I'm good at dying – everyone does. You heard the doc, I'm better enough to move soon. Maybe this move will be the last move. No, I know it will. This is my eleventh move. There's not much left for me to give up."

"Move where? Give up what?"

"We move out, eventually; when we are better enough to be like everyone else. But we have to move down first. I'm not sure how many levels or how many floors; but every time we get better we move, and when we move, we give up some of the things that made us comfortable or rich or whatever on this level. This is your first level?"

"I don't know what you mean?"

"Did you come down or did you go up in the elevator?"

"I don't know."

"Well if you've never been anywhere else then this is your first level. And if it is, you're lucky."

"Why?"

"There's hardly anything wrong with you. You're almost already better, like me. So you're lucky."

He looked as if he were waiting for some kind of affirmation; maybe a nod or a pat on the back –something to approve of or validate his belief. It was an awkward minute or two.

"Are you hungry? There's a snack machine."

"I have no money," said The Old Man.

"Well let's get your belongings then. You have lots of money, we all do. Do you like clothes? You have fancy clothes too."

The Old Man stared at his brown loafers and khaki pants.

"What's wrong with what I have on?"

"There's blood on them for one; on the side there."

The Old Man tried to look but it was too much bother.

"I'll have to take your word for it."

"Is it yours?" asked The Roommate.

He was on his knees picking dried clumps from The Old Man's leg.

"No, it never is."

The Old Man kicked his leg and The Roommate quickly scuttled off.

"There's nothing wrong with my pants. They're fine."

"Everything can be better, even pants."

"Forget the pants. Tell me, what's the deal here?"

"This is the best place on Earth, but it's no way near as good as out there."

As if he were leaning into a seashell, The Old Man could still hear - ever so faintly - the endless echo of screams and sirens. He could still hear wave after wave of bottle and rock, smashing into balls of fire, and shattering police shields and shop vitrines; and he could hear the protestant chants, from both sides of the divide.

"Have you been outside? Have you seen the state of things?"

"I've seen pictures," said The Roommate, "and I have a star map."

"I'm not one for politics but I can tell you straight off the bat. It's a lot quieter in here than it is out there. And a lot more well-off it seems."

He was staring around the room; at the horde of possessions that The Roommate kept on his shelf above his bed, and had stuffed into his drawers, tucked between his bed and sticky taped to the wall. There were pornographic magazines and crossword puzzles, and there were imported chocolates, beauty products, and rings – of every precious metal. There were keys for cars – many of whom The Old Man could not pronounce – that hung from a golden chain, and there was a file, in the centre of it all, that was full to brim of deeds to properties and companies, and half of it was made up of foreign bonds and promissory notes.

"I had other things too," said The Roommate, sounding sullen.

The Old Man watched The Roommate stacking his magazines, affixing his table, and rolling back one corner of his bedsheet.

"I don't miss them, not one bit. I swear I don't."

The Old Man could feel a fever in his blood. His hands shook, so much that he had to force them into his pockets just to keep them from ringing that poor man's neck. And because of it, his heart thumped louder than The Roommate's voice, who by now was declaring which of all his things was his most precious and dear.

"You look sick," said The Roommate. "Do you need something? Do you want something? If you need or want something, you only have to ask. You'll always get what you need."

The Old Man closed his eyes and imagined that his mind was atop of the highest mountain on Earth. It was dark at this point. There was no sun, there was no moon, and there were no stars. There was, though, an incredible wind the blustered about, scattering every thought as it formed – decimating them; breaking each thought into a hundred billion fragments, and then each of those into a hundred billion more, and then blowing them all in different directions.

The Old Man exhaled loud and heavy. With every breath, his shaking hands and thumping heart started to settle, and so too did his feverish blood. It was maybe a second or two before the feeling passed and he was able to open his eyes again.

"I'm fine," he said.

"That's great. Come on then, come with me."

The Roommate had an empty sack in his hands and a stupid grin on his face.

"We'll go get your things," he said. He sounded like a giddy child. "I wonder what you're gonna get. Oh my golly, I wonder what you're gonna want. Getting things is the best!"

As they walked along the corridor, The Old Man read the little plaques on each door. "How many people are here?" he asked.

"Lots," said The Roommate.

He was skipping now.

"As many come – as many goes," he said.

"How long have you been here?"

"I can't remember. It's funny that, isn't it? But I started with a lot of things and now I have not so much. Pretty soon I will have nothing at all, and then I'll be ready to leave. But you heard the Doc, that'll be real soon. They'll send a terrific car to come and get me; like a limousine, but something where I can stand up and see all the people waving. They'll be coming soon. You'll see."

# IX

The first of the armoured buses arrived at the very first of the wellness facilities. It was not a large centre – it housed maybe seventy guests – but in terms of relevance, it made sense to begin here.

Outside, an entire street watched on as masked gunmen stormed the building. Some of them recorded what they were witnessing while others just smiled and swore they would never forget a thing. And it was not as testimony or evidence for any judge or jury; this was for their own record – as a part of their own personal history. This was not an act of espionage; these were not vigilantes. This was an act of celebration. It was one of joy and retribution, just as it was, one of relief and timely justice.

The street merely huddled together in silent awe. Little was said; but then again, little needed to be. The looks on their faces said a great deal more. Any cheering that there was, went on inside. Even the children, who could barely stand a second inside their own skins, stood in still and silent wonder.

And it was not out of fear. They did not assume that they too were at threat – that they would be loaded into the buses with bags over their faces; and their wrists and ankles bound like pigs for the spit. They did not see themselves as part of the equation. They did not see themselves as points of subtraction. Neither of them looked at the masked gunmen as anything other than what they were – liberators.

There was no smashing of windows; there was no breaking of things. And for all the artillery they amassed, there were no explosions and there no gunfire. The whole affair played out as if were scripted or rehearsed.

The gunmen entered without much fuss. After securing the facility and preparing the cells, they calmly entered the centre and began rounding up the guests where they were each taken, one by one, under the arm of three or four gunmen, and paraded before the onlookers before being loaded onto the buses and placed into poorly vented holding cells. Though crippled with fear and gasping beneath their black, cotton hoods, the guests looked shaken – that much was true - but neither looked like they had been armed in any way. It was visible, even on the children's faces that those who lined up on the street outside the wellness centre had been expecting, or at the very least hoping, for a treatment more severe.

The first bus left as the second was being filled. It went in one direction – under heavily armed guard - while each of the other three buses took a direction of their own. They each had, though, the one destination.

A small team of gunmen stayed behind. Several were displaced throughout the facility, while a handful stood at the centre's doors holding assault rifles and flash grenades; two of them were present with shields.

One of the gunmen approached the onlookers.

"If you would please like to line up in order of proximity."

Neither person had any idea of what to expect, but neither assumed the worst. And neither knew what the gunman meant, so in going with a first served mentality, the closest to the gunman assumed the start of the line.

"Neighbouring households are first priority – first deserving. Line up in order of proximity. Opposing household first," said the gunman, pointing to the house across the street, "followed by those households that shared walls with the perpetrators. The line of proximity will extend outwards from the centre. Those households furthest from the centre will take up the end of the line. Please do so in quick and orderly fashion."

The onlookers did as such, and they were taken into the facility one household at a time. Those with more hands were capable of carrying more things.

"One item per person. Take what you will of the gold and treasure, but please, do not take your time. Take your items back to your households. They are your gifts for having had to endure such insult to your way of life – for having had to live so close to those whose modus operandi brought nothing but war and divide – hardship and ruin. These are not spoils. This is not plundering. We have all suffered, but you, who wake to suffering each morning and have to watch it being coddled and cared for until you sleep each evening, you have earned this. This is not an apology from them to you. This is a token of understanding from us who have not been burdened with one of these centres in the middle of their communities. This is from us to you. So please, take what you will but do not take your time, for the authorities will be here soon, and it will not be safe for you to be outside of your homes."

"Is this a war?"

"No. This is not a war. We are not an army. We are you. We are all of us. We are this city's people. This is not a war. This is democracy."

# X

The Old Man and The Roommate stood outside a door labelled 'Wait'.

"Welcome to the floor, can I get your things?"

The woman who greeted them was polite enough. There was something off about her, though. The Old Man couldn't pick it at first. She didn't cuss and she wasn't rude, but there was something about her voice. She spoke as if her jaw was wired shut, spitting words through the cracks in her teeth. It was easy enough to understand her, but the sound of her voice was akin to a room full of strangers, sucking tiny bits of pork from between their teeth. The Old Man stared at her lips. They were red and moist. She looked as if she'd spent the entire day smothering them in lipstick, and he wondered if she had noticed the smear near the crack of her mouth. To him, it stood out. It was unsightly. It was cheap, careless, and little trampy.

"Anything you want is yours," she said.

The woman laid a catalogue on the table and opened to its contents.

"You can pick anything you want," said The Roommate, already eyeing an upgrade to his air tickets. "Anything."

The Old Man flicked through page after page. It was true. Were there anything that he did want, it would surely be here. There was everything from houseware and haberdashery to bottles of century-old scotch and antique knives. There were cars, boats, and helicopters; and there were whales and lost indigenous tribes too. There were entire cities if that was what he wanted, and there were streets, avenues, museums and even schools – all of which he could have in his name, possession, or in his honour. There were even women; just as many as there were men. There were those with which he could laugh and love, and there were those with which he could quench his lust. There were those dressed in a ball gown and black tie, and there were those in nothing but their glistening cunts and stiffened cocks. There was everything that one could imagine and even more than one could not – from every city and from every culture on Earth. And if there was anything at all that was not on the list, he could have that too; he just had to write it in the space provided.

"A dozen laces," said The Old Man.

The Roommate looked at The Old Man oddly. The woman behind the counter did not. She retreated to her room and returned barely a second or two later holding a dozen laces in each hand. "White or black?" she asked.

"It's not important," said The Old Man.

The woman handed him his laces and he stuffed them into his pockets. As they walked back along the corridor, The Roommate stared at The Old Man. He had never seen anything like this before. Most people needed a pallet or a trolley at the very least. He himself needed a dozen hands to help carry his things back to his room. In all his time here, he had never seen a man walk away with nothing; nothing but a handful of laces. There was no denying it. The Old Man was parading on one side of mad or the other. He was either a raving lunatic, or a flaming genius.

"What are all these rooms?" asked The Old Man.

"Well, I can show you if you like. Everything is open and free. This room here is..."

He stared at the plaque on the door.

"I.V," he said.

He looked as unsure as The Old Man, but his was wrapped in curious wonder.

"Last week there were games and the week before that, a wishing well. But I fell in."

The Old Man turned the handle and peeked inside the room. It was large, with enough empty seats for at least a hundred guests. It sloped downwards from the door to a small stage at the far end. The room was dark. It was impossible to see anything except for a dim patch of light where an actor sat, reading out her lines.

"I hate the theatre," said The Roommate. "And I don't like books. It's ok if you do, though. There's a library, it's just... nobody goes there either. There's a movie room somewhere. I like movies. And there's the best canteen ever. Do you like duck? The duck is great. The pasta is pretty good too, but don't eat the mushrooms. They'll give you the runs."

The Old Man entered the room and walked slowly down the centre aisle, careful so that the floor wouldn't creak beneath his shoes. He took a seat somewhere in the middle, close enough so that he could see the stage, but far enough so that he himself could not be seen. The Roommate, at the door, was shouting something. It was a whisper but it was loud and intruding. The Old Man ignored him, though, and sat his eyes upon the stage. There, in the midst of the dull light, a woman lit a cigarette and talked frankly of her adultery, and how it had driven her husband to such an unbearable state that she could no longer feel sorry for him. She talked about her lover too, and how she had had to bear the worst of it all; but she spoke of her lover's traits – of her strength and her humility - as if they could not have come to fruition were it not for her own acts of cowardice and indiscretion. "I do not ask for an apology," she declared, "and I do not ask for applause. I disapprove of either one." She dragged on her cigarette. It was long and its fiery end crackled; and just like that, she was gone, lost in the dull smoky light.

The Old Man sat there for some time, staring at the empty stage with not a thought passing in his mind. "Is death as quiet as this?" he wondered.

And then the door barged open.

"I must have seen that stupid play a hundred times already."

The Roommate came trampling down the aisle without any care whatsoever. And the sound of his ignorant feet echoed through the empty room. The floor squealed like a pig having its throat cut. "Did I mention I hate the theatre? Ughh. Can't stand it. Listening to one person go on and on and on and on and...I'm hungry. Are you hungry?"

And then all those heavy feelings returned.

"I could do with some food."

The Roommate skipped ahead while The Old Man followed along. His stomach grumbled, his body ached and pained, and after every step, he took a dozen breaths. This, though, was not a new condition. This was not something that he awoke to. This was merely how he got about.

"Get ready for the best food in the world."

It was hard to hear the word food without feeling sick. For as long as he could remember, The Old Man ate merely for necessity and in no way for pleasure – no-one ever did. And then, when he saw the canteen, he almost dropped to his knees.

The smell was overpowering. Instantly, he thought of his mother. He couldn't see her face, only the dress that she was wearing, and by that, he knew it was her. Her clothes always matched the curtains.

"Look at that spread," he said.

The Roommate just smiled. He knew exactly what The Old Man was feeling.

"I told you so."

The Old Man was lost for words. His every sense was being ravaged by the most delectable aromas. He felt weak and overpowered. He felt incapable of making a decision.

There was food that he had not seen in decades, and there were spices that could never be smuggled across the seas. It all looked untainted and unspoilt. And there was so much. Each table was full to brim with plates hanging precariously over the edge. There was enough food for this entire city, but there were only a handful of guests that were dining; and very minute or so, a plate was taken from the table and replaced with another that was fresher and hotter, and far more inviting. And the old plates with perfectly good food were scraped into black bags and incinerated.

"Pizza," said The Roommate.

He was already on the other side of the room. The Old Man watched as The Roommate went flavour by flavour, taking a bite of each piece before throwing what was left into each of the bins provided. Sometimes he didn't even swallow. He just chewed once or twice and then spat out the contents before snatching another piece and doing the same. He went table by table – eating and spitting, and eating and spitting some more. The Old Man looked disturbed, and it was maybe a minute or so before his hunger took over and he helped himself to a piece of fruit. By this stage, The Roommate had already defiled the ice-cream section and was snorting lines of caster sugar.

"Better than out there, isn't it?" whispered The Roommate. "But don't tell the Doc I said that."

# XI

Out there, as The Roommate put it, was a different place indeed. From the foot of The Wellness Centre, all the way to the steps of City Hall, the mood was stark. Those with as much strength has they had bravado were either marching in protest of The Administration or, with just as much vehement, marching in praise and in iron-fisted defence of its democratic right to exist – clinging steadfast to its moderate ideals and looking past the great extent of its failings.

The mood was stark, though, and from both sides of the divide; irrespective of their impassioned songs or their coarse rebuttals. Behind every hoarse voice, and beneath every callous insult and mean spirited rhyme, there was a distinct current of fear. It wasn't entirely obvious, but it was there, and it reeked of abandon.

Then there were those that did not march, and with them, there were those who simply could not. For whatever reason - be it hunger, illness, apathy, or fear - there were those who either stayed safely locked behind their doors, listening to the drama unfold on their radios, or there were those who had no homes – those who slept in piss-drenched alleys, on beds of old newspaper – who hid away from that which had very little to do with how they lived their lives; those lives which would be no better or worse no matter who was in charge.

Their mood was stark too. It was cold and damp, and it was hungry as all hell. And it was hopeless, crippled, and incapable of being fixed. Theirs was obvious. It wafted from their filthy pores, and it tangled in their knotted, dirty hair. It followed them around like a gaunt and scabby dog. You could smell it on their malodorous breath, and you could see it on whatever stains they left behind. You could feel it and you could hear it too; on both a mother's kiss and in her promise that everything would be alright.

Their houses were as quiet as their passionless voices. There was always someone home – but you could never tell. Their plates were always empty and their saucepans were home to the worst kind of sickly, black mould. The water tasted like diesel regardless of how long it was boiled, and it itched, were it ever to touch your skin. The seasons themselves were named after the illnesses they brought; and when it was cold, it was freezing; and when it was hot, most folks just lay there and died. Still, in light of this, in every home, and in every piss-drenched alley, there was not a single hint of discontent. They either had no fight, or they saw little reason for it. Maybe they'd given up, or maybe they just didn't know any better.

The city was stark, but not nearly as much as the people who called it home.

"Are you nervous?"

"No, sir."

Marching quietly through dark and winding alleys was The Leader, and by his side, a young lady, dressed from head to toe in black. Only her eyes gave a hint to her being a person, and not the other's shadow. And they were like two exploding suns. Her stare alone was, on one hand, mesmerising and on the other, absolutely terrifying. But as there were only her eyes, there was nowhere else that one could look, except away; but even that, one could not. And also, she carried an M24, slung over her right shoulder.

"Are you scared?"

"No, sir."

They continued to creep through the maze of alleyways.

"You will be," said The Leader.

The Sniper didn't respond. Her every step was as quiet and calculated as the last. She followed The Leader, barely grazing an inch of concern to how she felt. Maybe she didn't believe him. Maybe she was terrified or if not that, then her stomach might have been silently twisting and turning, being ringed and riled by the burden of guilt. Or maybe she felt nothing because there was nothing to feel. Maybe she would be scared or set upon by nerves. Maybe she would fall in a crumpled heap, beset by the weight of her weapon or by the consequence of her will. Should she be nervous? Should she be scared? These are not things that she thought. These are things that she could have thought were she someone else or were she given a second to drop her resilient guard.

"Here," said The Leader.

They stopped at the back door of an old flat. The Sniper kept watch for a moment or two while The Leader picked the lock and quietly slipped inside. The Family who owned the flat were marching in the centre of the city. It was a young couple. They had one child – a boy named Elliot. He was nine and wanted to be an astronomer. And they also had a small puppy that they had only recently adopted, its name was Flex. Their flat was small. There were only two rooms – a large bedroom and a small living room. The kitchen was decent sized, and it was the first point of entry.

The Leader walked in. He did so without any caution or any suspicion whatsoever. He walked in as if the place were his. On his way to the living room, he picked up a large bread knife and a plastic bag.

"Is that you, darlings?"

Slouched in an armchair, the couple's grandmother muted the radio and put away her lucky pencil. Her crossword was only half-done, but she took the break to eat the rest of her buttered sandwich.

"You're home early. I thought you'd be back much later."

There was no response, only the light creak of slow tip-toeing behind her chair.

"Was there any kind of result? Did they get rid of that idiot?"

The Grandmother turned her focus to her sandwich. It didn't matter if the bread was stale, or if the butter tasted like bleach; she devoured it – in nearly a single bite.

The whole while, The Sniper kept her stern watch. She crouched low by the back door and aimed her rifle towards the end of the alley where, on the adjacent street, scores of people walked side by side, chanting and holding hands; each billowing mouth passing obliviously through her crosshairs.

The flat was small and it was quaint. It was sufficient for a small family with very little other than their love for one another and their will to do the very best that they could. They had little to admire, and even less to steal. But this was not a robbery. And their flat had one thing that the others in this alley did not; vantage.

"They're saying on the news that The Administrator could be ousted as soon as tonight. Honestly, I don't care who's in charge, just as long as they quit making a shambles of everything and start producing some real bloody food."

She picked at the crumbs that had fallen on her lap.

"Have you gone to bed already?"

The house was as dark as it was quiet. The Leader barely cast a shadow.

"Well," said The Grandmother, taking her lucky pencil. "Best not leave things unfinished."

She flicked on the radio first. The volume was loud. It sounded like the two newsreaders were shouting at one another in the next room. Then she went back to biting on the end of her pencil and staring into nowhere – half listening to the radio, and half searching for that damn answer to sixteen-down.

The Leader listened for a moment as the two newsreaders cursed each other's opinions, and made a specific case for their own. They argued insensibly and made clear differences in their ideals, even though they were both on the same divide. There was no mention, though, of any acts of terrorism or insurrection. There was no mention of any of the wellness centres and there was no mention of machine clad gunmen. Instead, the newsreaders bickered. They both wanted The Administrator gone, but they couldn't agree on how that should be done; and where that line was between right and wrong.

"They need to just storm the place," said one newsreader. "If you're listening," – which the entire city most certainly was – "and if you're as tired as we are of the broken promises and all these damn half measures, then get your butts downtown right now. Get off your sofas and get out of your comfort zones. Get down to City Hall right now because change is happening. It's not a matter of if but when. You can be a part of that change, or you can be that change. The choice is yours. Get down there right now and let your voice be heard, and let your opinion be felt. There are no sides in this debate. There are no Moderates and there are no Literals. We are all the same. We are all at the ass-end of the spectrum, and we all want the same thing. We all want change. Some of us want to be changed. We want to wake up and everything has moved about, and everything is working. While the rest of us want to be that change. We want to feel it in our bones, and perspire it from our pores. But we each want the same result. We all long for the same change. We argue only on how this change should come about. We all dream of the same secular, evidence-based society. And that does not make us different in any way. The Administration wants that difference to exist. They want to distract us and pit ourselves against one another so the fight is not at their feet. I beg and beseech you, each and every citizen of this once great city, come together, lay down your differences, open your hands and your hearts, and be that change."

"I call bullshit," said the other. "That weak-willed passive rhetoric is what got us into this mess in the first place. What we need is action. Come together, yes, we're all in the same place. But hold fast to your ideals and recognise your differences, they are what define you; they're what make you better than your neighbour. Do not open your hands. Clench them. Make an iron-fucking-fist. Break through the police line. Break down the doors of City Hall, and bring that corrupt bitch to justice. Six years is enough folks. What this administration couldn't achieve in the first four, they've been shamelessly repeating for the past two, and they'll keep doing so as long as you play into it. What kind of secularism is it that bankrupts its economy trying to find a reasonable purpose for religion – the very irrationality that fucked everything up in the first place? Let us be literal in every way. Let us be rid of confusion in our dialect. Let us rid our speech of metaphors and aphorisms and be direct, clear, and concise poets and debaters and lovers. Let us rewrite our language entirely, and let us burn down churches and then bury the ashes – not just change their purposes. A whore in any dress is still a whore. Kill the whore I say. Pull her apart brick by brick and then pulverise each brick into dust, and shoot that dust into the fucking sun. We cannot build a better world until we eradicate the poisoned ideas from our past. If that means shipping people who refuse to change their language or their culture, then so be it. You can call me racist, but religion is not a race. It is an illness. It is an infectious delusion. And yes it may be almost extinct now, but what about every other illness we made extinct and then took for bloody granted. Ebola, plague, measles, polio for fuck's sake. Aids. I mean, if we leave the bloodied and stained towels of yesteryear just lying about, eventually it's going to infect one, two or ten thousand people. We have to destroy the whole thing. This means those goddamn wellness centres. Tear them the fuck down. That money can be best spent a thousand other ways. And as for those lucky bastards being fawned over and treated with pristine exception...Fuck em. Throw them in the middle of the fucking desert with nothing but their hope to guide them. There are no half measures, I agree. There is no moderate approach. Sterilise them and throw them in the desert. What we need is someone with the balls to take action, right now. Sort out the right and wrong down the line, but right now....right now..."

The two newsreaders continued their tirade. As they did, The Leader gave his signal, and The Sniper slowly backed through the open door. Her eyes never strayed from her scope as she retreated out of the alley and into the tiny flat.

"House is clear. Take point."

The Sniper made her way into the bedroom where a set of stairs took her to the roof. There she lay on the edge and looked out towards the centre of the city. With the naked eye, it was hard to distinguish one face from the other. But through her scope, this was not the case. And while The Leader made tea, The Sniper prepared her herself and her weapon.

# XII

Just as The Old Man was about to finish his pear, a bell sounded. And just like that, everyone in the cafeteria stopped eating and dropped their utensils. They each inhaled profoundly, and as if they had just woken from a dream or re-emerged from beneath a broken tumbling swell, they looked entirely present, grateful and aware. They held their breaths for a moment, but for The Old Man, who had never seen this kind of thing before, it seemed strange and uncomfortably long. Then, as they exhaled, they all wriggled in their seats and straightened their slouching backs. They stared with strange affection at everything around them – at the person sitting beside them, at the persons at the far ends of the room, at themselves in their own reflections, and at the meat and cream tarts that filled up their plates. And then they breathed some more. It was loud and it was obnoxious. The room inhaled and exhaled as if it were a fashion.

The Old Man, though, continued to eat his pear.

"I'm grateful for knowing you," said The Roommate.

His fingers were covered in sticky brown grime, and he had half a chicken bone stuck to the side of his face. Worse still was that he was asking for a hug. To The Old Man, though, he was asking for something else.

"What are you grateful for? Are you grateful for knowing me?"

"We just met," said The Old Man, picking bits of pear from his teeth.

"Yeah, and? You don't think a baby is grateful for being alive; the second it's born?"

"I don't think a baby thinks all that much; the second it's born."

"Well, you have to be grateful for something."

"You'll have to excuse me from this one. No offence and all, I just don't feel all that undeserving at the moment; or ever."

The Roommate continued talking, except now his mouth was stuffed with a clump of chicken breast, a spoonful of pudding, and some sugared cereal. Even if he wanted to, The Old Man wouldn't be able to make out a single word. As he chewed and slapped the mash of gruel around his mouth, The Roommate's voice sounded like a hiker's feet, marching through thick wet mud. Each word was like a rock or a thick mound of dirt coming unstuck.

The Old Man was eyeing the television. It was hard to miss them really. There was one in the middle of every wall and they all ran the same government propaganda, showing images of The Administrator, cutting through never ending streams of red tape.

"I'm grateful for her," said The Roommate. "Without her, we wouldn't have half of this. We wouldn't get this second chance – to be better and to help make a better world. What do you think?"

"I'm an old man, and my life has been a long, bumpy road. I've seen many things and I've been many places. I've made many friends - most of them lovers; and I've made just as many enemies. I've also let the most important parts of me alone, to get old on their own. And all I have to show are the pieces of broken hearts."

His eyes were fixed on the screen.

"Women of that calibre are the reason that I am here."

In the far end of the room, a woman screamed. It caught The Old Man's attention. "Fuck you," she said, kicking her legs and thrashing her body about. The men who restrained her did so with a great deal of caution. "You can't make me eat if I don't want to. I'll throw it back up, you motherfuckers."

The men tried to encourage her to eat. They did this by holding her nose shut and forcing spoon after spoon of beans and rice into her mouth. It did no good, though. She'd either pass out and they'd have to scoop the food from her mouth, or if they called her bluff, she'd spit it back in their faces.

"Beat me," she said. "Throw me down the fucking stairs. I dare you, fucking pussy. You fucking queers. You cock sucking, kiddy raping faggots. Hit me," she screamed. "Come on you pussies. You scared of a woman, huh? They're all looking at you."

The men looked around. It was true. Everyone was looking.

"They think you're weak; not cause you hurt girls, but because you love cock, and you hate yourself for it. Hit me, you fucking..."

Another spoon was forced into her mouth, and again, fingers blocked her nose.

The Old Man was already at the door, throwing his core in the bin. He left, being chased by The Roommate who was already shouting about what they should see next.

"We should get ready for therapy. It's not good to be late. The best groups are always gone. Are you gonna wear that?"

The Old Man looked himself over and shrugged.

"No, you look good, but a bit formal, you know? People normally wear more comfortable clothes, but you can wear that."

They passed a dozen rooms on the way back to their own. One of which had a large golden sign above the door that read, 'O.F.E'.

The Old Man turned the handle and peered in. It looked like an operating theatre. There was a single table in the centre of the room, and around it, a host of machines and cutting instruments. They shimmered in the light that spilled through the open door.

"This is where you do the.... You know... Snip, snip, snip"

He made scissoring gestures.

"No, I don't know," said The Old Man.

His chest felt as cold as the steel table.

"It's where you go to get the snip, or to tie your bits, if that's what you got; in exchange for knowing stuff."

"Stuff?"

"Things. You know stuff. Education and stuff. That's what the words mean. Ovaries for education. Like a trade-off, kind of."

"Who would do this?"

"I did. And everyone else too. You have to if you want to leave. It's not all bad, though. I don't want any more kids anyway. And by getting the snip, I can choose any technical course that I want and they'll teach me. The best tutors and professors. I'd never get a chance any other ways. I didn't stick around much in school when I was young so, I'm pretty lucky to be given this shot; we all are – to be able to have the same shot as everyone else, and get a good job. Pretty small sacrifice if you ask me, for being a better person, don't you think?"

"So how do you get out of here?"

The Roommate looked white as a ghost.

"We should go," he said, pulling The Old Man along. "If we're late, we'll be stuck with a bad group. You don't want a bad group, trust me."

On their way back, The Roommate was stopped by a guard. They pressed him up against the wall and made him hand over his file. The Roommate did as he was told, and as the guard flipped page after page of his precious possessions, The Roommate started to panic, lying about which ones he cared for the least.

"Oh that one you can take," he said, though his voice was jester-like. "That one too." It was easy to pick which of the papers were most important. They were those that he was most adamant to give away. The guard tore out three pages and then shoved the file back in The Roommate's hands.

"Progress is difficult," said The Guard, "only as long as we refuse to let go."

The Roommate nodded. He was in tears, but he did his best to hold it in.

"What was that about?"

The guard was gone but still The Roommate clung to the file like a mother to her child. "It's part of getting better," he said, though his voice sounded bitter as if he didn't believe a word of it. "Nothing is real, not the thoughts that I think, nor things in my hands; not even the life that I live. Everything goes away. I am not a keeper of things. I am not a keeper of things. I am not a keeper of things."

He repeated his mantra over and over until his sadness subsided, which it did.

"Race you back to the room," he said.

The Old Man walked at a slow and steady speed; not because he was old, but because he enjoyed the 'getting there' a little more than he enjoyed 'getting there'.

"I need to leave."

The Old Man stared at his unmade bed. He had no intention of sleeping the night.

"You can't go anywhere without the Doc saying so."

It was hard to tell if The Roommate was giving advice or making a threat. He took something from his pocket. It was a picture. He kissed it once – softly, and then turned to The Old Man smiling. "Isn't she beautiful?" he said.

The Old Man stared at the woman in the picture.

"She is," he said. "Is she your wife?"

"She is," said The Roommate. "Or she will be when I'm better. She comes with a new car – I don't really know what kind; and a house as well. It's nothing too glamorous, but it's in a good neighbourhood. I figure we'll have lots of kids, so being near good schools is important. We'll probably adopt, so we can help kids that don't get a proper shot. And I can't, you know?"

"What's her name?"

The Roommate shoved the picture back in his pocket. "That's not important," he said.

"Have you met her?"

"What does that matter?"

"Well, how did you meet her?"

"I didn't meet her."

He sounded frustrated.

"I picked her; like I picked all my things."

"You picked her? A person? How do you pick a person?"

"You look for the prettiest one and you say, 'her'."

"She's a fantasy. Everything is. It's all a ruse, don't you see? All of those things you say you own, all of those things in that file, none of them are real."

"Just because you can't see them, it doesn't mean they aren't there."

"But they aren't here, are they?"

"No. They're there."

"Where's there?"

"There, is wherever I am when I'm better when they let me out of here."

He might as well have said Heaven.

"How long have you been here?"

"I was rescued from the sea a few years ago. I was the only survivor. I spent some time on an island for people like myself – you know, people without permission. It was terrible there – the way they treated us. I thought we had escaped the worst of it, then I got to the detention centre on that island, and I saw much worse. I was there for a while."

As he spoke, he winced, as if he were seeing things – things he had spent a great many years trying to repress. The last of his salvaged sanity fought to skip those significant details. As he acted as such, The Old Man sat on the end of his unmade bed and listened intently. It was the first real conversation he had had since he arrived – maybe even in the last week or so. He swayed back and forth as if The Roommate's words were notes on some beaten down bluesy scale. He tapped away on the tops of his legs, playing the rhythm to the man's unspoken pain, and he even hummed a note or two as he listened and followed along.

"Then I was moved here. And here I am better; here is better. And I've been here for a while, but soon...soon I'll be out there, and I will be the better part of a better world."

As he spoke, The Roommate repeatedly made his bed.

"You're not from here?"

"West."

"Your accent is thick. I would have said East."

"You go West enough, you arrive East."

"Your family?"

It was like he was provoking him. The Roommate tried to keep himself busy. He'd done so well at forgetting all of this – and if not forgetting, then doing his very best to avoid thinking and feeling the way he felt now.

"They do not exist. It is just 'I', and now there is 'you'."

"I hope you don't see this as prying but, can I ask...."

The Old Man leant in such a way that he looked like a leaf stretching for the morning sun, or a drunk, for the ale that dripped from the tap.

"How did they die?"

"Yes. How did they die?"

The Roommate sat on the edge of his bed. He stared at The Old Man, but he looked through him. His face looked different. It looked flaccid and poorly attached. His eyes drooped and his manic smile vanished. It looked as if every muscle in his face just gave up and stopped pretending that he was OK with any of this.

The Old Man, on the other hand, closed his eyes and settled his body. He looked calm and relaxed. He looked happy and content. It was as if someone had sworn to play his favourite record, and he was listening now to the crackle of The Roommate's voice, waiting for the needle to drop.

"We travelled very far to be here. Our home was a place of war – no food and no shelter. It was not safe for happy children, so we left; along with hundreds of thousands more – we left. We paid men some money – everything we had saved - and we took a boat, but there were too many people and the boat was in terrible condition. And the fool that steered it was worse. We had an accident in the middle of night. The waves were big – like mountains. They broke our boat, and they broke the people on the boat. Everyone went into the water, and everyone drowned; everyone except me. I don't blame any one person, though. There was no way to save that many people. I did the very best that I could. I called for my children first - my two girls."

The Roommate smiled, and The Old Man was nearly driven to tears.

"They were beautiful. They had their mother's smarts and they had her looks too, but my wife would probably tell you different. My girls could argue their way out of anything, except this; neither of them knew how to swim. And that was my fault, as a father. It was dark and I couldn't see. My mouth and eyes were full of wind and water, but I called for them. After every wave, I called. I called louder than everyone else. I called louder than the ships engine, and I called louder than the waves that were breaking it apart. I kept calling, even when other people stopped. And when I knew that they couldn't be alive, then I started calling for my wife."

His smile was gone now, but it was not taken by sadness. He looked entirely unemotional; as if he were merely giving The Old Man directions.

"And then I stopped calling. I realised it is just me in the ocean. In the morning I saw that this was true. I'd drifted a long way with a piece of the boat. There was nobody. There was nothing. There was only blue - the blue of the water, and the blue of the sky. At some point I started to think of death and of course, I thought of God – why he would do this; why he would kill all these people; and why he would just leave me. When I was as a boy I learned how to swim, but my children – I just didn't have the time. And my wife; she hated the beach, and she'd never go to the pool – she hated what the chlorine did to her hair. All those people – none of them knew how to swim, but me, I did. I felt guilty for a long time. I blamed myself because I didn't die. And I said, 'God, give them back, and take me instead'. I begged and pleaded for a long time, and I just cried a lot. But it's difficult to cry and keep your head above the water, so I stopped, and instead, I kept treading water and then thought about dying. I thought about stopping and just letting myself sink. It's funny, though, I learned how to swim, and even if I wanted to die, the rest of my body didn't so it just kept swimming. It wouldn't listen to me. It wouldn't let me give in, no matter how much I wanted it. It's impossible to unlearn something that's in the process of saving your life. And then one day a boat passed and it took me to the island. I don't know how long I was in the water, but I was in bad shape. And after the island, I came here, and now..." he said, taking a long breath, the kind he took in the cafeteria – the kind of breath that washed away needless and damaging thoughts and feelings. "Now I am better."

The way The Old Man swayed back and forth, you'd think he loved every word.

"That's terrible," he said.

"For you? For me, it is a story."

"I mean, it's tragic and it's terribly sad."

"What happened? No, sad it was not. Scary, yes. It was very scary – frightening even. Missing my wife and my two beautiful daughters, and knowing I will never see them again, that is sad. But to think of them as dead – as not existing – that isn't; at least it doesn't make me feel that way. One cannot see what does not exist. For me, it is not tragic; it's just a story. It's the past. It shaped me, but it does not define me."

He smiled as he spoke.

It was now that The Old Man looked frustrated. He stopped his swaying, and his eyes were wide and glazed. The way he looked and the way he spoke, The Roommate was starting to sound no different to the lady at the bar. He sounded cold and rigid, like the music that spilled from its stage. He was hardly a man worth swaying to.

"One cannot touch what does not exist. Just as one cannot hug or kiss what does not exist. One has no sense of what does not exist, and it is therefore that one cannot feel for what is dead and buried, or for who or what is lost at sea. One cannot feel for what does not exist. And so I do not feel sad or sorry because my family doesn't exist; I do not feel at all, just as I feel nothing for the infinite number of possible things that could exist but that do not – especially those that have yet to be imagined and invented and those yet to be dug out of the Earth or brought home from distant planets. I cannot plant a seed where there is no garden. And I've been told I am right and better in thinking this way, so I know that it is true. And what about you? How were you lucky to come here?"

"Do you believe in God?"

The Old Man wasted no time.

"No, I do not."

"Did you?"

"Of course. You are an old man. I am sure you also did, no?"

"What did you believe?"

"We are not permitted to talk about these things."

"Is there a soul?"

"Sir, I have worked very hard to be better. You are making it very difficult at this time. I don't like these kinds of questions."

"If there is no God then how can we judge morality? How can we assert right from wrong? And why do we sing songs of redemption?"

"There are no more songs of redemption. We are people. We are alive, and we live together at the same time. We are people. It's simple. We hurt and we heal. And if it is you that did the hurting, you feel bad not because of moral reprisal; you feel bad because you are a person and it is not your wish to hurt for no good reason. I do not need God for being a good person. I am a good person, and I am a bad person too - it depends on which person you ask. For the most part, I believe that I am good. I do not need God and you do not need God too. It is simple, my friend," he said, resting one of his hands on The Old Man's shoulders. "Just do not be a pointy penis to other people. There is your moral compass. In therapy, you will understand."

"What is this therapy?" asked The Old Man. "What do they do?"

"They teach how to die and how to lose our fear. And with no fear of death and no fear of inexistence, there is no need for you-know-who."

"I do not believe in God," said The Old Man.

"Then why are you here?"

The Roommate dropped his hands. He dropped his guard.

"Because you still do."

The Old Man pushed The Roommate onto his bed. The age difference was no issue; neither was their size or stature. The Old Man had bones and joints like crumbling bread. And his hands, they shook when he stood still as if he was constantly petrified at the thought of whatever came next in his life. The Roommate, on the other hand, was in his fifties. He was slender build. He wasn't muscular or athletic in any way, but he looked like it wouldn't be too much trouble to fend off a child or a drunk; or the old bastard that stood before him.

He didn't, though. He fell forwards onto his belly and put up nary a struggle. The Old Man landed on top of him with began strangling him with his dozen laces. He wasted no time at all.

"Where are you going?"

He spoke soft and congealing as if The Roommate were being felled by age or some incurable condition, and not cold, vicious murder. He spoke as if they were friends - as if this were an act of compassion. The Old Man stared deep into The Roommate's eyes as if he were looking something, or waiting for a moment to appear. "This has to stop," he said, as The Roommate's body went limp.

# XIII

"I think it's time to call in the army."

"I do not want to win anyone's favour with fear or intimidation. They're people. They're us. They've just been inspired to think that we, they, all of us, are somehow different. If we bring in the army, it'll only further their conviction. It will strengthen their cause."

There were so many people now. It was just a blur of faces – impossible to pick one from the other. Above them flew their flags and banners, and from their red faces soared their cheeky rhymes and impassioned songs.

"Mam, how long do you think you have left before they break the barricades?"

"That won't happen. They are rational people."

"They're frenzied."

"They want reform, that's all."

"They want your blood."

"They're rational."

"They're desperate, Mam."

"Then we ease their desperation, but we don't provoke it. Bringing in the army will only make matters worse. This is not a war. They are not an enemy. They are our constituents, and this is a discussion, that is all. They have every right to protest, and they have every right to be upset. They need to be informed, that's all. They need to be told what is happening. They need to be treated as if their voices have been heard – as if they matter. They need validation and right now, they're getting it from the wrong source. I should have stepped in earlier. I should have kept them in the loop from day one."

"What the hell are you gonna say?"

"I have no idea."

The Administrator stared out the window at a young girl who sat on her father's shoulders. She was in the middle of the crowd and she would've been invisible were it not for the coloured bows in her hair; one of which caught the sun, and reflected it in all directions as she twisted and turned, dancing to the rhythm of the song. And for just a moment, their eyes met. It was long enough for the girl to smile and wave her hand, though as she did, she thought she would fall.

The Aide continued to talk. His voice was full of doubt and worry. It hissed like a burst radiator as he went on and on and on. He listed every worst case scenario imaginable, and in the gaps between one word and the next, he imagined several more. It wasn't easy to drown him out - maybe it might have just been easier to drown him altogether \- but The Administrator kept her attention on the young girl, raising her own hand to wave back. It was only a moment, but for that moment, she forgot about all of her problems. She didn't even know that she could do that. She forgot about the city and all its problems, and she forgot about the deficit, the debt, and all the promises that she had made - of which none of them had come true. She forgot about herself most of all. She forgot about herself as being responsible and being to blame. She forgot about herself as having failed and being lesser than her intentions. She forgot about herself entirely. For that moment, she waved her hand and she even cracked a smile.

"All it will take is one bad turn, and this will be out of our control," said The Aide.

# XIV

Lying completely still and saying not a word, The Leader and The Sniper studied the crowd that passed beneath them in the scopes that sat upon their rifles. Just as the crowd of Literals that gathered at the steps of City Hall numbered in the many thousands, so too did the number of Moderates who marched below. Their songs were just as boisterous, and though their message was anything but radical, both the hoarseness in their voices and the glaring look in their eyes said that; as conservative as they were, they were capable of anything.

The Leader picked through the crowd with his scope. He moved swiftly through the crowd to read the expressions of every protestor; be they a parent, child, sister or brother – or be they lovers, strangers, or friends. His scope moved between the abled and the crippled, and from the recently born to the frail and terribly old without any prejudice.

"Cleared hot," said The Sniper.

The Leader ignored the group marching below – those whose placards spoke of tolerance and the need to allow the passage of change to run its course. Instead, he followed The Sniper's original coordinates away from the marching protestors, toward the centre of town where a child - no older than five - sat on her father's shoulders, smiling and waving at people she didn't know.

The young girl was dressed in black like her parents, and her hair was tied in pretty coloured ribbons that glittered in the sunlight. Her older brother stood by their father's legs, and the balloon that he was carrying was barely visible in the rifle's scope. She was in the middle of the crowd that had gathered on the steps of City Hall, and she was singing along, even though she didn't know any of the words. Her favourite colour was yellow. Her favourite food was spaghetti. Her favourite animal was a fox, but her favourite pet was a gecko that lived in the crack behind her bed. She was scared of monsters, spiders and fireworks, though the latter was recent. Before last week she loved them. She was always happy, except with bossy people. She had many friends in daycare and at the park too, but her best friend was her brother; even though he was a jerk most of the time. At bedtime, she liked to be tucked in tight, told her favourite story and kissed once on each cheek. Her favourite teddy bear's name was Teddy, and she preferred climbing and jumping off of things more than she did, playing dress ups with tea sets and dolls. Her name was Lua and she was four years, two weeks and three days old to be exact.

"Tango down," said The Sniper.

# XV

The room they were in was quite high. From the window, The Old Man could see out over the city towards the dockyards. Every nook and cranny were busy - full of panicked commotion. It was hard to tell if it was the good kind, or if it was something worth writing home about. He had never seen the world from this vantage – he'd never seen it at such a height. Immediately he thought of the black birds which, when he looked to the blue sky, soared above in slow graceful circles; barely flapping their wings. But down below, it looked as if an entire colony of ants was hastily preparing for rain.

"A city is no different to a person. It has a name as a person does. It can win awards and inspires change, and it can be revered and desired, or equally it can be spoken terribly ill of. It can be praised, lauded, and even immortalised in song; or it can mocked, teased, picked on and pushed around like some mangy, black-fleeced sheep. It can be drawn towards, or it can be driven away from. It can be a hero or it can be a villain, but it cannot be both. And like a person, it has infrastructure. And just as we have bones, veins, cells, nerves, and capillaries, so too does the city have buildings and towers; and roads, bridges, sewers, and optic fibres too. And just as a person can be sick in body and mind; so too then can bridges buckle, buildings fall, and the wrong policy and ideas – impassioned, factless and dividing ideas – infect like a virus, and drive a city and its constituents to the edge of utter lunacy. And just as every city can be made up of identical infrastructure, it is the cells, the DNA, and more so, the good and bad bacteria that feed on every scrap of news and information which differentiate - and in turn determine - the nature of a city; where either health and prosperity can thrive, or disease and attrition can become so ubiquitous that they define its culture. A city is organic. There is nothing unnatural about it whatsoever. It is built from the very minerals as are you and me; as is the entire of our cosmos. Even the thousands of tonnes of space junk that orbits our planet is made of precious metals, minerals, and oils that were dug out of the earth or trenched from the bottom of the sea. They are no less natural than the rings of Saturn or Jupiter. A city lives. It breathes. And just as easy as anyone of us, it can be stricken with impoverishment, and it can suffer and die. As better people, we must learn not only how best to serve our city but as a city, how best to serve ourselves."

As The Therapist spoke, The Old Man continued staring out the window. The glass he looked through was like some giant microscope and through it; he was examining the microcosm of Corpus Industria.

"I want you to all pick get into groups of five."

The room was abuzz. There seemed to be this genuine feeling of happiness. It was hard to take it seriously at first. The Old Man wore his cynical moniker like a vest. It didn't distract from his social attire, yet it kept him safe and warm from the chill of bitter disappointment. The Therapist moved to the window and rested her hand on his shoulders. Instantly, he cringed.

"Nothing is beyond salvage, and nothing cannot be saved."

She took The Old Man with gentle force and led him to the only group with less than five people; and with The Old Man, they made four.

"We seem to be one short," said The Therapist.

She sounded as if surprise were not something to which she was accustomed; as if within these walls, there was a pristine order to all things – every cause had its coupling effect, and all were planned, scheduled, and part of a published curriculum.

"Nevertheless, we can make do with four."

She gently nudged The Old Man into the group. He looked nervous. He wasn't usually nervous. He could be pushy and belligerent when he wanted to, but most of the time he'd be quiet, standoffish, and observant. Very rarely, though, was he ever nervous about anything.

"Surprise, surprise. And here I was thinking you were dead."

It was The Girl from the bar. She looked now, just as she had then, on the verge of catastrophe. Her eyes were glazed. The sunlight shone off them instead of into them. They didn't catch the light, they reflected it back. And though she smiled and looked as if she were happy to see The Old Man, her smile was worrying. It was inviting, yes, and she did look merry, but it was kind of smile etched on the face of a young child who had been caught suffocating a tiny kitten. She didn't look like she meant any harm or foul, but it did appear as if one or the other might very well be her nature – as if malice were her given name.

The Old Man stared at her oddly as he would anyone whose affection seemed a tad overstated. The Girl didn't take offence, though. She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed him so tight that he was worried that her belly might pop or explode; and whether this meant that he had to hug her back.

Hugging as tight as she could, The Girl whispered in The Old Man's ear.

"You have to help me, please."

She sounded like a stricken animal, flailing on the side a road. The Old Man's every instinct was to break her neck and put her out of her misery.

"You're the only one I know. You're the only that cares."

He didn't care. He didn't even know her. Still, he didn't say a goddamn thing.

She looked as lost and helpless now as she did back at the bar. She wasn't exactly hovering over cocktails and whiskies, but she had that same despondent look as if something unfortunate had, or were about to occur.

"Pass around an envelope to each member of your group, and do not look at each other's notes."

The Therapist handed four envelopes to The Girl, who then handed on to the two members of the group she had not before, and finally, she gave The Old Man the last.

"Can anyone tell me the name of our first exercise?"

A young couple at the back of the room raced to shoot their hands in the air. They barely waited for their names to be called. They could barely contain their excitement.

"Go on," said The Therapist, giving them just what they wanted.

"Purpose," they said in unison.

They did everything together.

"Very good. This is the Purpose Exercise. And can anyone tell me what is the purpose of the Purpose Exercise?"

They were so quick. How could anyone compete? Two sets of hands were more robust than one. "To see ourselves as we are seen," they said, in perfect harmony, "as the cause of our outcomes and not necessarily the meaning of our intent."

As they spoke, The Old Man imagined what it would be like to beat one of them to death; though he couldn't for the life of him think of which he would choose - as long as one of them had to go through life alone, it didn't really matter.

"Excellent," said The Therapist. "Now, please open your envelopes, and do not show your role card to any of your team members. Memorise the card and your role. My auxiliary will be collecting them shortly."

Around the room, each guest pinned their envelopes to their chests and slowly drew out their cards inch by inch. Each did what was asked of them – studying their task and role for some time before sliding the card back in its envelope. And they all wore the same stupid, wide-eyed expression on their faces as if they'd just had their cherries popped and were desperate to tell someone. The Old Man now felt exactly how he had at the bar.

"Finished?" asked The Therapist.

The rest of the room were electric. Their smiles were as mad as they were stupendous. They all rushed to give in their envelopes and then raced back to their groups. The Old Man, on the other hand, took his time. He waited for the auxiliary to come to him. And even then, he waited until he called him sir.

"Ok, let's start the first activity."

# XVI

There was a great deal of excitement out on the street, but of the terrified kind. The Orator still stood on his podium –the post he had kept for days now. He did his best to quiet the crowd and to stop the trampling one another, but his voice wouldn't carry any louder than the people's screams.

There were the screams of those on top, who scrambled over those below, desperate to get out of the open, and out of the sniper's range. Then there were the screams of those below, those warm and muffled screams of last and final breaths being taken. They were the moans and screams that travelled the farthest. They reached the belly, and not the ears. They ached and pained the most because, for them, nothing could be done.

The firing continued. It wasn't rampant, but it was consistent. Each shot was a kill. Even as bodies pushed into and fell over one another, each shot was a kill.

"Sir, we have to get to some cover, off the street."

"I have to stop the panic."

"Sir, we have to get you inside."

He wasn't listening. He stood there, waving his hands like a crazed conductor, trying to reign in the wave of panic. It didn't occur to him that he might be shot. Even if it did, it probably wouldn't change a thing.

"They're gonna crush each other."

Between each order, The Orator took to the microphone and urged everyone to stay where they were, but at the end of every sentence, another shot would ring out, and another child would fall limp in its mother's or father's hands.

"Please, help the people around you. If you feel someone below you, lift them up. Help is on its way. It's gonna be ok, I swear."

He could hear now - barely audible above the sound of weeping and pleading - the sound of angry protesting as thousands of Moderates came marching towards them. Their jubilant and riotous chanting carried like a gale, and riding within it, came the whirl of gunfire.

"You will not die today," shouted The Orator.

As he did, another child fell.

The Orator was the lone person standing. Beside him, on the stage, his auxiliaries all lay on their bellies, covering the backs of their heads with their hands. His security, along with what police still remained, huddled together in the midst of the crowd, firing their weapons blindly in the air. They had no idea where the shooter was, so they aimed their guns at where they thought he or she would most certainly be, and they began firing into the marching crowd; killing few but wounding a great many.

"Good work, soldier."

The Sniper immediately began dismantling her weapon. She showed barely a nerve. Her hands didn't shake and her breathing didn't flutter. She looked as if he had just woken from a terrific sleep.

"Take your secondary position," said The Leader.

# XVII

"To get us warmed up, I want you all to tell the person beside you something that you did or that happened to you that made you happy, or that you found important."

The Girl looked to her left, at a middle-aged man with a snobbish look about him. He had one of those fascist general's haircuts. It didn't look like there was a single hair out of place. His eyes were narrow and his mouth was too small for his face. It looked like a child's mouth.

"I got this tattoo," said The Girl.

"Tattoos are ugly. I wouldn't get a tattoo. I can't even see any tattoo. Where did you put the wretched thing?"

The Girl looked to The Therapist.

"Really?" her eyes asked.

"Of course," said The Therapist's half condescending smile.

The Girl started to open her knees.

"Oh, dear lord, stop right there."

The Girl did so, looking hurt and estranged.

"Slut," shouted The Prude. His little mouth was as wide as it could go. "You keep those filthy knees together. Look at you, disgraceful whore. Does that child even have a father?"

The Girl rested a hand on her belly.

"Continue," said The Therapist.

"It's a butterfly on a flower," said The Girl.

The Prude shook his head.

"I would never in my life...."

The Girl stared at her stomach and gently caressed the small mound.

"It's so the first thing that this child sees is the beauty and colour of this world and so he or she knows that life can still grow where once there were only scars."

"And how did you feel when you got the tattoo?" asked The Therapist.

"Relieved," said The Girl.

The Prude shook his head even more; were it a screw top, it might possibly pop off and drop to the floor. As disgusted as he was, though, his couldn't shift his eyes from the gap between her knees. He was half salivating, and half choking on his own poisoned spit.

"And how do you feel about it now?"

"I like it," said The Girl.

"And that makes you feel?"

"Happy, I guess."

"And what do you say to that?" said The Therapist to The Prude.

It took a second for him to lift his head once more; the rest of the room was already there waiting.

"I wouldn't do it."

The little mouth sucked shut.

"But she did," said The Therapist.

"And? How is that my fault? I didn't make her do it. I don't like it. I don't have to like it."

"You don't like what she did, or you don't like how it made her feel?"

"I wouldn't do it; that's all I'm saying."

"Feel relieved? You wouldn't do something that offered you a physical or an emotional relief? You wouldn't do something that made you feel happy?"

As she spoke, The Old Man watched as one-half of the happy couple got up quietly and slipped out of the room with the bathroom key.

"Of course I would, but I wouldn't do that. The tattoo, that desecration. I wouldn't do that."

"Nobody asked you whether you would like to do it or not. The act itself is insignificant. It is entirely relative. What is important is how the person feels. Knowing this, we can, if we choose to, better understand the act. But when somebody shows or tells us of something good, we shouldn't project ourselves into that piece of news; we shouldn't celebrate or denigrate the act, but instead the state at which that person is. If she got a tattoo between her legs and it makes her feel relieved and happy, then you should be happy too; not for what she did, but for how it made her feel."

The Old Man had killed hundreds of people so far, and he had travelled to just as many places. But he was entirely unsure how any of these acts had made him feel. Were he to feel something – some kind of or relief – would that make it ok?

The Prude stared at The Girl with threat in his eyes.

"I swear to God," he said.

It was a second later before he was dragged from his seat - kicking and screaming. "I didn't mean it," he shouted. "It was a slip of the tongue. It was her, she made me say it. Please, God, no."

It might have been just a turn of expression, but it was a dangerous one. The Prude screamed. He screamed loud. It was like a dying cat or an engine seizing. It continued as he was dragged down the hall, and even when he packed into a tiny elevator and taken to the eleventh floor. His screaming didn't cease. No-one who was taken to the eleventh floor was ever quiet. There was a particular pitch and tone to a person's scream when they realise that there was no negotiation. The Prude screamed like a child that was locked in the dark. And all the while, nobody in the room said a thing; they just listened and learned.

"And what would you say?" asked The Therapist, turning to the third member of their group.

"I am happy that you are happy," he said, with a smile.

"Very good,' said The Therapist. "And what about you?"

The Old Man was tired. He was always tired. That was the thing about age; he didn't really feel any different to when he was a boy. There wasn't a definable point where he stopped feeling one way and started feeling another. Whether it was his first drink, his first job, his first fuck, or his first child – he was always waiting for some kind of change to occur; but it never did. Now, as an old man on the doorstep of death, he still felt so blatantly unsure of everything, it was just, he was so bloody tired all the time; that and he hadn't taken a proper shit in weeks.

He looked at The Girl. He looked at her now just as he had at the bar. Her hand stroked her belly now, but back then, it was gently caressing the salted rims of small shots of tequila and large pitchers of ale. Her words were no sweeter than the wedges of lime that spread apart each glass.

"I need to take a piss," he said.

"Ok, well, you go do that, and the rest of us will keep going with the activity. Do be quick, though, we are about to start The Purpose Exercise."

"Righty-o."

The Old Man struggled to get out of his chair. It was amazing he accomplished half of the things he did; let alone all the murdering and getting about.

"Do you know where it is?"

"I'm sure I can figure it out. Can't be that difficult."

"I'll show him. I have to go too," said The Girl, rubbing her belly.

The Old Man gave her his disapproving look, but who was he to argue?

"Come on then."

He moved like a swaying bridge. Were even a grain of dust to land on his shoulder, it would probably tip his balance; and him with it. He complained a lot too with every step that he took. He didn't say anything per se, but it was the way that he breathed. He sounded like broken hydraulics. He kind of huffed and puffed, and with it, he released this dull moan that sounded bored and unimpressed; as if walking were some kind of laborious chore that he was doing as an act of kindness to somebody that he didn't care for.

"Here we are," said The Girl.

There was one bathroom, it was a shared facility.

"If you could do an old man a favour and give me a minute. Nothing against you, I'm just a little old fashioned is all."

She didn't take any offence. "I'll wait here," she said. "But be quick, I really have to go."

The Old Man entered the toilet and examined each stall. He stood at the sink pretending to wash his hands, but just letting the water run beside them. In the stall behind him, The Happy Guy – we'll call him – was whistling as he was doing his business.

The Old Man sat in the stall beside and waited.

The Girl, standing out front, couldn't wait any longer. She barged through the door just as The Old Man finished washing his hands.

"Couldn't hold? I get that," said The Old Man. "It's all yours."

The Girl stared The Old Man in his eyes. She had such a glare. It was like a first kiss or a punch in the teeth. It had been a while since he'd met a woman with a look so fierce; far too long.

"I don't have to go," replied The Girl.

"Why are you here then?"

Beside them, a man lay slumped over a toilet seat. The Girl didn't notice, or she didn't care. "Why are you?" she replied, snappy.

He didn't respond. He turned back to the mirror and fixed his tie.

"I know who you are," said The Girl.

She looked to the stall. Its door was shut but she could see the shadow of the dead man's fingers as they barely grazed the floor. She looked back at The Old Man

"And who is that?"

"I followed you to that bar. I've been following you for a while now."

A while; exactly how long was that?

The Old Man thought of the last thirty people he had killed. Their faces flicked through his mind like days on a calendar. His heart started to flutter and his chest tightened.

"You're the one on the news, aren't you? You killed all those people."

"And you're trying to kill your baby. How are we any different?"

The Girl looked at her belly and then she thought of the last thirty drinks she had had. She had had much more but that was all she could remember.

"I didn't say we were."

She moved closer, close enough to be strangled.

"They said you were younger."

"Does that upset you?"

"No, not in the slightest. I won't say anything, I promise."

She had a beautiful neck, the kind you wouldn't waste on a string.

"Where did they take that man?" asked The Old Man.

"The eleventh floor. That's where they all go – the ones who show no improvement. The ones who still believe in God."

"How do you know?"

"I've basically lived here for ages, so I know everything about this place."

"And the bar?"

"I ran away," she said, staring at her rounded belly, "but now I'm back again."

He looked at her, as if she deserved some kind of discipline, but only after he found out more. "So this eleventh floor, what is it?" he said.

"It's where they keep the people that cannot change."

"Theists?"

The Girl smiled.

"I knew you weren't one. The news was just making that up because of the impeachment. I knew it was just political. Hell, I didn't even think it was real, not until I started following you. I knew you were going to blow up that bar."

"The eleventh floor," said The Old Man sternly.

"Yes, yes there are. Lots of them."

"Can you take me there?"

"Why? Why them? Whose side are you on? Are you a Moderate? Are you a Literal?"

"I'm not an anything. I am me, and I'm not on anyone's side. This has nothing to do with the government. This is my business and not the nest you need to be poking around at, you hear?"

"I can't tell you, not now - later. We have to get back to therapy before they suspect anything. They act all nice and caring, but they're not."

The Old Man quickly fumed.

"Do you know what a spree is, girl?"

She didn't, and he followed her regardless. When they got back to the room, the seats had been arranged in six rows. At the front of the room, there was a table that had been dressed with a sheet and pillow and made to look like a bed.

"Hurry up, don't dilly daddle."

"I'm old. This is as fast as I go."

There were two of them but was only one seat left – front row centre.

"Go on," said The Old Man, nudging The Girl forwards. "It's bound to be fun. I'll be right. I'm better seeing things from afar."

Before he could even get settled, The Therapist put her arms around him and ushered him to the front of the room.

"You, my esteemed friend, will be the deceased."

The Old Man stared at the table. It looked awfully high and terribly uncomfortable. Then he stared at The Therapist. She looked a little high herself, but more so, she looked at tad reserved but entirely committed. And then he looked out across the room. It was full of inappropriate smiles and gestures.

"Ahh fuck it," he said, rolling onto the table, face down. "It's the best I can do."

"That's fine. Now, what is the purpose of life? Why are we here? What is its meaning?"

She took an empty jar and held it in front of the class.

"What is the purpose of this jar? What kind of jar is it?"

The room looked at her with blank attention.

"An empty one," said The Old Man, wishing this whole exercise would hurry along.

"That is right. It has no content, and therefore it has no purpose."

The room was quiet again, but not out of boredom. They were still and silent, dumbfounded by her sagacity. The Therapist drew their silence out like a round of applause.

"It's a jar. Its purpose is to be filled."

"With what?"

"It doesn't matter."

"I think it does, and I think you do too. Let's say this jar has always had a faulty lid, and until now, it never bothered you – but you always knew it as the jar with a faulty lid. So, one day, you drop this jar and you cut your foot on broken glass. The cut is a little deep so you go to the hospital and there, by sheer chance, you fall in love with the nurse who gives you stitches. Was the purpose of that jar to be filled or broken?"

"Why do you choose the broken jar as the catalyst to finding love – why not the speed that I drove, or the way that I took; either of them allowed me to arrive between her finishing suturing one patient, and then starting another? It's too convenient. That's all I'm saying."

The Old Man's ranting drew some sniggers from around the room, mainly from The Girl. She had played out this exercise a thousand times over and had grown as tired of the guests' predictable involvement as she had The Therapist's script.

"And that's exactly my point. This jar could mean anything to anyone. It could be filled with nails, beans, bobbins or a dozen paint brushes. It could be holding open a door or holding down a manuscript, or it could be the jar that's never filled, waiting to be given to friends or family, or the noisy neighbour across the street. Or, it could be the perfect way to close an argument. And life is no different. It has no purpose outside of that which you attest."

One-half of the happy couple clapped and cheered, though she couldn't pull her attention away from the door.

"I want everyone to take out their cards now, and one by one, you will all stand up and read them aloud. Firstly, though, we will hear the purpose of existence from our deceased. As each of us will die, some of us will have the time to contemplate and be aged enough to address some kind of meaning and purpose to this play. You will each have your absolute truth of what your life meant. Why? Because you lived it. And nobody can deny that. But was your life entirely as you saw it? Was it entirely yours? I will read the deceased's card, written on his dying bed. Purpose as he saw it."

The Therapist took The Old Man's card and read aloud.

"I lived a life of hard work and sacrifice, and I have little regret. My profession gave me purpose. My work defined who I was. Outside of that, little else was in my control. And so I would like to be remembered for that which I left behind."

The room all took out their cards.

"Ok,' said The Therapist. "Here we have a man who dedicated himself to his work. What do we know about him? Were he given more time, we may know more about his work but even less about the man. So, is his purpose as one dimensional as he would have us believe? Let's go around the room now, and each person read out your card."

And they did just that. One by one, they stood up and they read aloud how the deceased had affected their lives – how in some way he had been a catalyst to changes that had been both good and bad. Those, whose lives had been bettered by knowing him, spoke of him glowingly and with hyperbolic affection. And those who still clung to bitter memories did their best to be civil but showed that the man could be as selfish, thoughtless, and cruel as he could be generous, giving, and kind; that he was as much an ass as he was a genuine fellow. Some spoke of how his legacy would affect generations to come, while his son talked about how he strived to be the exact opposite with his own children. Each person talked in great length and detail. They each gave their purpose for this man, and each was entirely plausible. He was in one hand a hero, and in the other, a despicable villain. He was thoughtful and careless, and considerate and mean. The best of who he was inspired others to be just as great, while the very worst of him inspired everyone else to be better. Were he a jar, he would have held a thousand things and affected a thousand lives. And as much as his life was his, so too, it appeared, his life had belonged to everyone else.

"What is the purpose of life? Can purpose be all of these things or is it, like our esteemed gentlemen told us before; all too convenient? And it is true. There is no purpose. The idea of purpose is part of your rationalising mind. Just as you will define a day – like your luck – as being good or bad, so too will you define purpose as the outcome that you have in your hands. Were you to lose all your money, you would define purpose as having learnt the true value of things that matter, yet the person beside you – he or she who took all your money – would define purpose as a just and deserved reward. Neither of you is right. It is just a delusion of consciousness; as is the fear of death and inexistence. There is no purpose. There is no deeper meaning."

The Happy Girl looked distraught. She stared at the door and something inside her twitched. So she burst out of her seat and shouted, "There has to be meaning. Even in a secular philosophy. There has to be meaning – some moral and purposeful direction. Or else what's the point?"

The room was silent. Right now, she wished her husband were here.

The Therapist clicked her fingers and door burst open once more and The Happy Girl was dragged out by their neat and easily graspable hair. The entire time, she squealed The Lord's Prayer.

"This next activity is designed to show you that inexistence is not at all to be feared, reviled, or doused in any kind of superstition. Everyone return to your seats and set up in a circle once more, please."

By the time The Old Man had gotten himself back on his feet, the circle was already made and The Girl had his seat saved beside her. He moaned a little, but then again, that might just have been indigestion.

"I'll call on one participant to sit in the centre."

Scores of hands burst into the air but The Therapist ignored them all.

"You," she said, pointing at The Old Man.

"Oh, for Pete's sake. I just sat down, can you not pick someone else? Let me at least catch my breath."

"We can do this where you are."

"Of course you can."

The Therapist placed a small cap over The Old Man's head. There were wires protruding on all sides that ran off to a computer, and the device that made it work was a small clicker which was held in The Therapist's right hand.

"Existence, like purpose, is merely a delusion. You exist it is true. But the 'you' that is unique and aware, it does not. It is a by-product of consciousness. And therefore, in this exercise, we aim to show you that inexistence, or the act of dying, is nothing to be feared. That it, in fact, is nothing. Now sir," she said, handing The Old Man a fairy tale, "if you would care to start reading out the text."

The Old Man looked at her worryingly.

"It's fine," she said. "Trust me."

"You better be right," he said.

The Old Man Started to read the story.

"Once upon a time, there was a rainbow and a unicorn."

Click.

"And both of them lived in a......."

It took a second or two, but The Old Man's words sounded softer and softer until he was out like a light – though his eyes were wide open. His head too, stayed where it was and his muscles remained intact. He still held onto the storybook in his hands, and his lungs continued to breathe unabated. His body behaved as if nothing at all were wrong.

"By sending a light stimulus to a particular part of the brain, we can turn off consciousness. Here, right now, though his body has not died, this gentleman has ceased to exist."

The Therapist released the button. The Old Man wet his lips and cleared his throat. He looked like he'd just woken, or had a seizure.

"What happened?"

"You were reading," said The Therapist, pointing to his last words. "Continue, please."

The Old Man stared at the coloured pages.

"...a castle that was up on a hill."

Click.

"And in that castle there was..."

"And again we can see that consciousness and the state of being – 'I think therefore I am' – it is not at all as wondrous as we picture it to be. It is not divine or mysterious. It is a mechanism. It is science. Inexistence is the opposite to that state of being. The state where he is now is no different to your deep sleep each night, and for any of you who have been anaesthetized, it is the very same state. And this state is entirely no different to death. Tell me, does he look scared?"

"No," they all said.

"Does he look in pain?"

"No," they said again.

"Then let's ask him."

She let go of the button again, and again The Old Man awoke, even though his eyes were already open and his body was already as if he were busy doing things.

"How do you feel?"

The Old Man looked at her oddly.

"Like I did a minute ago."

"You don't feel confused?"

"A little, but I get the feeling that these activities are a crock of..."

"Your consciousness was turned off."

The Old Man was right to look worried.

"What do you mean turned off?"

He was already removing the head garment.

"Do you remember anything?"

"No, no I do not. What did you do to me?"

"Are you worried about what happened to your consciousness, or what happened to your body while you were gone?"

"Don't be smart. What the hell did you do?"

"A signal was sent to your claustrum, a thin sheet of neurones at the centre of your brain. It was nothing serious; you have not been damaged in any way. It merely interfered with how the hemispheres in your brain communicate. You did, on the other hand, cease to consciously exist for a minute or two."

"A minute?"

"Did it hurt?"

Everyone in the room was on the edge of their seats.

"Did what hurt?"

"Inexistence."

"Nothing happened. I don't know what you did, but I don't remember a thing."

"Do you hurt now?"

"No, I don't hurt."

"Did you see anything?"

"What?"

"When you were unconscious. Did you see anything?"

"I don't know. No, I guess. No. No, I didn't see anything."

"Did you go anywhere?"

"No, I didn't bloody go anywhere. I was right bloody here."

"When you ceased to exist, were you aware?"

"Of what? This is the first I'm hearing of it."

"Were you scared?"

"Of what? Nothing happened. You're all bananas."

"Are you scared now?"

"No, are you?"

It was not the response she was expecting.

"Of course not," she said.

"You should be," said The Old Man, though it went unnoticed.

"Ok, wonderful. Now, here in this room, we witnessed a man die. The part of death that we fear, the part – not of our bodies decaying, but of our thoughts and ourselves ceasing to be – we saw is nothing to be feared. It happens to us every night in our sleep. We die and we wake from our death every single day. We do not fear inexistence when lay on our pillows, just as now, we do not fear inexistence having seen it first-hand. Each of you will have a turn in the cap. We'll go counter-clockwise."

As the group continued the exercise, watching each person read aloud and then vanished into nowhere; The Girl leant into The Old Man's ear.

"I can get you to the eleventh floor," she whispered.

The Old Man didn't even blink.

"I'll do fine by myself," he said.

The activities in the centre of the circle continued. Guest after guest dived at their chance to wear the cap and experience nothingness. By the fourth or fifth, it was clear that there had been a shift in the paradigm. Where before there was apprehension and nervous onlooking, now there was deafening laughter and thunderous applause. They were like children having licked on the ends of a sugary spoon. Their fear was a thing of the past, yes, but now they seemed crazed and on the verge of hysteria, desperate and needy to experience death once more.

The Old Man stared at the guest who now sat in the chair. She was as inanimate as the chair itself. Though her blood still looked warm, and her skin had lost none of its colour, she didn't seem as if she were real. Her chest rose and sunk like a real person, yes; and her body didn't look artificial – she didn't look as if she were held together with cables and wires. Still, though, there was something missing, and it was apparent in her eyes.

"No. I have to show you," said The Girl, unable to let it rest. "You won't get anywhere 'round here on your own."

"I'll figure it out."

As he spoke, the woman in the centre of the room woke from her stupor. The instant The Therapist let go of the control, the woman's eyes came to life once more. She was a little dazed at first, hardly believing that anything had happened, but once she saw her colleagues cheering, smiling, and clapping aloud, she knew she had done something spectacular – though it was something she would never recall. She blushed and though she couldn't remember a thing, the looks of joy and ovation on everyone's faces was proof enough that she had died, and that it did not hurt, and that she did not suffer; that, and that now, there was nothing at all to fear. And this, most of all, was cause for celebration.

"You need me," said The Girl.

The Old Man didn't like needing anyone or anything.

"I'll just do what those last fools did."

"It's not that easy. Those people had it coming. Most of us do. You're new, though, they'll give you time. If you try it, they'll see through you. You don't just pull the last straw, not when you have so many."

"Right."

It was never a good feeling, being shown up by a kid.

"Trust me," she said.

"So be it. You tell me one thing then."

"Anything."

"What were you doing at that bar?"

"Sorry?"

Again her face dropped. It was as if she had the answer to all of life's problems written on the round of her belly. Every question always led her to the same response. Though her words might have sufficed a credible lie, her actions did not.

"I don't know about this," said The Old Man. "Look at the state of you."

"Please. I help you, you help me."

"What do you want?"

Again, her attention dropped to her belly.

"I want to get out of here."

The Old Man ignored the activity. He turned to The Girl and looked her long and hard in her eyes. It was the kind of stare that could crack a nut, or chip the paint off a man's bravado.

"You sure?" he asked.

Any sane person might have said no.

"Yes," she said. "I am."

She was frightened, but she was also terribly excited.

# XVIII

"Help!"

"Help us."

"Oh god."

"My boy."

"My girl."

"My wife."

"Speak to me."

"Please, no. Don't die, please. I love you, I love you, I love you."

"Help us!"

"Someone fucking help us!"

"Don't die. Don't die. Please, please, please. Don't die. Please don't die."

"Are they gone?"

"What do we do?"

"Are they gone?"

"Daddy!"

"What the hell is going on?"

"Everybody's bleeding. Someone help us please."

"Daddy! Daddy, get up."

"Are they gone?"

"What's wrong with daddy?"

"Are they fucking gone?"

# XIX

"What the hell is happening out there?"

The Administrator stood there with her hand pressed against the window, still staring at the little girl who only moments before had been smiling and waving, and who now lay bent, bloodied, and lifeless in her father's arms.

"Get back from the window, Mam."

"Who is shooting? Who the fuck is shooting?"

"I don't know. I'm trying to find out."

Tucked into the furthest corner of the office, The Aide cursed into a dozen phones, at first demanding, and then pleading for answers.

The crowd was still now. Their singing had stopped, and not one flag was hoisted in the air. They didn't push or shove; they just lay there, pretending to be dead.

"We have to do something."

"I'm on it," said The Aide, before turning his attention back to one of his phones. "I don't give a shit who did it. We don't have time for that. Find someone – poor, black, whatever. Put their face on every TV and newspaper in the next 30 fucking seconds."

There was a pause. It was just a second.

"I don't give a fuck if they're innocent or not," screamed The Aide, "I need a gunman. Just find someone now."

The Administrator couldn't take her eyes off the young girl. Only one of her bows remained, and even with all that blood, it still sparkled. She couldn't bear to look at the girl's father, though; it was bad enough having to listen to him whimper. He, and all the other mothers and fathers, who leant over their dead children, completely syphoned of their courage and strength and reduced to shock and disbelief.

"We have to help them."

"I know. This doesn't look good."

He said that from the back corner of the room.

"It's gonna look like we did this," he said.

"What?"

"They're gonna think that we did it. It's a coup. The whole damn thing was staged. They kill their own and make it look like we did it. That's it, sayonara, it's all over now."

"Their own? What the hell is wrong with you? They're people. They're children. They are fucking children. There is no left or bloody right. This is not about what anyone believes or not. What about any of this is ideal?"

"Mam, wait."

He was still crouched in his corner, but now he was white as a ghost.

"What is it?" she asked, incapable of more.

"All the centres..." he said, incapable of saying more.

The Administrator looked up at the sky. Smoke was now billowing, not just from overturned cars, but from each of the Wellness Centres around the city.

"We lost them?"

"What do you mean we lost them?"

He clung to his dozen phones listening to what little information anyone knew.

"They took everything."

"Who are they?"

"They stripped the places bare."

"Who are they?"

"They took them all."

"Who? Where?"

"Oh fuck me. They zip tied everyone – bags on their heads."

"Who are they goddamnit?"

The Aide turned back to his phone.

"Are you sure?" he asked, someone on the other end.

"What? What is it?"

"They sent them off in buses, Mam."

"Where?"

"I don't know."

"Are they alive?"

"I don't know."

"Where the hell are they?"

"I don't fucking know. That's what I'm tryna find out."

The Administrator's heart felt like it was about to beat its way through her chest. Her stomach twisted and churned. She felt like she had swallowed some poison and her body was slowly convulsing. Her legs shook and her arms felt like two dead weights. She felt loose and idle inside her own body as if she had disconnected from her skin – just a passenger inside a rotting piece of meat.

"What's happening?" she said, turning back to the hell below her window. She felt vapid. Her every nerve and sense had been abolished. And it was now that she was courageous enough to look at all the crying mothers and fathers; weeping and apologising as they rocked their dead children back and forth in their arms – the only thing they knew how to do. And then her attention once again drew on The Orator. Their eyes met with vacant solidarity, but quickly, his drew into a veil of suspicion.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

The Aide ignored her. He wrestled each phone and strangled every last bit of information from each of his sources.

"Mam," he said.

But she couldn't break her stare.

"Mam."

Her eyes were stained with as much blood as The Orator's hands.

"There's still one."

"What?"

"There's still one centre."

"Which?"

He paused for a second; ad for that second, there was no whimpering or pleas for help. There was no fire in the sky, and the roads outside were not littered with bones and debris. For the length of an entire second, there was hope.

"Which centre?" she screamed.

The Aide hung up the phone.

"Goodreach," he said. "It's the only one left."

"Send the police. Send the army. Get them on the phone. Evacuate that facility now."

"Mam,"

"We have to evacuate that centre."

"Mam, it's too late. They're already there."

# XX

Before the activities had finished, there was a knock on the door. The Therapist apologised and attended to the disruption. As she spoke, the guests - like abandoned children \- began playing with the equipment, doing cruel and demeaning acts to whoever wore the cap. Their faces were full of happiness and harmless perversion, while The Therapist looked sick, and on the verge of passing out.

"How many centres?" she asked.

"Seven," replied The Concierge.

They both stayed silent for some time. For them, it may have felt like seconds, but for The Old Man, who was watching them like a hawk, it seemed like forever. They both wore the same look. It was one of sheer helplessness. It was one of retreat and surrender. The both looked as if their will and fortitude had leaked away, along with the colour in their faces and their ability to stop their hands from trembling.

"What are they doing? What do they want?"

"No idea. They took them all in buses, that's all we know."

"Is it the government?"

"Who knows? They were armed to the teeth. They had machine guns and grenades."

"Was anyone hurt?"

"Not that we know of. This can't be good, though."

"No shit."

"Well, do we run? What do we do?"

"Who else knows?"

"Now? Just me, you, and then The Doorman. He's on his way up to the penthouse, though. If we're gonna do something, it has to be now."

The only thing The Therapist felt like doing was vomiting. Her legs felt heavier than cinder blocks and her mind was like a vacuum, tearing apart her every plan, atom by atom. It took a breath or two before she could compose herself.

"We'll sneak out. We just leave - pretend everything's normal. Get out the front door, and run."

"What about the guests?" asked The Concierge, always the model employee.

The Therapist turned and looked at her group. Neither of them had clued on to the predicament. They were too busy playing with the device.

"Fuck em," she said. "I don't wanna die."

"Do we tell them?"

"No. It'll be chaos. They'll lock everything down. We have to go now before anyone else finds out."

The Therapist took a breath. It was a large breath. She might have taken half the air in the room. Were anyone looking, they would have noticed it as a suspicious breath, and like an itch or a yawn, they probably would have taken one of their own.

"Ok, group," she said, willing every nerve in her body to be as calm and flaccid as a spell of the doldrums.

Half of them turned; the other half was having too much fun.

"I'm just going to step out for a minute or two. Keep doing what you're doing, you're doing great?"

"What are you doing?" she thought, "just get out."

Neither showed nary an inch of concern.

"So, umm, I'll be right back and...."

Now her nerves were beginning to show. If she didn't leave soon.....

"Just umm... don't break uh...."

"We have to go," pleaded The Concierge.

Her voice was soft. It crackled. She was on the verge of tears.

"You're in charge until I get back," said The Therapist.

She was pointing at The Old Man, but she was looking over her shoulder.

"Lock the door when I leave," she said.

# XXI

"Follow me quietly, and don't make a scene."

He could have danced his way to the door; it wouldn't have made a difference. The guests were having the times of their lives - their short little lives.

"We're doing this now?"

The Old Man peered down the hallway. It was quiet and looked hardly as perilous as his beady stare would let on. But that was no reason not to stay close. The Girl kept one hand tugged to The Old Man's shirt in case he should dart off in any direction, and her other hand was clenched as a fist.

"You can't call the elevator without a key," she said.

"Stairs it is then."

The Old Man took one look out the window. He could see the buses already arriving. There were maybe eight or nine. That wouldn't even count for half the guests.

"We haven't much time."

The Girl took one quick look for herself. She could see The Concierge and The Therapist; both of them on their knees and begging for their lives. They'd only gotten as far as the corner. They never had a chance, not even if they'd left a minute earlier. There were so many gunmen, and they were everywhere. Scores of them had already started entering the building.

"Looks like things are gonna get a little busy around here. Now, girly, what floor are we on?"

He had his head inside the stairwell, peering up and down. There were no numbers written anywhere; not on any doors or walls, and the seventeen lights on the elevator shone in blank patterns of five.

"I don't know," she said.

She was panicking, and not being of much use.

"Slow down. Breathe, alright? Just breathe."

The touch of his strangling hand against her neck sent a shiver of alarm through her every nerve, and in an instant, she felt warm, safe, and calm.

"What floor are we on, love?"

"They're always changing the numbers; it's too hard to tell."

"Right, can't change that then, can we? Tell me then, the eleventh floor; is it up or down?"

"It's in the basement," she said.

"Right, so down it is then."

They entered the stairwell just as the gunmen burst into the foyer. There were two large explosions that were quickly followed by short bursts of gunfire. It would have been less than a minute all up, but it sure as hell felt longer. And then, as quickly as it all started, it stopped – just like that. In its place, there was prolonged silence. It was the kind of silence that was impossible to hide in. The Old Man and The Girl kept as still as they could, but with that much adrenaline, it was no easy feat. Their hands and legs shook, their breaths howled like the wind; and they both had trickles of warm piss running down their legs.

"I want this facility stripped bare."

The Leader marched through the foyer after the dust and smoke had settled. Behind him, scores of gunmen rushed into the building and held their positions. Those still on the street went door by door taking the neighbours from their beds or their hiding places and offering them comfort and assurance.

"Sir."

A gunman rushed from inside, almost slipping on small pools of blood as he did.

"Division Six has their position. They're waiting on orders. What should I tell them?"

"Destroy every artefact one by one."

"Yes, sir."

"Then burn it to the ground."

The first of the buses was already being loaded. It was service staff mainly – cooks and cleaners, maids and bellboys. Most were loaded into the buses dressed only in their undergarments, and some of them stripped bare.

"We were only following orders," said one prisoner.

"It was just a job," said the others. "We had no money. We had no food. It was just a job. Pease, it was just a job. We bear no allegiance."

It mattered very little. They were ushered into the same cages as those whose allegiance was not in question; those that defended their moderate idealism with vile cursing, and threats of revenge and abuse. And soon enough they would all be naked; their heads and eyebrows would be shaved; their eyelashes clipped; and, dressed in their heavy grey boiler suits, it would be impossible to tell one from the other; be they man or woman, or right or left winged. It didn't matter, not now at least.

The Old Man dragged The Girl through the first door they passed. The door slammed and echoed down through the stairwell. The Old Man dropped to the floor. He could hear the sound of gunmen shouting and probably pointing in their direction.

"Is there any other way to the basement?"

"The basement? Are you crazy? We've got to get out of here. If they catch us..."

"I didn't ask you tag along. You told me you could get me to the eleventh floor. Now either you can or you can't, which is it?"

# XXII

"Mam, our ride is here. We have to go."

"I won't leave my post. I refuse to leave my people – not like this."

"There is no post anymore, and they're not your people. They never were. Mam, we have to go; right now."

"You go ahead, I'll be fine."

"I think you underestimate the severity of the situation."

"I understand quite clearly."

"Mam!"

He had to shout, on account of the helicopter landing overhead, and from the chants of bloodshed coming from the floors below. The barricades were down and the police who had been holding them were the first to kick down the front doors. There were still those that lay still on the ground, but many of them were dead or badly injured. The rest ran as if it were their profession. They burst through the doors and stormed up the stairs, tearing apart floor by floor. Those who preferred to hide did so behind desks and cabinets, and in rooms with locks on their doors. And then those who thirsted for someone to blame did so by scraping paint off the walls until their fingers bled and making prisoners of those who begged for compassion and surrender.

"Mam, please, I can't go without you."

"You'll be fine. I'll be fine."

"No, Mam. I can't go without you."

"Just go damn it!"

"They won't take me unless I'm with you. I'm nobody without you. I don't want to die, and I don't want to go to prison. Please, think of someone other than yourself."

"I am," she said.

Her eyes hadn't left the young girl. There was nowhere else to look.

The second shots were fired, The Aide turned and ran. There were only two more floors until the roof. All he had to do was get on that chopper. The truth wouldn't matter, not now, not with so much at stake. He ran as if his life depended on it, which of course it most surely did. He ignored the bullets that whizzed past his face just as he did the orders for him to stop and give himself up. They called him cowardice and they called him a traitor. But it was easy for them to say; they weren't the ones being chased.

It was like a sinking ship. In seconds the entire building was full. There was nobody outside on the square; nobody who could stand or hold themselves up anyway. Inside, the jubilant singing started once more. It might have been a show of defiance, or it might have been an act of sheer denial. Either way, they sang as if this were some kind of victory.

Across the street, though, it was quiet. Perched on the rooftop, The Sniper slowly adjusted her instruments. She had The Administrator and The Orator in the crosshairs of her scope. Side by side they stood. Side by side they would fall. It was windier now than it was before, and the afternoon sun was glaring in her sight. Not this, nor the awkward angle, would affect her judgement.

She took one last breath and closed her eyes for a second. As her finger slowly pressed against the trigger, she opened them once more. And there - floating in her sight - was a sparkling and bloodied hair bow. She followed it, as the wind died and it fell back onto the bloodied pavement below.

The ground was littered with children, and it was painted with their blood.

She took one more breath and returned to her scope. The Orator and The Administrator had not moved. They were both locked eye to eye. It looked as if very little was being said that hadn't been said already. The Sniper wiped a tear from her right eye and rested her finger on the trigger once more.

"Forgive me," she said.

# XXIII

One shot rang out; then three, four, and twenty. In a matter of seconds, the quiet and calm that had once threatened to give them away turned into a roaring scream of death. Bullets broke bones and chipped away plaster in walls, and they travelled from floor to floor.

When the shooting finally lulled, The Old Man took his hands off his eyes. He was backed into a room full of machines; his legs tucked up against his face, and his body, shaking like a leaf in the middle of a fucking tornado.

"Are you mad? Get down!"

The Girl was standing in the middle of the hallway. There were holes in the ground where bullets had whizzed past her feet and yet, she stood there as if there were no other place she would rather be. She hovered above the holes as she had the pitchers of ale and the shots of whisky back at the bar, holding her belly with one hand while other hanged beside her body with its fingers so neat and gently crossed.

Already the floors above were being emptied. They could hear the procession slowly marching down the steps as the chains that bound their hands and feet rattled against the concrete stairs.

The Old Man grabbed The Girl by the back of her shirt and dragged her into the room where he hid. "There are far better ways to die, dear girl – if that's what you so wish. But not here, not now."

The stairway door burst open.

"Shhhh," said The Old Man.

"I'm not scared," said The Girl.

"That's what I'm worried about."

They could hear their footsteps first. The floor creaked and ached as the gunmen made their way along the hall. There were more than a dozen. It sounded like the ground was about to give way at any second. They could see their footsteps next. The gunmen's shadows blocked out the light that crept beneath the door. They stood there for some time – silent.

And that was the worst part – the waiting.

The Leader stormed up the stairs. When he entered the floor, he went room by room, kicking open each door – severing them like splintered limbs. In the first room, they pulled out babies. Some had to be wheeled in their incubators, while others were grouped together and carried like ripened fruit as they slept or cried their lungs out.

Not a word was said the entire time. There was no indecision. There were no mistakes. There was not a moment of doubt whatsoever. Each gunman played their part intimately. They did so with precision and finesse.

The second burst open and there, slumped over on all fours, was a cardinal, dressed from head to toe in his extravagant purple attire, and slobbering pitifully as he begged for his life.

"Release the prisoners," said The Leader.

The gunmen entered and went straight to the back of the room where – after tearing off a cloak of red velvet - they cut through the bulky chains that kept a small and cramped cell tidy and shut. As sparks flew, inside, seven young boys dared not move. They scuttled and burrowed into the farthest corner where they did little but shake tremendously. Their bruised and naked bodies were covered in billions of tiny goosebumps – either from the rasping cold or from sheer fright. They pressed against one another like startled sheep, and they eyed the gunmen nervously whilst kissing the crosses that they wore around their necks.

The Leader stepped into the room and gazed at the walls surrounding. From ceiling to floor, they were decorated in acts of bestial perversion. There was scripture inscribed in blood and faeces, and there were pictures of the very worst kind of atrocities, held to the wall by the dried tears of broken, young boys.

"Come and save me, dear Lord," said The Cardinal.

The Cardinal threw himself back and forth as if some tide or rhythm were in control of his body – writhing in his muscles, tendons and veins. As he sang, he wept. And the more he wept and blubbered, the louder he sang, and the wilder he thrashed his body.

"Save me from vicious, cruel and brutal enemies. I depend on you, dear Lord. I have laid my trust in you since I was but a mere lamb. I have relied on you since the moment I was born. Dear Lord, do not desert me, not in my hour of need. Dear Lord, I love you and I will continue to praise your name as I have my entire life. And I will announce your power to save, to intervene, and to degrade and devour those who dishonour your name. My enemies are yours alone. Dear Lord, come to my aid. Smite if you may. Dear Lord, I love you, please, do not let me down."

"Bag him," said The Leader.

The Leader was the only one whose face was not covered. He was the only one with nothing to hide. He looked The Cardinal dead in the eyes; from the second the door ripped off its hinge, to the moment a cloth bag was pulled over his face and tied off around his neck. He would never mention why he allowed The Cardinal his final prayer. He would never mention, and nobody would ever dare to ask.

"When this building is burnt to the ground, you start here, in this room."

And room by room he went, making his way up along the hall. This was, by sure, where the most serious and deranged kind of religious fanatics and artefacts were housed. The Old Man listened intently as each room was cleared of his inhabitants; their capture marked by the echo of steel shackles, rattling down the concrete steps.

"This one," said The Leader.

His shadow was enormous. It's stretched into the darkness and even there, it cast a shadow on the wall. When the light burst in it grew even larger. It spread out over the body of an old man, and that of a young pregnant woman. They lay side by side – their hands entwined. They both looked peaceful and still. They looked, on one hand – dead, and other the other hand - not. Their eyes were as vacant and glassy as the trinkets that dangled off the young woman's ears. They looked devoid of life. Yet, their bellies rose and fell as if they were not, in fact, dead. Their pulses were strong, and their skin was warm and elastic. They looked neither here nor there; neither alive nor dead. Strapped to their heads were small metallic crowns, and pressed firmly between their entwined hands were two small remotes.

For the first time, one of the gunmen seemed estranged.

"Do I have to spell it out? Load them on the fucking bus."

"Yes, sir. But sir, they're tied to these machines. What do I....?"

The Leader sighed for the first time. More than anything, this gross incompetence was a reflection of his teaching. It was a measure of how far he had yet to come.

"If they don't come apart then shoot them," said The Leader.

"Yes, sir."

# XXIV

The Old Man awoke in a confused and rattled state. The world was beige, and it was hot and smothering, and it smelt like a mix of burning plastic and mothballs. When he inhaled, the world wrapped tighter against his head and forced itself further down his throat. And when he exhaled, it was a gagging reflex. He spat out the world, but only as far it would go, and then he sucked it back in again.

The second he awoke, he had no idea of even who he was. There was an instant, which felt somewhat profound, where his mind was completely blank. He had no memory whatsoever. He did not know his name. He had no idea where he was. He had no idea of the world or bearings of his place in it. He felt, in that instance, without any prejudice or any expectation at all. He felt light as if his consciousness were not weighed down with the heavy sediment of his past. He felt as if he had suffered a great blow to his temple; one that had rattled his every sense. In that instance, when he awoke from unconsciousness, he felt entirely new.

But an instance is brief, and barely a second later, he realised quite quickly that he was choking of a torn bedsheet which was tied around his head. His first instinct was to panic, but this only made things worse. His second instinct was to panic even more.

"Sir."

The Leader turned, holding the controls for the unconsciousness machine in his hands.

"There is no sign of the Imam in question."

The Leader didn't respond. He went back to examining the parts in his hands. He flicked the switch and watched the lights glimmer on the headpiece that comfortably sat, like a bloodied crown, on the head of one his gunmen. With each turn of the switch, he watched how the gunman's eyes went from piercing and ready, to cold and vacant in a mere second. They were the same eyes but at the turn of the switch, they were void of any occupants. There were no lights and no signs of life whatsoever, yet his breath and his pulse were proof enough that the gunman was not dead. On the eleventh test, when the gunman's eyes glazed over, The Leader put two bullets in the gunman's left leg.

He waited and he watched, but outside of the initial blunt force, there was no reaction at all. The gunman didn't wake from their stupor. They didn't clutch at their bleeding wound, and they didn't scream bloody murder. There was nothing, just a trickle of blood that ran down the gunman's shin. And then he let go of the button.

There was an instance – there's always an instance – where the gunman felt nothing. They – like The Old Man – were merely a clean canvas with no past and no future, just this, a present state. They felt no fear, and no pain or anxiety. They felt no desire, no guilt, and no remorse. They felt neither good nor bad. They were untied from their obligations and they felt none of the stress or the burden of their often unfulfilled expectations. They felt disconnected from their nerves so that there was no proof – in that instance – that they even had a body. They felt disconnected too, from each of their emotions so that in that instance, they were in a state of complete equanimity. In that instance, they were entirely awake and aware, yet they were divorced from their ego – severed from their often anguished self. But, an instance is brief, and as quickly as the gunman's rattled senses came back to life, so too did the feeling of intense burning and fire in their right leg. And they screamed. They screamed bloody murder. It was loud and piercing. It was the kind of scream that woke up mothers in the middle of the night. It was partly from the pain, yes, but really it was fear. It was the fear of wolves and dinosaurs, and the fear of eight armed monsters lurking under the bed. It was the fear of death and dying. It was the fear of being left alone – of being unwanted and abandoned. And they screamed. They screamed loud and convincing until The Leader pressed the button once more, and then they stopped.

"And the rabbi?" he asked.

The other gunman was still behind him, waiting - with a nervous kind of patience - for their next command. "Tagged and caged, sir."

They both stared at the gunman sitting in the chair.

"Go through every room again. Search all personnel. The Imam is here."

"Yes, sir."

They were both still staring at the gunman in the chair.

"It's a shame, but they'll never walk again."

The Leader raised his weapon once more and shot the gunman in the head.

"Find that Imam," he said, dropping the control on the ground.

As fires were being lit around the facility, The Leader slowly made his way down to the ground floor. The Doctor walked with him, his hands clasped behind his back – the walk of a scholar or a murderous fascist.

"You have no idea of the work we were doing here – how close we were to a breakthrough. I suppose it doesn't matter now. I suppose it never did."

The Doctor said little more. He did not walk like a condemned man. He did not walk like a defeated man. He walked like a man who had a future, irrespective of his past.

"We can all learn from this you know. There is no wasted knowledge," said The Doctor.

It was now that he sounded scared. The Leader ignored him, though. He continued to inspect each room as they made their way down below. Thick black smoke billowed from the air ducts above their heads, but this didn't deter or distract The Leader. Room by room he went, making his final inspection.

"I see a bold future for you and I," said The Doctor.

They both now stood outside of the facility. In the distance, sirens and engines roared. There were police, fire brigade, and ambulances. There were so many that it was hard to tell in which direction they were headed. Nothing was as loud, though, as the sound of crackling fire, bursting into the sky, smashing open windows, and showering glass on the people who gathered below.

The line of prisoners slowly dredged forwards until eventually, they were all placed in small cages inside one of the many buses the lined the street. One by one their engines turned and roared; and on command, they each left facility one by one, each going in their own unique direction.

"What now?" asked The Doctor. "Is there some facility or some labour camp? Where to now?"

He spoke as if he had some kind of a future. He spoke as if his knowledge and his life were indispensable. He spoke as if he did not have, in fact, a gun pointed at the back of his head.

# XXV

There was a single shot and then everyone screamed. And even though their faces were masked in hoods and duct tape, they all shut their eyes. The first shot brought with it several more, and in barely a second, there was a war going on. Inside his cage, The Old Man could hear a barrage of shouting coming from all sides, but couldn't tell who was who. He kept his eyes shut too, but instead of clenching up like all the others, he felt a wave of absolute calm wash over his mind and his body, and then he just let go and relaxed.

"Any second now," he thought, expecting a bullet to tear through the side of his head.

He'd felt like this before – many times in fact. The first time he had sex. The first time he got into a fight. Whenever he got drunk or stoned, and that time that he had a seizure – the twenty minutes or so that followed it. There were moments like these and much more which were like this moment now. They were like them, but they nowhere near as serene. He sat there in his cell waiting for a bump or a thud, and then for everything to go dark and quiet. He didn't watch his life unfold. There was no film and there was no running commentary, there was just an awareness that this was the end. And it felt wonderful. Better than any drug, orgasm or seizure.

The Old Man smiled as the first bus exploded. The others did not, but that was to be expected. And when the second and third buses followed, the prisoner's whimpering and snivelling turned into panicked shouting and pleas for help – not from the authorities, but from their captors, to 'get us out of here' as they put it, far from the brink of extinction.

The explosions continued, as did the gunfire from behind clouds of smoke and ash. The whole while, the prisoners cringed in puddles of their own urine, most of them reverting back to prayer while their bus sat perilously still. In her cage, The Girl caressed her belly. She did so as if she were not in the middle of a war but in fact, laying in the soft sand of some desolate beach, awaiting her drink and portion of fries. She hummed quietly and there was not a hint of bother in her voice, or in her softly caressing hands. Unlike the others, she was not cringing and she did not hunch or slouch her body. She sat with her back arched, and her head tall and noble in the centre of the window that her fellow passengers were trying to avoid. Both she and The Old Man looked as if they were someplace else.

"Cease fire," ordered someone from the armed forces. "Cease fire," they said again.

It took a moment or two, but the gunfire slowly came to an end. Both sides lay down their weapons and took refuse where they hid. There was the occasional shot here or there but soon enough it was dead quiet, except for the rattling of empty shells rolling down the sidewalk. And it was another minute or so before the armed forces spoke again.

Both sides were bloody and wounded, but neither would let on.

"Put down your weapons. It's over. We have the entire area surrounded. There are roadblocks at every corner for the next twenty kilometres. There is no other way out of this, believe me."

He spoke as if he wasn't sure.

There was a tense era of silence. It could have been a second, a week or a year. I didn't matter how many seconds there were, for the prisoners caged in the bus, it felt like an eternity. It brought with it hopeful exhilaration, and at the same time, gut-wrenching panic.

The first sound to break the silence was that of weapons being laid on the floor. One by one, the gunmen lay down their arms. There were so much – their arsenal so large – that it took a minute or two before the quiet returned.

For the first time, a sense of relief washed over those who were caged on the bus.

"Nobody else needs to die here today."

This, he was sure of, but whether they would or not, he did not say.

There was a rattling behind an overturned bin. Two hundred weapons instantly drew their red lasers in that direction. "Hold your fire, men. Hold you fire."

Dressed in black - but with his face visible for the first time - a young boy stepped out into the open. He would have been no older than fifteen. He had his hands above his head and he walked in slow even steps in the direction of the armed forces. Each of his steps resonated. They sounded alone and vulnerable. It was the only sound there was, and this might have been the only time in history that so many people listened so intently to the sound of a young lad's footsteps.

"That's it, fella; one step at a time."

He had two hundred red dots all hovering over his chest and face. It was easy to see how nervous everyone was. Not one of their sights could sit on his heart for more than a second, no matter how hard they tried.

"You're doing fine, boy."

He crossed the great divide – a sea of blood and broken glass that littered the dead and wounded. He stepped over and around young men no older than himself. And he stepped over women who might have been his mother, and young girls, who were old enough to, on any other day, have caught his heart and his passion. He stepped over their lifeless bodies, and he ignored the plight of their bloodied hands as they reached out to take his own.

"Nearly there, son."

And he was. He was nary an arm's length from the man who was calling him in. He was close enough to whisper and be heard. And if he wanted to, he could spit in their faces; he was that near. Instead, he smiled, and as he did, several of the officers smiled back.

"Nothingness, or nothing at all," he shouted.

There was a second of confusion before the belt around the young boy's waist exploded. Cars were ripped in half, and limbs blew about like specks of dirt. There was a hole in the ground where the boy had stood that was the size of a small swimming pool. And as for those two hundred red dots, they were reduced to a couple dozen at most.

And then, like some morbid symphony, around the city, there was a crescendo of explosions; each more devastating than the last. An orchestra of men and women, both young and old, came flooding out of buildings and alleyways and as passengers on the back of motorcycles. They walked into shopping malls, into libraries and museums, and they made their way to every roadblock and checkpoint in town. They all wore the same vests and they chanted the same creed a second before fire erupted from their bellies. "Nothingness or nothing at all," they all shouted, each just as loud and impassioned as the one that came before. Their beliefs and ideals ignited with them. Their hearts and their thoughts lit up the sky.

Boom, boom, boom, boom.

And like that, the gunfire returned, and with it came a great deal of panic.

"Help us," shouted somebody in the back of the bus.

"Save us," said another.

Finally, the engine started. The whole bus shook and rattled; and as it slowly pulled away, the prisoners slid about on their seats, nearly falling and strangling themselves on their cuffs and chains. This didn't matter, though, not one inch. The bus was moving; that's all that mattered. Whoever was behind that wheel right now was their white knight. And as bullets whizzed past their windows and grazed their arms and legs, each of the prisoners welded their eyes shut, and the best they could, they hoped and they prayed in their own particular way for the driver of this bus to be extraordinary at this very moment, and to save their bloody lives.

The bus smashed its way through the first barricade. Most of the vehicles had already been burned to a cinder, and the officers and soldiers who manned them were either dead or begging for first aid. You could hear their pleas each time the bus changed gear. And by the time they reached the fourth and fifth barricades, the popping gunfire disappeared beneath the roar of the engine and the rattle of their cages, until soon enough it was clear that they had made it – they had escaped.

And there was rapturous cheering.

Were their hands not bound, there would have been rapturous applause too.

# XXVI

For the first hundred or so kilometres, there was little to no speaking. Though they had long since escaped the gunfire and explosions, the prisoners sat in their caged confines looking anything but saved. Most of them still huddled as best they could in their seats, though their cuffs and chains would only allow them to bend over just enough so that only the tips of their backs were visible through the windows. But every time the bus drove over a pothole or hit a pedestrian, the prisoners were swung about like a bag of stones, hitting their heads on the seats in front, and twisting their chains into uncomfortable binds.

There was only the sound of the roaring engine and escaping from it, the smell of oil and diesel. The prisoners, though, they looked as if cars, buses and young soldiers were still exploding all around them. Every muscle in their bodies was clenched as tight as it could, and their eyes and cheeks constantly flinched whenever the bus or their seats squeaked or squealed. Most of them were covered in blood; if not their own, then from the scraps and remains of young men and women who had given themselves in the bloody war. And there were others who were still showered in broken glass. It sat pooled on their laps, and on the backs of their necks as neither had either the courage or the will to move a bare inch.

There were thirty prisoners in total. They were each crammed into small cages with their ankles and wrists bound painfully tight. Neither knew the other's name or anything about their lives' whatsoever, yet when they caught one another's passing stares, it was if they had spent a lifetime trading cultures. There was comfort and a sense of fraternity in their silent passing. They were all strangers to one another, except of course for The Old Man and The Girl.

And then there was the bus driver. He or she was hidden behind a barricade of enormous steel plates. There was a door with which they could exit and enter their post, but it bolted shut from the inside. And piled up at the front of the bus were enough explosives to destroy a small town. They were all connected by a matrix of wires and sensors that ran from the front of the bus, all the way to the back – attached to every hinge on every cage, and on all of the emergency exits. And hanging from the roof there was a large television showing old cartoons and advertisements for hand cream.

Outside the scenery was beautiful. The horizon was filled with mountainous ranges, and there were open pastures for as far as they eyes could see, and they were all different shades of green. Some of them were light and some of them were dark, and the rest were somewhere in-between. There were animals wherever you looked – happily grazing and lazing about in the afternoon sun. And every now and then they passed the odd farmer, selling strawberries by the roadside, or walking barefoot and blistered with an open jerry-can in one hand, and a lit cigarette in the other.

It was a hot day, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. The sun was right overhead, busy sapping the life out of anything that was unfortunate enough to be caught without a roof or a speck of shade. There was a slight breeze, but only as long as the bus was moving. Whenever they stopped, the air became like a red hot blanket that burned the prisoner's skin and seared the backs of their dried and aching throats.

The view though was exceptional, not that anyone cared.

All eyes were on the explosives packed at the front of the bus.

"Where do you think they're taking us?"

They sat beside each other in their own cages; she on one side of the aisle, and he on the other. The Old Man was still grinning, but not with as much character as was before. It almost looked forced now.

"Well that was fun," he said.

He wiped the dried spit from the cracks of his mouth and stretched out his old, haggard muscles – as much as the chains would allow of course. He started with his toes – curling them and squeezing them as tight as they could get before letting them go one by one. He did this for some time before he worked his way up through every muscle in his body – twisting and turning, clenching and tensing. And when he was done, he wiped away the bit of blood and bone that was dried near the corner of his eye.

The Girl, on the other hand, hadn't moved her body an inch. She was still curled over her belly, her hands a useless but comforting support. Whenever the bus rattled or jumped, her hands immediately pressed on the small bump, rubbing it like a crystal ball.

"What is it with you and that thing?" said The Old Man, nodding at The Girl's belly. "If I had a dog I wanted dead, I'd either let him off his lead, or I'd grow a pair and kill him myself."

"I don't wanna talk about it."

"I don't mean to pry but you were nursing quote a few drinks back at that bar; half of which would have put you in a coma and that baby in a very small coffin. And starving yourself back at the hospital. You didn't duck once throughout all that nonsense."

"Neither did you."

"Yeah, but I'm not carrying a foetus, now am I? These aren't the actions of someone who is unfit or deranged. And you don't look like a junky."

"What do I look like?"

"You look sad," he said.

Her eyes never strayed from her caressing hands.

"So... what's the deal then?"

"It's nothing."

"I do think it is something, lassie. Just because I'm old, doesn't mean I'm a complete bloody idiot. If you want to terminate it, just do it. It doesn't have feelings. It's not aware. And even if it was, it wouldn't see it coming. That's a step up from the rest of us. You know there are clinics on every corner. You don't have to go and hurt yourself. Path of least resistance, you know? So, what's the deal?"

"I dunno," she said.

"Righteo. Well then, are you gonna tell me why you've been following me?"

For the first time, he wasn't watching cartoons. He was looking dead at her.

"No," she said.

"Well, that's no way to make friends. Do you like stuff?"

"What?"

"You know, stuff... stuff that people like. What do you like? What do you do? For a kick and a buzz, not for livelihood. That's how the kids say it, right?"

"What does it matter?"

"Just being friendly."

"I don't need a friend."

"Where do you think this bus is taking us? A bus full of priests, nuns, rabbis, and bloody yoga instructors; packed to the teeth with bombs and whatnot. This ain't the bus to Disneyland , love. This is a vehicle of reckoning and we are alongside some pretty terrible company, so..."

He stared back at the cartoons for a second.

"A distraction ain't all that bad," he said.

"You're old."

"Clearly," said The Old Man.

"I was never any good at decisions. I never really had any practice. I just did what I wanted to do, or what I was supposed to do. But I never really had to make a decision that made me feel the way I do now."

"I had a few of those in my time. I've no idea what you're feeling right now, but I can tell you honestly that I've felt it before."

"And? What did you choose?"

"That's not important."

"What is?"

"What's going on right now. Whatever is rolling around in your head, you'll get past it, and eventually you'll get over it, no matter which one you choose. Everyone always does. But this feeling...it's a good feeling."

"I feel like shit."

"Everyone usually does."

"So what's good about it?"

"I don't know. I was just trying to lighten the mood. Take the mind off of..."

The Old Man's voice trailed off into a murmur. He kept talking, but he sounded like some mad drunk, shilling out rows and rows of consonants, but not one legible word. The Girl looked at him. He had his hands clasped together trying to keep them still but it was no good. They, along with his legs, shook uncontrollably. It was spasmodic, but it was noticeable. It was in his eyes, though, where The Girl cast her most blatant stroke of worry.

"You ok?" she asked.

He didn't respond, not with words anyway.

"You don't look right. You look sick."

Immediately she kicked against her cage and rattled on her chains.

"Someone help. This man is sick. He needs a doctor. I think he's having a stroke. Driver. Please."

She was polite at first. Her tone was soft but urgent. It was also respectful. A minute later, she resorted to profanity and name calling, and the less reaction she got, the more perverse became her slurs and violent taunts. She kicked her cage until she could no longer feel her feet, and she only stopped swinging her chains when someone behind complained about the blood that was being flung from them. And when she tired, she composed herself, and when she got her breath, she started the cycle again.

"It's alright, girl."

"No. Someone has to do something. They can't leave you there to die."

"Die? You're reading between the wrong lines, love."

"Look at you. You're having a fit."

"It'll pass, it always does. Just give it a second."

He was still shaking, but it had settled somewhat.

"Told you so," he said whilst panting madly. "I've braved far worse than this. It's just the nerves, is all."

The look he gave her was enough to quell her concern and suspicion. He was a master of this look, just as he was, a master of controlling his urges and his fevered desires. Though his hands and legs succumbed to his control once more, what The Girl couldn't see or hear was the nerve in the back of his thoughts, the one that was sometimes felt as in his heart or buried deep in his gut. She couldn't see how terrifically it glared, whiter and more blinding than the sun. And she couldn't hear how its itch spent every waking second convincing The Old Man to indulge himself in the guiltiest of pleasures.

"You sure you're ok?"

"I'm fine, though I could do with a piss."

The thought alone made her aware that she had needed to go for the last 2 hours or so, but had just been too busy.

"You too?" asked The Old Man.

"Can't believe I lasted this long," she said, squirming in her seat.

"Bigger problems."

"I'll cross that bloody bridge... Right now I just don't want to have to piss my pants, and then get blown to shit."

"Does anyone else have to do their business?"

The Old Man threw his question to the back of the bus.

"I do," said a bunch.

"I did," said another.

"Driver," shouted The Old Man. "I know you can hear me."

The engine roared a little less, and The Old Man's voice carried further.

"I can appreciate your wanting to get this wagon to where it's headed – and timely no doubt. But here's the deal. You have at least ten to fifteen folks here who are on the verge of either pissing or shitting their pants. Now I understand our comfort is of little concern, but I'm saying this in respect to you. Because whatever the plans are for those explosives, the last thing any of us need - especially you - is to spend from here to eternity in an open bloody sewer, if you catch my drift. Now, I don't know if there's any kind of rest stop or a big fucking tree you can park in front of... We're not looking for trouble; just maintain an inch of our dignity before we die. So whatta ya say?"

The Driver didn't respond but the bus slowed somewhat and further on down the road – a lot further down the road – its breaks squealed and its engine hissed, and it slowly and awkwardly pulled off the highway and into a roadhouse parking lot.

Everyone waited silently. They could see other buses outside their windows, along with lines of cars filled with families either travelling for the fun of it or escaping from the chaos and confusion of their towns. After about ten or so minutes, The Driver's door opened. He stepped out from behind the wheel carrying a pistol in one hand, and a rolled up newspaper in the other.

"Pregnant one first. Then the old geezer. Then the rest – by age, or seat or ethnicity, or whatever ."

"Sir, please, let him go first," said The Girl, hinting at The Old Man.

"Whatever," said The Driver, opening The Old Man's cage. "You so much as blink and I'll rape you," he said, still talking to The Old Man. "And as for the rest of you. This thing is armed. And you can call out as much as you want, nobody is gonna com to your aid. This here," he said, sticking the pistol in the air. "This is here to protect you. Fear me, yes, but you should fear them even more."

There, on the sidewalk, shuffled a busload of pensioners. They all had their bum bags filled to the brim with coins and they walked in slow single file towards the bingo room. They were old, yes, but it was their military precision which struck the greatest chord. Each of them looked focused and somewhat happy, but only as long as the line continued to move.

"Two minutes," said The Driver, shoving The Old Man through the toilet door.

The Old Man entered, his hands still shaking. He still felt warm on the back of his throat. His saliva tasted rank and musky. And there was a ball in his throat that he just couldn't swallow. It was like his mind knew. Not just his mind. His whole body knew what was to come. As much as this itch was torturous, this point, the second or two before a relieving and bloodthirsty scratch, this was the best part of all. This was, more than anything, was when he truly felt alive.

"Good afternoon, sir. Or should I say... fellow traveller."

A young man entered the bathroom. He was well dressed and handsome. He smiled at The Old Man and nodded before quietly entering the furthest stall from the door. As he undid his buckle and went about relieving himself, The Old Man took the piece of bloodied string from his pockets and tightened it around his knuckles.

"Sure is a lovely day," said The Young Man.

The Old Man said nothing. He merely stood by the stall with the string pulled tight and his mouth salivating. Every muscle in his body was soft and loose, but in a second, in one foul strike, they would tighten and stiffen – and they would never let up.

"Damn," said The Young Man, sounding brutally disappointed. "Always the way. No paper. I tell you, buddy; I have the worst luck sometimes."

# XXVII

"Wow, you look great. What the hell did you do there?"

He did look good. The Old Man caught his reflection in the window as he was being sat down and re-shackled. His complexion had returned, and so too had the steadiness in his hands, and in his legs and feet. He was no longer sweating profusely, and the grinding of his teeth had all but stopped. He looked good – nothing like the man that had walked out a short time before.

"Had an itch to scratch, that's all," he said.

"You look good."

"Thanks, darl."

"Took your time," shouted someone in the back.

"Yeah, we're all dying back here."

The Old Man affixed his belt.

"You have no idea," he said, before turning to The Girl. "Want and can are too separate things. Sorry about the wait, love. There're some things you just can't rush, not at this age. You never know when you'll get another chance."

As The Driver went to unshackle The Girl, a commotion started in the back of the bus. It quickly developed from some mere griping to a cacophony of bitching and insulting, which ended with a barrage of threats and demeaning insinuation. It was when the prisoners starting spitting that The Driver had any sort of reaction. He didn't say anything per se. He made no threats or accusations. He didn't imply one thing or the other. He merely walked up to the next cage, and when he was sure that everyone was looking, he put two rounds in the prisoner's temple. Then he went back and unshackled The Girl, carefully helping her up from her seat and off the bus. He treated her with care and compassion like he would any invalid.

The Girl thought about escaping several times. She thought about it first when she stepped off the bus; it must have been the country air on her face. The next time was when she sat down to pee, and then again as she was washing her hands. Maybe it was the sound of the running water, flushing out the running dialogue in her head, or maybe it was watching the water escaping down a tiny drain to probably end up in some ocean on the other side of the world, or in a tea cup or a swimming pool of some rich socialite – and it would probably be fragranced too. She didn't think about how she would escape, that part wasn't important. She just thought about having escaped, and continuing to be so.

But by the time she had amassed any type of a plan, she was already back in her seat with her hands and legs shackled, but this time with a soft pillow tucked behind her back.

"So where's the father?" asked The Old Man.

It was amazing how sombre she became, and how fast too, whenever the topic turned to the foetus in her womb. She immediately closed in on herself like a frightened slug, and she cowered over her belly, half protecting it from harm and half from the shame and ridicule that she herself felt.

"He's probably dead," she said.

"Can I ask why you wanna get rid of it?"

"I can't have it. It's not right. It's no kind of life."

"For you, or for it?"

"I never asked to be put in this spot."

"So you don't want it?"

"No."

"Then why all the kerfuffle?"

"I can't do it myself," she said, caressing her belly. She sounded sorry and laden with guilt. "I want to, but I can't."

When the last prisoner was caged and shackled, The Driver went back to his post. But before he did, he unplugged the television and set the radio to talk back. It was low at first but when the engines started, he adjusted the volume so the banter was akin to shouting. And as the bus slowly pulled away, there came shouting from outside, followed by knowing and banging on the door.

The bus stopped abruptly, and everyone was thrown about.

"Geeze Louise, you nearly bloody left us behind."

It was the voice of an old man. He sounded bitter, tired and irate.

"Honey," said his wife, sheepishly.

"Not now, would ya."

He gave The Driver's door a stern look, and you can be sure, if he could see The Driver himself, he'd be giving him just as severe a look.

"Bloody hurry up, would ya," he said, turning to his dawdling wife.

She was as old as he, but nowhere near as rough around the edges. She did put on her worried face, though, the one that said, 'I understand your concern', and at the same, 'I'm doing my bloody best'.

The elderly couple got on the bus and before they had even turned to face the aisle, the door had closed and with a sudden jolt, the engine roared and the bus was back on the road again, continuing toward its ill-fated destination.

"Honey, can I..."

"Hold your horses, Dawn. Don't get all talkity."

By the sounds of it, they'd already had quite a morning, and he'd already had quite enough. They walked down the aisle – he, fumbling through his money bag for some ear plugs and gum, and she, anchoring onto his every step; pulling on the back of his shirt, and eyeing every inch of the bus – including the prisoners and its explosives.

"I think we got the wrong bus, Harold."

"Shut it."

He didn't even look up from his bag.

"Ohhhh."

"Don't be such a negative Nelly."

"No, no, you're right," she said, huddling behind him and trying her best to keep from looking anywhere other than the tufts of white hair that stuck out like an unkempt hedge from her husband's t-shirt. "You're always right," she said, wishing it were true.

It was a minute or two before Harold finally found his gum. He shoved three pieces into his mouth, and it was maybe another minute before he got his chewing under control and saw that something wasn't right.

"Is something wrong, love?"

"Nope," said Harold.

"Are you sure?"

"Yep," he said.

He always spoke in single syllables, whenever something was awry.

"I thought we booked seats, did we not?"

She was staring straight at them – in Harold's hands.

"Nope."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Seems odd is all."

Harold grunted.

"Sorry, dear. I'm not saying you're wrong, just, I think this isn't our bus."

Harold breathed heavily now, sounding like some hydraulic press. He did this whenever he was upset. And he was only ever really upset whenever he did something wrong – whether it was buying the wrong type of lactose-free milk, calling grandchildren by the wrong names, or losing track of birthdays and anniversaries altogether. He didn't like being wrong – nobody did. But Harold, he especially didn't like it.

"It's the right bus," he said. "I'm not an idiot."

# XXVIII

When they passed the first stop, poor old Dawn was on the verge of jumping out of her skin. As it popped up over the horizon, her every nerve and muscle clenched and twitched so that she almost tore through the back of Harold's shirt, and at the same time, she nearly ripped one of the cage doors off its hinge. When it passed, her heart sank. She swallowed it. It was thick and lumpy and tasted like day-old coffee. By the fifteenth stop, she had grown tired of its taste. She was full and could not stomach one more pass. And at the fiftieth stop, she decided to say something.

"Excuse me," she said, ever so polite.

She chose The Girl for obvious reasons. She could have asked anyone else. She could have even gone and knocked on The Driver's door if she wanted to if it weren't for all those scary looking wires and blinking lights. The Girl, though, was pregnant. And though she was caged and cuffed and looking a bit solemn, having a foetus meant her hormones might probably allow her an inch more compassion than any of the other passengers. She called them passengers, but she knew they weren't.

Before The Girl could speak, Harold whipped old Dawn around. He gave her a look. It was a narrow-eyed, scrunchy-faced look. His whole face looked like a shrivelled beetroot, a month or two past its expiry.

The look said, 'Don't you dare'.

Dawn gave her own. She wasn't entirely submissive. Hers was kind of contrary. She widened her eyes until the folds in her forehead looked like a sunburned wave pool. She also contorted her lips strangely, as if she were puckering up for a kiss, or trying to reach a very distant straw.

Her look said, 'I'll do what I please'.

Either that or, 'Don't make a scene'. Either way, Harold was not impressed.

"Driver," he shouted.

There was no response up front so he shouted again.

"Excuse me, driver. Hey, stop the bloody bus, would ya?"

The bus kept on driving. At the speed they were travelling, it was lucky the highway had not a single twist or turn.

"I don't he can hear you, dear."

"Where is the blasted bell? There should be a bell. Isn't there a bell?"

Both he and Dawn looked up to the ceiling and onto the ends of each of the seats. The usual dinging bells weren't to be seen. Instead, there were locks and wires.

"Excuse me."

Dawn was back talking to The Girl.

"Does this bus pass Tangerine Grove? We have a burial today. Harold's second cousin."

The Girl stared at her. Though she had done her best to wash the blood and dust from her face, she still looked dishevelled. Her hair stuck out on all sides. If she tried to pat it down, it would just spring right back up. That, along with the scratches on her cheeks and the missing front tooth; she was a sight to behold.

"You need to leave," she said. "Get off this bus."

"Driver!"

Harold was livid now. "Driver," he shouted, stamping his foot on the ground.

"Oh dearie me. Harold, honey. Oh for the love of all that's normal, what in tarnation?"

While Harold kicked his feet and yelled for The Driver, poor old Dawn couldn't pull away from the sight of the dead body in the cage beside her. She wanted to look away but she couldn't.

"Let's just go home, Harold."

Her hands tugged on the back of his shirt whole he continued to shout and curse. Behind them, someone was praying. It started off a quiet mumbling, covered by their hands. But once they got started, it quickly got out of hand, and sure enough, everyone got involved.

"Harold I'm frightened. Do something, please."

It was deafening now. Their voices grew loud and terrifying. Some of them chanted hymns and rituals while others praised their many deities. They damned those who did not believe and turned their plight into a moral and sanctimonious victory, regardless of whose blood would be shed.

Finally, Harold had had enough. How much more could a man possibly take?

"Hang on, darl," he said, as he rushed up and banged heavily on The Driver's door.

As he did, The Old Man turned ad smiled at Dawn.

"Can I ask you a question?" he said.

Despite all the commotion, he looked so calm and pleased with himself.

Dawn, on the other hand, did not.

"Have you any regrets?" he asked.

And like that, everything went quiet. Dawn needn't say a thing. It was hard to be asked a question like that at a time like this, without immediately thinking of all the kisses she had passed on, and all the challenges she had been too scared, too weak, or too shy and cowardice to overcome. In an instant, all of those pillars of disappointment raised to the surface, bringing with them, the deep sediment of shame. Knowing that this was the end, she felt that if she had one more chance, and just one more second, this time, she would have enough courage change.

The Old Man watched her as she drifted into the warm and salted reverence of her unfulfilled past. He watched her, and as he did, it was as if he was in a dark theatre, and Dawn's soft sighs and moans were the gentle strummings of a guitar. He swayed back and forth as she too swayed, caught in the ripple of her memories. As she lightly bit down on the end of her finger, so too did The Old Man bite down his. And as a tear escaped from her eyes, so too then, did a river of delicious sadness run down The Old Man's face. And the whole time his eyes were closed. He followed her every beat. He followed her every aching rhythm.

"Stop this bloody bus!"

And like that, the bus lurched forwards. Its brakes locked and it skidded along the road. The screech of its wheels and the stench of burning rubber was enough to stop the incessant chanting, and all their prayers went silent once more – though their lips continued to quiver and shake.

Harold immediately ran to Dawn. She was in a twisted heap and was obviously in a lot of pain. It could have been her shoulder or her hip, or maybe she was just overwhelmed. This had been a big day after all.

"Are you alright, dear?"

He could be so gentle, not when he wanted to, but at moments like these when it was so unexpected. He kissed her once, on her forehead, before he lifted her back on her feet. And then he kissed once more on her lips; and then the very worst of him dissolved into the sea of her attention. All those inconsiderate traits that had come to define their relationship all these years, they up and vanished. And all that was left was the man she fell in love with; the man that even he had forgotten had once existed. As they kissed, all she could think of was the first time that they danced. That was so long ago. She couldn't quite remember the song that was playing or even the colour of her own dress, but she could remember the feeling as their eyes locked, and their bodies swayed back and forth. And Harold, he remembered too. He remembered the look in her eyes, and he could see that no matter how much their bodies aged and how hesitant their minds became, her eyes were as young now as they were back then. And he realised how long it had been since he last noticed. And if you asked him, he would tell you, "She wore her mother's wedding dress. It was all that she had. It wasn't at all a formal dance. Most of the other girls were in mini-skirts or jeans. But oh, she looked spectacular. I knew in that moment that I had to spend the rest of my life with this woman. I knew that I couldn't stand another second apart. And a week later we wed. There was not a second in her life where she did not exude charm and beauty. There was not a second that she did not make extravagant. And thus, not a second of mine was dull and without passion."

They both felt this in that one longing kiss. It was good to feel young again and to be held in such doting affection. In that instant, looking in Harold's soft and considerate eyes, Rose remembered the first time she had ever looked into them. And in that instant, all of her regrets disappeared.

Bang! Bang!

Harold fell first. He landed on his back and Dawn followed him, still coupled in his arms. Both were dead before either of their bodies touched the ground. Such a surprise was it that they both died, still smiling at one another just like they did after their first kiss; and like they had for an entire week, after the first time they made love.

"We'll be getting to where we're going very soon."

The Driver then dragged the old couple by their feet and threw them out the door. Their bodies landed in a heap on the side of the road. It didn't take long before the vultures got a whiff. And as the bus pulled away once more, The Old Man stared out of his window, looking up at the drones which circled above.

The praying continued, but it was silent now. It had been replaced with the radio which crackled at first, but eventually became clearer as the bus got further down the road.

"You look happy," said The Girl.

He did. The Old Man looked as if he had finished a roast and a bottle or port all by himself. He sat back in his chair looking as if he couldn't take a single drop more – not a single tear or sigh. He looked content. Well, he looked more than content actually. He looked rather bloated as if at any second he might vomit or pass out in drunken decadence.

"Don't really care for much of the past, but I tell you, I miss the music. I miss the blues."

He let out a massive sigh, making some room in his belly, or in the back of his thoughts. His blood felt warm. He could sleep for a week in the snow right now, and he wouldn't be buggered by the cold. He felt dreary by the second. Tiredness cast a spell on his mind. It pushed away all the other thoughts and he felt safe and cosy all of a sudden as if he were an infant, wrapped in his mother's arms and suckling on her warm nipple.

But how long would that last? How long until the fever set in? How long until the cold shivers ran from the back of his spine, down to the tips of his toes and back up, until they rooted in his trembling hands – pulsing in the tips of his fingers? How long until that drunken smile was washed off his face? How long until he felt the aches again? How long until his stomach twisted and turned? How long until his throat swelled and his gums ulcerated and bled? How long until his hands shook and his face turned sick and pale? How long until blood became cold and acidic? How long then, until the itch returned? How long until he had to kill again?

"I wish I could feel like that," said The Girl, watching The Old Man sleep.

She couldn't sleep, though. It wasn't her dreams so much as the thoughts that crept into her mind the second she closed her eyes. Listening to the radio, and grating her wrists on the chains that bound her, she could distract herself from the strangeness that she felt in her womb. It was as if her entire stomach was twisting around like an elastic band. She felt, every now and then, and ever so faintly as if her heart were beating below her stomach. Each tiny thud made her want to vomit. Each twist of her stomach made her wish that a cliff would appear out of nowhere and that the bus would suddenly lose control. Each feeling she had that this foetus was real made her wish that it was not. And each of those wishes was soaked in guilt – the type of guilt ran ships onto rocks. It was the type of guilt that just couldn't be forgotten and was almost impossible to ignore. It was the type of guilt that had The Girl tearing her hands from her restraints – not to escape, but for a moment of quiet and solitude that came from the torrential pain.

As The Old Man slept, and as The Girl continued to pull on her chains, the bus roared toward an exit that appeared on the horizon. It was not any sign The Girl or any of the prisoners had ever seen before, and it was not a place of which any of them had ever heard. It was a sign that was scratched into the bark of a tree. It did not have words. Its town did not have a name. There were merely symbols of men with spears and women – dressed as eagles – with their wings abreast; and one of oxen running with broken spears in their sides.

The bus slowed as it neared the exit and it pulled onto the gravel road. The sound woke The Old Man from his sleep. They drove for another twenty minutes on a rocky path that led them beneath thick brush and seemingly into the middle of nowhere. Neither The Old Man, The Girl nor any of the prisoners had ever seen anything like this before. Neither of them was happy. The sight of the trees enveloping their bus filled them full of choking and claustrophobic dread. Their prayers grew loud once more as outside, hidden among the trees, something followed them. And there was more than one. Whoever or whatever they were, they darted in and out of the thick brush, barely visible except for the rustling of leaves and the bird-like shrieks that they gave off every couple of seconds. There were so many of them and so few on the bus.

"I don't want to die," shouted a nun.

She was the first to be dragged off, and she was followed by two of her sisters. One by one they were taken into the thick scrub where they vanished, never to come back again. And as a wave of panic drenched all those on the bus, The Driver returned to his post, started the engine, and continued on further down the road.

"Why are you doing this?" shouted one.

"May God have mercy on your soul," said another.

"May God damn you to fucking hell!"

# XXIX

It was actually quite serene. Neither of the prisoners had been this far out the city. Neither of them had ever even seen this much green in their lives. As beautiful as it was, though, this unknown land brought with it an abundance of fear. All the usual sounds were gone; aside from the bus of course. But whenever it was forced to stop, which it did so constantly, the prisoners were bombarded with the call of nature. For the most part, it was terrifying, listening to insects and creatures that were so small they couldn't even be seen, yet they were all around – in the prisoners' hair; in the cracks of their mouths; and creeping about near their genitals.

There were only five now. The bus had stopped maybe a dozen or so times, and each time was more terrifying and a great deal more dramatic than the last. They were taken in twos and threes, but never alone. And when that time came, each prisoner begged for their shitty little lives. They did so until that failed to work, then they offered the lives of their friends and family, and those they knew were still practising their faith – in clandestine temples and churches, tucked in the backs of nightclubs and delicatessens. And when they were all out of bargains, they returned to their futile prayers, resorted to vile insult, or just screamed for dear life – like an infant snatched from its mother's womb.

And in groups of two and three, they were dragged off the bus kicking and screaming, and none of them were ever seen again. Each time, The Driver returned and got back to his post as if nothing had happened – as if he'd only pulled over to relieve himself, or to balance the air in the tyres. He didn't say a word, and he didn't at all look fazed or unsettled. If anything, he looked a little tired – from all the driving, and all the getting about.

And the whole time, the radio wouldn't stop with its constant and terrible news. They were supposed to play songs but they never did. By the sixth or seventh stop, those hosts were so entrenched in their opposing views that it seemed that neither of them was ever going to back down. Yet persist they did, in their tireless discourse – painting their own grass greener than the other, and dipping from the same bucket.

What they spoke of, though, was horrible to hear. Both of them argued over politics and fault. It seemed both sides were to blame for the events that transpired.

"The first shots came from the east, they were from your side – your supporters," said one host, reading account after account from those who were wounded, those who were barely grazed, and from the pallbearers who had to carry all of those tiny coffins.

It was hard listening to him speak without taking every single word as the absolute and given truth. His voice crackled and he choked on many words, but this only made him look stronger and more deserving of belief and one's avid, bias subscription.

But the casualties spread across both sides, and there were those caught in the crossfire that had no political conviction whatsoever – but each side claimed their bloody wounds as their own.

"Too bloody convenient," said the other host. "Just look at the damn trajectory."

He sounded blunt and defensive at first. He also sounded slightly mad and obsessed. He said things like, "I don't wanna use the word conspiracy," but then two seconds later he did just that. "It's a damn conspiracy," he said. "There, I said it." And it was hard to take him seriously on account of his wild and vivid claims. It was only when he too started quoting the parents and siblings of those who been needlessly slaughtered did his point start to take any weight – not that this was a conspiracy, but that his side were the real victims.

And both hosts played their pipes and fiddles, and they led their listeners this way and that. By the end, none could agree on who was right and who was wrong. Where they did find consensus though was when the news turned to the events that had transpired across the city. The information was sketchy at best, but both hosts provided as much insight as they could.

"All I can say is that what happened to them, and what's gonna happen to them is the least of our concern," said one host. That was his final opinion after his report on the mass kidnappings across the city from rehabilitation centres, and even from the streets itself. He mentioned the buses and though he didn't how many there were exactly, he said that whoever was behind this had pulled off quite a feat. He mentioned one or two situations where gunfire was exchanged, but he downplayed the extent of the bloodshed and the trauma. He quoted an officer who mentioned that several of the buses had been packed with explosives and they, along with their hostages, were used to bring down buildings and bridges and to break open roadblocks and barricades. And he quoted a mechanic who out hunting wild dog who swore he saw one or two of these buses, and he believed, beyond doubt, that they were being taken off to some kind of death camp or burial site. His opinion, though, which both hosts took serious, was that the future was pretty grim for whoever was unlucky enough to be packed onto those buses. "If anything," said the host, referring to the kidnapping and probable torture and execution of all those people. "It's the only silver lining to come out of any of this."

And by the sixth or seventh stop, the imagination of all the prisoners was, by that time, nothing short of rabid. Whereas the first prisoners escorted from their cages were quiet and somewhat civil, by the time the news and gossip had set in, it was impossible to imagine anything outside of the absolute worst – and for people like them who had participated either passively or single handily in some of the most horrendous atrocities of mankind, the very worst of which they could imagine was a terrible, terrible thing indeed. The worst that they could imagine was any type of just and biblical revenge for all that had been done.

And by the twelfth stop, the last of the prisoners were spent of their fear and potent anxiety. And they were also starved of any will to fight or to negotiate the terms of their fate. In the beginning, they offered treason and treachery as dowry for their release or the sparing of their lives. By the middle, when that didn't work, they were bargaining with blowjobs and an assortment or strange and lurid sexual positions. The least interest they received, the more perverse was their offering. But by the twelfth stop, they were syphoned of their wilful reserves. They sat in their cages listening to the same radio broadcast as it repeated over and over again. And as it did, they sat cold and numb in their cages seemingly blind or ignorant to the serene and breathtaking views.

And when the bus eventually came to a stop, and as the last five prisoners were ordered taken from their cages, not a single word was said. They all marched along slowly with their heads bowed and their backs hunched like overgrown trees. Neither of them had any fight, not anymore. They weren't even shackled, but they sure as hell moved like they were. Their feet scraped off one another and their heads rested on each other's backs. And as they made their way out of the bus, clouds of dust burst upwards as their feet clumped into the dry sand. There they stood - side by side - with their heads anchored to their feet, and their hands cupped at their front – even The Girl.

It took a while before The Driver stood before the prisoners. He let them stew for a bit. The sun was scorching and thousands of mosquitos were wreaking havoc on their bare skin. After some time, though, he spoke.

"You are all that is left of faith and therefore, you are all that is left of humanity."

He didn't sound condescending, and he didn't sound ominous.

He sounded hopeful.

# XXX

"Hi, welcome to Eco-Awesome, I'm Charisma, that's Charisma with a 'k' and there's a silent 'y' at the end. So I'm your super-duper empath, and I'm also the chief talisman I suppose, like a goddess version, and your spiritual everything basically. Basically, in short, consider me your guide and you advisor, and I also make scarfs and protection bracelets, so don't forget to pick one up, but oh wow, welcome, wow you must be drained. Here let me give you the traditional custom welcome."

Charisma then went prisoner to prisoner and painted a small smiley face on their foreheads before attempting to kiss each one of them in all seven of their chakras.

"So, we don't really get guests. In case you didn't know, we are an awesome community that is self-sustaining. And everyone is so full of love and light – like beams of awesomeness."

Her guests were anything but. Their clothes were torn and each of them reeked like a men's urinal. They all stared at Charisma, but neither of them was entirely lit up by her charm. The five prisoners stood blank and lifeless in hot sand, expecting this crazed lunatic to cut off their hands, or to bury them up to their necks in the sand. What they weren't expecting was this.

"Oh! My! Goshala! Interpretive dance. Awesome."

Behind her, about a dozen barely clothed natives came jumping out of the brush. Each of them had their faces and stomachs painted with flowers and mandalas. They pranced around the prisoners in a circle until eventually they held hands and took the form of a heart. They made whooshing sounds as they rushed back and forth as if the heart were beating. And the prisoners all bit their tongues.

Charisma was full of praise. "I did not expect that," she said, jumping up and down on the spot. Not big jumps – little ones. Lots and lots of little jumps. And she was clasping her hands too as if her joy were a kind of glue that kept them so terrifically bound. "And that's one thing," she said with a maniacal grin on her face, "you can always expect something completely unexpected to happen. It's like the essence of life really. For example..."

She went on for an hour. In that time, The Driver loaded five small sacks with personal possessions. In each one, he put a small canister that was said to be filled with the tears of Jesus Christ. Along with each canister, there was a small crucifix, some rosary beads for those who so worshipped, and two versions of the Christian bible – one of which was a picture book with a pop up in the middle. Before Charisma's speech touched on aliens and sexual energy – the midway point – The Driver had already loaded up the bus and left his prisoners to do their bidding.

He drove off slowly and didn't bother acknowledging those he left behind or those whose acquaintance he had only just made. As he headed on down the road, the thought finally occurred to him that it was done. He had kept his cool for so long. He had subscribed to so many schools of thought. He had deranged himself in the ideals of soulless psychopaths, just so this day could come to fruition. He could not stay for he had no place in the birth of the new Christian god. He could not return either to the secular Babylonian hell.

He drove, listening to the engine splutter and watching the sun slow setting through the overhanging branches and leaves. He could hardly believe that it was true. The last three years had been the worst that he had ever endured. His faith had been tested every single second. But he did not falter. He did not side with the Devil. He merely suffered day in-day out in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ. His mind had been a battlefield, and his heart and soul bore the bloodied wounds of his fight. But here he sat - a victor.

As he drove, the pile of explosives behind him started to tick and beep. That didn't bother him, though. His whole body shivered. They were not shivers of fright or fret, no, they were shivers of fanciful delight. They were the same shivers he would have as a young boy, creeping down the stairs on Christmas morning. They were very same shivers when – years later- he promised himself to the church, and years later still when he promised himself to martyrdom. It was the same shiver he got whenever he saw a child being baptised. It was an exciting shiver. It felt as if God were dancing up and down his spine.

He tried not to think about all the people he had killed and those that he had had no choice but to maim and torture. All of it had been done in the name of God almighty. All of it had been done for his son's return. It would never have been his will to do such things outside of this sanctimonious crusade, and therefore he carried no guilt for the great deal of horror and heartache that he had cast upon so many people – and so many of them children. He carried no guilt and he carried no remorse for those lives had chosen, by their reckoning, to live soulless, heathenistic existences. They were chaos and vermin dressed in human skin. They were without God, and thus they were without morality. He felt no guilt for that which felt no kindness or sorrow. He felt no remorse for that which could not feel.

The red light on the fuel gauge turned on. It wouldn't be long now - not until the end. He was tired, it was true. Today, especially, had been exhausting. But the seeds of God had been planted. There was not a native community that was not playing host now to the word of Jesus Christ. In time they would do their work. They would spread the good and holy word, and out of the ruin of a secular state would the phoenix rise. The sun would be born again. Jesus Christ would once again live in the heart and soul of man and he would guide humanity on the righteous path towards divinity.

The beeping now was loud and erratic. The engine too was starting to splutter and shake. The Driver smiled as he thought of what would become. He thought about a world with only one god. He thought about a church inside every home. He thought about children playing hopscotch in the street, and he thought about their mothers and fathers, and how happy they were just to be able to watch. He imagined rainbows in the sky and lots of birds tweeting too. He imagined the whole world with smiles that could not be erased for the love of God shone in their hearts. He imagined – as the bus guzzled the last drops of fuel – humanity having been saved.

"So, oh my goshala," said Charisma. "It's just the best to have you here and..."

Boom!

The air shook. The trees shook too. Far away in the distance, there was a flash of light, and then a plume of black smoke rose up into the sky. The natives all huddled. Even Charisma was a tad startled, but not enough to stump her cherry smile. She didn't look happy, though. It wasn't that kind of smile. She looked like a cow with a hand up its arse.

"Well that was unexpected," she said, with a nervous laugh. "And we love unexpected, don't we guys?"

The natives all jumped up once more.

"Sure do," they all said, jumping back over the scrub and continuing their dance inside a large mud hut at the centre of their community.

"So, you have stuff. That's cool. We don't really have stuff if you know what I mean. Everything is communal – our clothes, our food, our jewellery, even our beds. Everything belongs to Gaia – to mother earth – so, not even my body is my possession. But you can have stuff if you like, you're coming from the 'object' world, and I know it's really tough to break this physical type bind. But don't worry, you will – everyone does."

She talked and talked and talked. And sure, she had a point, but it was in the centre of her message and she went about it in circles, each time getting further and further from the crux of her message. Somehow, though, she always came back.

"So we are a completely self-sustained community. We don't need a government or a police or even electricity. We have our own schools where we teach the real essences of nature and existence, and we have the best peach and lentil cake recipe on earth – you just have to try it. And you will..."

She talked about cakes for some time.

"So how many of you are there?"

The prisoners looked at one another. Neither of them bothered to count. Neither of them could participate in anything greater than catatonia.

"One, two, three, four....hmmm. Five."

She looked stumped for the first time.

"Five? Oh. Oh, ok. Hmmmm.... Well... Ahhh... Hmm... Five..."

The prisoners looked at one another again.

"Is there a problem?" asked The Cardinal.

"No. No problems. We don't have problems here in Eco-Awesome. There are no problems, only awesome challenges and things to do and figure out. Wow, yeah, no, no problems. So, five? Ok, so wow, yeah, awesome. Well here's the deal. We are an awesome self-sustained community, but...and I hate to say the word but... but... we have the best houses and crops and everything..."

She sounded nervous or confused, but she was still smiling.

It would take a tragedy to break that smile.

"So we have space really for four, not five. But that's not a problem, though. That's an awesome challenge. Yeah. Wow, that's so amazing. It would have been super awesome if you were four, but hey, welcome to our community."

She ran and embraced each one.

"First thing first, let's get you all some beds."

She took them through the brush and scrub where on the other side, there was a vast array of small mud and clay huts. And in and around those huts, there were scores and scores of men, women, and children – all of them either running about and dancing or painting or swimming or make pots and spoons or even having sex, as some of them were in what looked like a class of some sorts.

"Hmmm," said Charisma.

Four of the prisoners were spread out in the community, sitting on their hard clay beds. There was still one prisoner, though, who still had no bed.

"Well..."

Charisma now sounded polite, yet a tad coerced.

"What they hey, you can have the bed that I sleep in. That's super cool, no problems whatsoever. Awesome. Yeah, cool."

She didn't sound super cool, though.

There were definitely some negative vibes.

# XXXI

The camp itself was an achievement in some regard. There were many huts, some of them for sleeping, some for recreation, some for learning, some for cooking, and others for sex, yoga, and ayahuascan meditation. Their structures were primitive but they were astounding nonetheless. Their high roofs helped with the stifling heat, and their built-in fireplaces – which channelled below the ground – provided ample warmth on those rare cold nights.

There was little comfort to be found, especially in those places that were designed just for that. The beds were only slightly higher than the floor, but that was their only difference. They were terrible to curl up on and even worse to jump into, and they did little to deter the scorpions which wandered freely, crawling under the natives' warm bodies as they slept.

The toilet was a minefield of small holes that was just a small trek from camp. It was close enough so that at night, one could find it by scent alone. And on the other side of camp, there was a quiet slow moving river and quite a large vegetable garden.

There were no animals aside from what was natural to this part of the forest, but apparently, some of the children liked to dress up as lambs and wolves and pretend like they all got along.

It had probably been an hour or so before The Old Man had strangled his first native. He hadn't intended on it. It wasn't even to suffice any of his urges. He actually spent the first couple of hours relaxed for the first time in a long, long time. Maybe it was the fresh air, the light hint of cabbage and peas under musky compost, or maybe it was just the feeling of being away from the city for a while, and not having to have a take on any particular side – and to have to support this or be against that or care about whatever the hell was particular at that time. It just felt good to not have to think.

So why did he kill that poor native?

"Settled in?"

There she was with that incredibly large smile. It was hard to tell if it was put on or not. Maybe it was a birth defect and she built her whole personality around it, or maybe she had found a way to so unexpectedly pleased with every facet of the world in which she inhabited.

Though she was looking at The Old Man, he couldn't help but feel that part of her attention was on the bed. He would have taken the floor if she'd asked. He could have parked up behind the trunk of a tree. For some reason, though, he felt a little guilty taking her bed as he did, but he also angry that she acted like it was no big deal when apparently it was.

Charisma jumped down beside him, not an inch away, and stared right into his eyes, still smiling away. "So tell me all about you guys. I'm like mega intrigued. Everybody here has such an incredible story and they've all made such amazing transitions from the people they were to the enriched spiritual light that they are now – all of them."

As she spoke, her voice was almost drowned out by the sound of dry retching.

Still, she smiled.

"So..."

She had that retarded innocence of a grown woman with the reason and comportment of a young child. It was hard to take her seriously and even harder to want to do her harm, no matter how cheerful she was. The Old Man though knew he couldn't mention anything about the cuffs of the chains, or how it was that they ended up here. There was no way her simple affectionate mind could take it. He thought about telling her, just for a second. He thought about starting right at the beginning – from his every first kill. Then he imagined talking in passionate address and in incredible detail about, not only his urges and the wake of death he had left behind but of bloodshed and turmoil that had led to him being imprisoned, which in turn had led to him being here, on her bed. He thought about it, not because he thought she should know, but because he wondered if at all it was possible to rid that girl of her smile.

"We're like a family," he said. "It's very hard to pin down really."

Her eyes were like two headlights. The light from them exuded her soft and caring warmth. She took The Old Man's hands, cupping her own around them. She titled her head to one side and she started nodding before he had even begun to speak. It was clear that she was expecting tragedy. She was expecting heartache and sadness. She was expecting the very worst of which only she could deal with – for only she had the power to heal.

The Old Man sensed this.

"It's...ughh..."

He bowed his head and shook it lightly.

"That's ok," said Charisma, almost crying for him. "You've said more than enough."

They both stayed silent for a moment or two. It was long enough for The Old Man to grow impatient and bored, and just a little disturbed by the sound of constant dry retching from one of the clay huts. They both sat there – she staring longingly into his eyes, and he looking back with a nervous and uncomfortable twinkle in his eyes. Normally he would have up and left, especially in the presence of a hippie, but for some reason, he felt like he owed her his attention. Maybe it was taking her bed like he did, or maybe it was killing that native. Either way, like a bored parent he wanted to skedaddle, but like a good parent, he stayed, and as bored as he was, he gave her his semi-divided attention.

"You have so much to purge," she said.

She touched his leg in a way that, were he fifty years younger, this would not be half as creepy as it was now. The Old Man merely nodded, politely unclamped her hand and excused himself.

"It's been a long bus ride," he said, tugging on the belt of his pants.

This was a code or an unspoken message that unfortunately Charisma didn't get. She merely kept on staring and kept on smiling. It must have been genetic. She must have been born this way. Still, The Old Man kept tugging on his pants.

"The loo," he said.

And still, Charisma stared and smiled.

"I have to, you know..."

Still, she smiled.

"...relieve myself."

And still, she smiled.

"The toilet," said The Old Man abruptly. "Where's the bloody toilet?"

"Wow," said Charism, as if The Old Man had just explained some terrific puzzle that had boggled her mind for days. She moved oddly as she spoke. There was this fluidity to her; as if she were a jellyfish and the air about her were the deep blue sea. She seemed to bounce and float about as if the upper half of her body were inexplicably buoyant. "Yeah, oh wow, of course, yeah, definitely. Number one or number two?"

Very rarely had The Old Man ever had to discuss – especially in detail - anything to do with his digestive tract. Simply asking for the bathroom had always been more than enough. The Old Man just shook his head. What the hell do you say to that?

"Don't know, hey? Sounds like number three – a bit of one and a bit of two. Hey, that's awesome too. I know it's kind of a woo-woo question at first but just remember that here, we implore nature, and we love our bodies. There is nothing ekka or yucky about anything the human body does. It's all part of nature's cycle and there is nothing gross or disgusting about mother earth, now is there?"

The Old Man thought of the smallest room in his house, for which he yearned.

"Let me show you where to go," said Charisma.

As they walked through the camp she explained everything in avid detail. It was she who had helped put this all together. She, along with several of her friends, trekked as far as they could from the city one cold and rainy day, and eventually, when they had tired the most, they set upon making this very land their own. They spent months building the very first hut. Back then it was no easy feat. It wasn't as easy as it appeared in all the videos they had seen, and their group split in half before the first hut was even finished. She talked about the first vegetables that grew and how she had named them. And then she talked about how guilty she felt when she had to eat them. She stopped naming her food after that point.

It took years, though, for this camp to become what it was today. None of the original natives remained, only Charisma. The others left one by one, and towards the end, in quick succession. Some of them claimed to have reached their enlightened selves while others had interviews and weddings to attend.

"This is where we do our daily purge. It's just amazing. I know it looks kind of yuck, and it is really, but afterwards it's just awesome."

They were standing outside a clay hut where inside, a group of ten natives was kneeling on bamboo mats, drinking a tea made out of tobacco. It looked horrid, and by the expressions on everyone's faces, it must have tasted so too. They all took turns drinking the rank looking liquid, and barely a second or two after they did, they each bent over to the small clay pots in front them and vomited. One after the other, they all hunched over themselves and retched as hard and as visceral as they could. The Old Man had never been so disgusted. He took felt his stomach churn and his face was no different to theirs. Seeing this, Charisma smiled.

"Our fears and our torments sit not only in the dark crevices of our minds, but they make their homes in the pits of our stomachs. The stomach is the gateway to the mind. It is the bridge to our thoughts and feelings. By purging like this," she said, talking about this mass vomiting as if it were some kind of colloquial dance, "we can reach the farthest regions of the subconscious mind and though we are purging our stomachs, we are also purging all those worries and regrets and sorrows the sediment in our thoughts and cast a bleak shadow on our illuminated selves."

She looked so proud as if this were some prized recital.

"The toilet," said The Old Man.

"Oh wow, of course, yes."

She looked a little disappointed having to leave.

But still, she kept that smile.

"Trust me after your first purge you will be completely changed."

"I imagine."

"The first is always hardest. Once you get past the taste and the smell and the feeling of wanting to be sick, the act of purging is actually, apart from being a medicinal catharsis, quite relieving. I mean afterwards of course, but the act itself, it feels so... wow! You know what I mean?"

"Yes," he said, winding the long lace in his pocket. "I know exactly what you mean."

"You are going to fit in here like a hundred percent awesome. Do you know that fairies are real?"

She took him out of the camp and up a little track. It was muddy so he had to dig the ends of his shoes in so we wouldn't slip. He hoped like hell it was mud.

"So, number ones go over there," she said, pointing to some barren trees and scattered scrub. "And number two you get a choice."

She looked so pleased.

"Either way, we use everything."

"Use?"

"In nature, there is no such thing as waste. Everything is cycled. Nothing is dirty or rude. Everything has an awesome reason and a purpose - even your poop."

"I just want to know where I can, you know...I don't really care or want to know what you or...."

"So you can use one of these buckets," she said, taking a smallish clay container and handing it to The Old Man. It had a terrible funk that was hard to pin down, but it wasn't that hard considering the theme of the conversation. "So some natives like to poo directly into these buckets here and we let it dry in the sun for a day or two. And then pop it straight into the veggie patch. We pop on the poop," she said, laughing. "It's really good, especially for the lettuce and tomatoes."

The Old Man wondered for a second, whether it would have hurt being on that exploding bus. Would The Driver have felt the heat or the pressure first? Would he have even heard the bang? Would he have felt pain, or would everything have just gone black, quiet and numb?

"Or you can poop in one of the holes here. Now we try to reuse the same holes as much as possible so once you do your business you just sprinkle a bit of sand and dirt on top and leave it ready for the next person. This is our compost site so eventually, we will use most of this rich soil in...you guessed it...the veggie patch. When you're done here I'll show you where we bathe. So which is it? Are you a bucket man or a compost squatter?"

She looked so excited to find out which.

"And you don't have any normal toilets?"

It was a last-ditch effort, but it was worth a shot.

"What's normal about anything in city life, I mean really. I know it looks kind of strange but once you give it a go..."

She was already pulling her dress up to her waist and crouching over the small clay bucket. She looked at The Old Man the entire, explaining how to keep balance and how to be sure of where he was doing his business. By the ease in which she held herself there alone, and by how calmly she hovered over the small bucket, it was clear that she was no novice. This, like any one of the other activities in this community, was something she took seriously – like an art or an illness.

Her face blossomed with pride.

"Honestly, anything that you can squat for, you really should."

The Old Man grabbed a shovel and headed off into the minefield. Not in any of his ninety-two years had he imagined having to shit in the woods – in his pants maybe but that could be trumped up to an accident or over-drinking. This was not, in any way, how he had imagined the bus ride ending up.

"You're doing super awesome. So proud of you."

She was yelling from the other side of the field – if you could call it that. It was as if he were picking strawberries and she was gladly calling out the best kind of grasp, and from how he swayed like an unsteady barge, how best he could position his upper body to better support his wobbling legs.

"Sometimes it helps to hum a song."

"I can assure you it does not," said The Old Man to himself.

It was the worst eleven minutes of his life – having to crouch over a half-filled hole, scared to death of falling backwards. This is why toilets always backed onto walls. It didn't matter what angle he was on, there was always the risk of falling.

"You did awesomely," said Charisma.

Beneath his furious exterior, there was boiling river of shame, and inside of it floated his drowned dignity. "I better not see that in my bloody salad," he said.

"Do you believe in aliens?" she asked.

It wasn't easy trekking back down the path. The Old Man's loafers slipped about on the muddy steps, and his legs were already embattled and sore. The whole way, though, every stressed and pained manoeuvre of it, Charisma was right there in his ear unable to hep herself. She rambled on in directionless manner, sometimes confusing herself, often contradicting herself, and sometimes, and on more than one occasion, startling herself – sometimes with the weight of her unforeseen revelations, and others by the sun catching in her jewellery and making her believe that she was receiving messages, or possibly the co-ordinates for doorways into fairy kingdoms.

"So I had this dream, and it wasn't so much a dream as it was an awakening into one of my past lives. I was a mystic..."

She paused for a second – a look of sheer surprise etched on her face.

"I know, right? I guess my spirit is so evolved that in my reincarnations I am or have been as it seems, for a great time, been present and needed in the world as a seer of some kind or another. It is really an incredible burden, but it explains my kinship with nature and this feeling I always had, in all of my lives, that even though all spirits are one, and no one being is above or beyond another, as a seer, it is my responsibility to not only live with but to watch over and be a kind of spiritual mother to everyone that I encounter."

With her head bowed and her hand on her heart, she looked honoured, but also, more than a tad overwhelmed. She sighed lightly, passing barely a breath over her lips. But if one listened intently, with as much mindfulness as she did, they would hear in that gentle breeze of her breath, the extent of her burden – that for centuries she had had to be more special and more awesome than everyone in the world – and the universe even – so that she could make them feel loved and special. So that she could help make their lives awesome too.

"So I woke up from this dream, or this past life encounter as I call them, and I see it there, sitting on the end of my bed – a grey!"

The Old Man was waiting for a noun. He didn't want to. He just wanted to get back to camp and do his best to remember this trail so he could do it alone when he had to. But that incessant girl just hanged there in manic suspension at the end of an adjective, and it was driving The Old Man nuts.

"I knew it was a grey, I just knew it."

"A grey what?" thought The Old Man.

He cursed himself now for following along.

"It was in the shape of my cat King Henry, but I knew it was an alien, just by the way it was looking at me. And besides, King Henry always slept beside me on his own pillow, he never sat on the end of the bed – that's how I knew a grey had entered his feline body and was trying to communicate with me, possibly about something that was about to happen or maybe they were channelling my knowledge from my subconscious mind and using it to power their ships, or maybe even to plants the seeds of new civilisations in countless other different worlds, galaxies and dimensions."

The story continued until they got back into camp, and it only stopped when The Old Man snuck into his own hut and fell asleep. He lay heaped on his cold and rigid bed, but he did so as if it were made of clouds and duck's feathers. This was the first chance of sleep he had had since the killing re-started. As he lay there, absolutely spent, Charisma crouched beside him and continued her story, whispering to his unconscious mind.

The Old Man slept for a day and a half. Such was the extent of his exhaustion that he didn't dream once. When he woke, though, he had vicious hunger. It ached in his stomach, and it ached too in the back of his mind. He could smell dinner being prepared and instantly his mouth started to salivate. He didn't know, though, whether he should eat first, or kill someone. Such was the ache in his belly.

# XXXII

There were thirty places in the dinner hut, but counting The Old Man, there were thirty-one people - one placemat short.

"Not a worry," said Charisma, taking one for the team once again. "Standing while eating is actually great for food passage and overall..."

Nothing could discourage her attitude, not even a steaming bowl of lentils. As the others dug in, Charisma slowly walked around the dinner hut touching each person on their shoulder, interrupting their meal with a wink and a smile. Though the bowl burned her hands and though she was divorced from the group itself, Charisma smiled because she was amazing, and she knew that.

"There's a spot here," said a young man.

His name was Greg, and beside him sat his wife. Her name was Hillary. They weren't young in the way that kids were young, but they were young in the eyes of married folk. Hillary looked every bit a native. Her hair on her head grew as thick and wild as the hair under her arms, and there was just as much muck on her knees and beneath her fingernails as there was on the ground beneath her feet. And like all natives, she hadn't the slightest bother. Greg, on the other hand, looked as if he remembered the simple joys of hot water and basic sanitation. He was grubby, yes, but not to the extent of his wife. His was just passing dirt. Hers looked like it had been lathered on like some primitive war paint.

"Excuse me," he said, "there's a free spot here."

Charisma looked over, and yes, there was one free spot.

"No, that's the place of Snapping Turtle."

"Who?" asked Greg.

"Gavin," his wife responded. "You know, the one with the..."

She made some kind of lurid gesture as if the man were known by some horrible personal habit – one that is seldom said out loud. All of the natives had been given names by Charisma to help them be unhinged from their former, unsatisfactory lives.

"Oh, him," said Greg.

His name was Sleepy Willow, but still, he only ever answered to Greg.

"He wasn't at morning purge," said one native.

"So very true," said another.

Both natives looked at one another and smiled. Agreeance was a strong trait in this community and it was one that was met with generous praise. They both left their seats and met in the middle of the hut, gave each other a high five, and then went back to their hot lentil soups.

Charisma watched how everyone sat at the places, looking each other in the eye and talking with such passionate and attentive accord. Oh, how she wished she could be laid out in the middle of that attention. How she wished she could be their platter of discourse. She watched them and for the first time in such a long, long time, things did not feel as awesome as they appeared to be.

"That's fine guys; I'm super cool standing here. No worries at all."

"She looks pissed," said Greg.

"You wouldn't get it," said Hillary.

"Is it a vagina thing?"

"Douche."

They bickered with one other until eventually they finished their soups and gave each other a light kiss. It wasn't anything passionate. It wasn't even longing or endearing. It was just a quick peck, like a sparrow, fishing for beetles and worms.

"Love you," said Hillary, her mouth covered in mud and kale.

"Love you too, babe," said Greg, stating an apparent fact. "How you doin?" he said, reaching his hand across the table to The Old Man. "My name's Greg."

"Sleepy Willow," said Hillary, soft yet belligerently.

For the record, her name was Flustered Buttress.

"Yeah, it's Greg. So what's your name?"

"Pleased to meet you, Greg," said The Old Man.

He shook his hand and went back to his soup. The Old Man ate food like old men did. He sipped and he slurped. It sounded rancid and horrible. Were he five years old, he would have been scolded and punished somehow. Instead, he was an old man, and old men deserved respect no matter how much of a cunt they were. Respect and pity ran a fine line in old age. It was a resource to be milked.

"You don't look like the rest of these folk."

The Old Man barely looked up from his plate.

"It was this or counselling," said Greg. "And I suggested counselling."

"So you don't buy into this hippy bullshit?" asked The Old Man.

You could tell that he meant no disregard.

"Fuck no," said Greg.

And you could tell that he didn't either.

"Looking forward to getting back, to tell you the truth."

The Old Man slurped the last of his bowl and then looked around as he would, at a restaurant or a diner, expecting someone to offer him some service.

"Little help?" he said.

"What's up?" asked Greg.

It felt like he'd just made a friend. 'Don't fuck it up' he thought.

"I'd like some seconds," replied The Old Man. "I'm nowhere near full."

"There's no seconds, mate. Food here is all rationed. Bit less actually since you guys arrived. If it's any consolation, after this is group hugs and then puppet theatre."

He might have been taking the piss, or he might have been deadly serious. It was too hard to tell now. He'd put up a front for so long. It was hard to see the blurred line between enthusiasm and mockery. Either way, he smiled, gave two thumbs up and hated himself that little bit more.

The Old Man stared at his empty bowl.

"You're having me on," he said.

His hungry belly said a great deal worse.

"Communal living, mate."

"One for all," said Hillary.

"And all for one," said the rest.

"And rainbows and unicorns," shouted Charisma, managing the last word.

The Old Man hadn't thought of cannibalism, not until today.

"Charisma normally sits there," said Hillary.

"And?" said The Old Man.

Were he forty years younger, she would have given him a piece of her mind.

"I was just saying, is all. Just trying to start a conversation. Jeeze, Louise."

"She looks fine," said The Old Man.

"Oh yeah, I'm fine," said Charisma. "Simply awesome."

"It's not the point," said Hillary.

It was obvious that this had nothing to do with an empty seat.

"Honey," said Greg.

"Yes, darling, "said Hilary.

Each as patronising as the other.

"How about we just let it be?"

"How about you listen for once?"

"What?"

Hillary stormed off from the table. It was loud and dramatic. It was the kind of exit that deserved a round of applause or at the very least, an awkward and apologetic explanation.

"Women, right?"

The Old Man shrugged his shoulders. He was busy looking at everyone else's nearly finished bowls. Beside him, though, sat a girl, and she looked at him with cold and hungry eyes – not for his friendship or affection, but for the generosity of his callous and vicious cruelty.

"I wouldn't know," he said.

He did, though, he just said as such. There was someone but she rarely came up in conversation. It had been so long, he might even have forgotten her name altogether, though her face haunted his every waking dream.

"We hit a bit of a patch," said Greg, being far too open.

The Old Man though opened his ear. He nodded which meant, "Go on."

Really, he just wanted to hear of another man's sorrow. He wanted to hear of heartbreak and suffering. He wanted to hear a spell of misery and ruin. He wanted – more than another bowl of lentils – a touch of the blues.

"Everything just got to be more of the same. We'd have sex like once every couple of months at most. Sometimes there would be this spurt like two or three days in a row, but they were always followed by these really long dry spells."

The Old Man looked every bit the caring friend. He had hardly the demeanour of a psychopath. He nodded, he winked, he smiled, and he even shook his head in disbelief at all the right points. A good story teller was like an old record. One had to be experted in placing the needle gently and in the right part of the story. And The Old Man cared for nothing more than the soft and warm crackle that hummed beneath a man's unfortunate woe. He sat back in his chair with his thumbs entrenched in his pockets, listening to every word. It was good, yes, but it wasn't the blues.

"Her solution was to have a threesome."

By now, half the table was listening. Charisma wanted to be she couldn't on account of how far she stood, and how quietly they spoke. Her bowl of soup sat beside her on the floor. It was only half eaten. Clearly frazzled, Charisma tapped quickly and quite aggressively on the side of her left hand saying to herself; "Even though I am excluded from the group, I completely accept..."

She almost burst into tears. She'd never been excluded from anything, not here at least, not in her community. She hadn't felt this rejected in years. Immediately thoughts rushed to the surface, thoughts and feelings that were supposed to have been dealt with – that should have been left behind. All of her inadequacies rose to the surface and in an instant, she remembered all those silly and embarrassing things she had done and even the worse things that she had said, and all those things she would have done differently were she given an edit or a do-over to her life. And she didn't remember them as much as she did repeat them, over and over in her head. And as such, she had no recourse but to tap harder and harder, and faster and faster. "Even though I am excluded from the group," she said, loud enough to drown out the chorus of shame in her head. "I completely accept myself and how I feel at this moment because I know that even though there isn't a place for me, I am still super-duper awesome."

She chanted this over and over again. As she chanted – which was more akin to defensive shouting – she tapped wildly on the side of her hand, then on her forehead, then on each side of her eyes, then on the top of her lip, on her clavicles and finally, she tapped stern and so damn fast under each armpit looking like some deranged and frightened, flightless bird.

"I know what you're thinking,' said Greg. If tone had a colour, his would be amber. It would warn his avid listeners to slow down and be cautious for what he had to say would be the complete contrary to what he was expected to say.

The Old Man loved amber. It reminded him of car crashes. It was the colour that immediately proceeded blue and red. Amber was always a quiet colour.

"I mean what guy wouldn't be thrilled? If you asked me this, fifteen years ago, when I was single I would say 'Sure, why stop at three?' But here's the thing, you can't just do something like that and not expect it to change you – not expect it to change your marriage. Fantasies are fantasies for a reason. You're not supposed to go chasing them. You're supposed to do normal shit. I mean, what happens when everyone cums? Worse yet, what if it's a ploy, you know? I say 'fuck yeah' let's do it and it's just a test to see if I'm unfaithful or I wanna fuck someone else, and if she's gonna pull that 'you don't find me attractive' bullshit, you know?"

He looked around the table. Surprisingly, nobody had an answer.

"And what if we get a girlfriend? What if she falls in love with her? And what if the girl falls in love with me? How the hell am I supposed to manage that? Do we only have sex in threes? Do we take turns doing one on one? Should I feel guilty when it's my turn? Should I fake it? And what if she is a lesbian you know? And I can't fuck her. Or if she does, just to please Hillary, but she making faces while I'm doing it and she's not into it. If she's bi then maybe, but Hillary's looking at these girls who are full blown lesbian, and they don't want dick. Think about it, we bring this girl into our bed and then she starts working her way between me and my wife and before you know I'm being pushed out completely. They're going to the cinema together and they're showering together. They're now going organic because that's what she likes and Hillary's even drinking wine now, even though she can't stand it. And pretty soon it's them sleeping together and me, tucked up on the other end of the bed with the cat. And now they're in love and I'm just some sad fuck whose wife has gone gay and left him."

"I'm sorry," said a nun sitting opposite. "Did this all just happen or.... I'm a bit lost."

There was a consensus of sorts. The table all nodded, looking just as confused.

"This is what could happen, you know? What if? There's that – her becoming a lesbian, and then there's the other scenario, the one that could either be awesome like when we do have our sexy, passionate sex; or it could be horrible – full of instant shame and regret the second we all cum, like every time I masturbate."

The nun nodded. The others did so too, but vaguely as if they agreed but didn't quite understand. It was more of a moral support than a taking of any one particular side. As for the nun, though, Greg may as well having been saying the weather was hot and that the bugs were biting. If she nodded any harder, her head would pop off.

"And that's why we're here. Supposedly anything goes. Get away from the city. Get off the grid. Get back to the wild oats of nature. Find your inner light. Manifest your blah, blah, bloody blah. I smell terrible – like some rancid old boot. We all do. I'm constantly hungry. The ayahuascan is giving me heartburn and diarrhoea. Not to mention the purging classes. Who the hell drinks pure nicotine? I'm pretty sure I'm a smoker now, so that sucks. I've had a fever eight times now from these bloody mosquitos and the rash in my crotch won't disappear. Oh, and did I mention that I have to shit in the woods? What the hell? You know, I haven't even bathed in a month now because I'm sick of peeling leeches off afterwards. Then there's the whole lesbian thing. The only woman here pretty enough to fuck is already pregnant. No offence."

"None taken."

"I don't know. I just don't know."

The Old Man loved the drama. This was a good high.

"I suggested sleeping on different sides of the bed – something basic you know, but to rewire the head. Sleep with no clothes on; maybe dress up more at home – not just at the supermarket. I miss my bed. I miss not having to distill water. I miss my toilet. I'm not a cat. I don't want to have to bury my shit. And nobody really says anything but let's be real guys," he said, now inviting the whole food hut into his discussion.

At this stage, his words were like a freshly pricked syringe, and as for his misery, The Old Man could taste it on the back of his throat. It was like warm heroin. The more Greg talked the less pain The Old Man could feel. The Old Man's constant and buggering itch was buried neath the numbing sorrow of Greg's shitty existence.

"Seriously," said Greg, sounding like a concerned and outspoken investor. "How many people here have stepped in someone else's shit?"

His hand in the air made one, but that didn't mean it hadn't happened before.

"When's the next bus Charisma?"

She couldn't hear. She was locked in her own internal battled. She wasn't so much tapping anymore as much as she was, thumping her pressure points with the ball of her hand. By now, her mantra had taken a neurotic and somewhat precarious tone. "Even though I wasn't as popular as everyone else; and even though my shoulders were too wide and I couldn't wear dresses; even though everyone sucks and everything is stupid; and even though nobody respects me and nobody listens to me and nobody takes me seriously..."

She stopped beating her hand against the wall. It was red and on near bleeding.

"I completely accept myself and how I feel at this moment because I know that my interpretations of people's interpretations of me are not how I interpret myself, and thus, regardless of my past life in the city, and the one where in London where I was a prostitute and I was murdered, I am still super-duper awesome."

"I don't give a shit," said Greg. "I'm on the next bus out of this whack hole. Get back to civilisation."

The Nun laughed.

"Is that funny?"

"You haven't heard?" said The Nun.

"Heard what?"

"Everything has gone to shit," said The Girl interjecting.

"What do you mean?"

"There may not be much to go back to."

Greg looked distraught. The Girl and The Nun took pity on him – their looks said so. The Old Man, however, looked like he had eaten an entire pig. He looked as if he had gone through a year's supply of weed and methadone in one gluttonous hit. He looked sick from all the misery he had ingested, but oh did he look pleased. While the rest wore frowns and crooked grimaces, The Old Man was boasting a terrific grin.

"Excuse me, who's in charge here?"

The mood was interrupted by a belligerent man in a purple dress and robe.

"I was told there would be a school," said The Cardinal.

Charisma stopped her tapping, and a smile washed over her face once more.

"Sure, yes, wow, awesome. Yes, we have a school."

"Where's the children then? I haven't seen any kids since we got here."

"They're inside," said Charisma, spinning like a ballerina.

The Cardinal followed her, scanning the room and looking irate.

"Where? I don't see them. I was told there would be children."

"But there are, inside each and every one of us is a child longing to be held."

"Yes, but I was told there would be real children. The kind with little hands and little feet. What the hell am I supposed to do with no children? I was promised a school and I was promised lambs."

"The school is for us, to teach our inner children about love and light and interdimensional harmony."

"I was promised, kids."

"Well, I don't know what to say. You were promised wrong."

Her smile was replaced with a heavy furrow in her brow.

"Who did you speak to?" she asked.

"The Leader said there would be a church. If there are no children then all of this has been a waste. Where am I supposed to plant my seed if not in the innocence of a child?"

The Nun lowered her head.

"He's right," she said. "The Leader said that our mission here was to spread the word of Jesus Christ, but if there are no children, then how can the message grow?"

"You see here we have many messages. There are many paths to equanimity. There are many noble truths and they are all true, as long as one does not exclude the other. None are better or worse, but each has their own unique spin. No language is more right than another, but some can express in ways that others cannot. Though they may play different chords and sing in different keys, for the most part, they each describe, in their own way, all there is to this human experience. And a symphony cannot be played on one instrument alone. So there is harmony in all religions and all sciences, and all spiritualities co-existing and singing their song at the same time as long as there is someone, like me I suppose, who can conduct and direct their messages."

"Airy-fairy bullshit. Find me some kids."

The Girl tried to hide her belly. It was no good, though.

"Well we have one brewing right here, don't we sweetie?"

The Cardinal looked at her.

"Mam," he said, bowing to her. "Not that child."

He sounded fearful and ominous. He looked like a whipped dog.

The Girl shut her eyes.

"I need children," said The Cardinal, sounding cheery once more. It was a second later before he picked up on the group's uncomfortable vibe. "For my work and uhh...For my work. They must be at least seven, and no older than eleven. And boys," he said, sticking his head back in the door. "They best understand the way of the lord, boys do. So, boys, ok? Seven-year-old boys. I'll be in the school."

The Girl looked at The Old Man.

"There was nothing creepy about that?" said The Old Man.

"Would you?" she asked, shaking her head.

The Old Man smiled. He had never killed a man outside of an urge. He had never killed a man by request alone. This was all new. What a crazy world. Maybe this place wouldn't be so bad after all.

# XXXIII

The Cardinal put up a momentous fight. Were The Old Man an amateur this might have gone any other way. It didn't though. It went entirely as expected. But for a man of God, The Cardinal was filled with the usual dread that one would expect from a common secularist or even a goldfish for that matter. This wasn't the same childish tantrum seconds before lights out. This wasn't an end of the party come down. It seemed he just didn't want to die – not out of a blatant want to rape a few more children, no, this went deeper.

He felt no guilt and he had no remorse for the things that he had done, at least it looked that way. He made no apologies and he did not cry for redemption – though cry he did. And fear he did too.

He bargained at first like any man would. He offered money – that which he didn't have; and he offered power – that which was clearly out of his hands. He offered all the treasures that a lonely clergyman or a corrupt politician could not refuse. He offered the very ghastliness that the concept of redemption itself was built upon.

But to each, The Old Man politely said, "No."

When his pleas to his executioner fell on deaf ears, The Cardinal pleaded to the woman who stood secretly in the shadows watching. He turned the entire of his attention to her. He begged on his knees to the love and forgiveness in her heart for she was a woman and she was blessed by God with the will and the strength to forgive the ill deeds and the misgivings of wayward men. He pleaded to her as a woman and then when that nary worked, he pleaded to her as a mother. Though his every instinct had him wish to use fear as leverage, he did not. He did not use eternal damnation against her. He did not bargain with the fear of God's wrath. He merely looked into her eyes and spoke of how beautiful his own mother was, and how much he missed and adored her.

It meant nothing.

"Do you have hope?" asked The Old Man.

When he was like this, it was hard to believe that he was all of ninety-two years. He was ferocious. His will was untenable. He had the grasp of a brown bear and the force and persistence of a devastating tsunami. He was a living, breathing act of God if such a thing were even real.

The Cardinal shook his head violently. "No," he said, crying.

"Is there a Heaven?"

"No," cried The Cardinal.

"Is there a God?"

"No... I don't know. No."

"What happens to the soul?"

The Cardinal burst into hysterics.

"What is the soul?" shouted The Old Man.

"I don't know."

"What is the soul?"

"I don't know, please, I don't know."

"What is the soul?"

"I don't know."

"What is it?"

"I told you. I don't know."

"What is it! What is it! What is it! What is it!"

"There is no soul. There is no soul. There is no soul. There is no soul."

"Say it again! Say it!"

"There is no soul," he said, his voice getting softer and quieter until it was barely a whisper. "There is no soul. There is no soul. There is no..."

The Old Man pressed his knee further into The Cardinal's chest.

"Is. There. A. Soul?" he said.

"There's no soul," said The Cardinal. "There's no soul."

"Is there a soul?"

"No, there's no soul."

"Is there a soul?"

The Cardinal wept. It was as if he had conceded his throne.

"I don't know," he said. "Maybe, probably not. I just..."

"You just what?"

"I..."

"You just what?"

"I'm a sick man."

He sounded spent – entirely exhausted. Were he in the treading water in the middle of the Pacific, this would be the point where - overcome with a moment of peace and acceptant - he would sink into the dark and murky ocean below.

"Don't stop."

"We all were. The whole organisation – for our whole history. It was never about God."

"What was it about?"

The Girl watched on, holding the round of her belly.

"Boys," said The Cardinal. "It was always just about the boys."

The Cardinal stared at The Girl once more. He stared firstly into her eyes. He didn't look apologetic, but he was, maybe for the first time in his diabolical existence, awash with shame. He only looked in her eyes for a second, though, before they fell upon the child that she carried in her womb.

The Girl felt his stare. She knew what it meant. She tried to block it. She moved her hands this way and that as if this might distract the very truth of his avid attention. But even if he were to die right at this second, she would know and it would curse her no less to not have heard the truth of the church's existence. For it mattered little that the last remnant of an empire of rapists lay begging for his life before her. It meant nothing. She knew that and he knew that.

"There is no God," said The Cardinal. "And there is no Heaven above. I cannot account for the way that I feel or think or assume, and I am sure one day the great science will lift this veil, but I can tell you that there is no soul. I cannot speak on behalf of other spiritualities, but if even half of them had anything to gain as we did, then I can assure you that everything is an outright lie – a half guess at most; or a joke that went too far."

"I asked you," said The Old Man, an inch from tearing out The Cardinal's eyes. "Do you have hope?"

The Cardinal stared once again at The Girl's belly. He imagined the child growing within it and he thought - in that bare second – long and hard about the man that he would one day become. He knew that all it took for an inferno was an infinitesimal spark. He stared at her belly and imagined the child her womb.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, I do."

# XXXIV

The Cardinal was given a simple and improper burial. His body was dragged out deep into the woods and then dumped. There was no grave and there was no eulogy. He was tossed through the air like a piss-stained arm chair. Those who helped carry him had already turned back down the path before his body had even hit the ground.

And it was nice of all those people to help. Had he no choice, The Old Man would have done the job himself. It may have taken him longer and the body would have more than likely been left decomposing a lot closer to camp, but it would have disposed of nonetheless without a single gripe or complaint.

It was nice of them; especially considering half of them would end up dead before the month was out. But then they weren't to know. The Old Man seemed completely genuine. All old men did. At worst maybe they expected some inappropriate groping or the odd racist opinion, but none of them would have ever pegged him for a serial killer. It's not the kind of trait one expects in a ninety-two-year-old man. Shame really.

On the way out through the thick scrub, there was very little said. Aside from the whooshing of a machete and the cracking of branches, it was quiet and actually kind of relaxing. Because of his purple robes, The Cardinal was easy to carry and the scenery really was quite breathtaking, so it was easy to get distracted from the moral, and even the criminal aspect of it all.

But on the way back to camp, there was very little thought about morality. There were plenty of high fives and even a few cartwheels, but there was no moral discourse, there was no hiding of footsteps, and there was no thought of ever being caught. There was no guilt, no shame, and even less remorse. In fact, there was no assumption of any wrongdoing having been done, especially when everyone was feeling so damn good.

There was a real sense of cheer in the camp that hadn't been expressed n months and it made none happier than Charisma. "Wow, you guys look awesome," she said. "Go, you." But she had no idea.

She pranced after them as they stumbled back into camp but for the most part, the group completely ignored her, laughing hysterically as they made their way back to their huts. Some of them made love while others worked on their pottery projects and rediscovered their love of simplicity.

As the group slipped past her, Charisma told herself that everything was ok. She tapped lightly on the back of her hand and she affirmed, over and over, that she was no better or worse a person because of how she felt.

It was hard, though, to hear the sniggering and to no assume it was because of something that was being said about her. It was hard too, to see such comradery and for her to not be at its centre. She wondered how the sun felt about the tides being so drawn to the moon.

By the evening, everyone was worn out. It had been so long since any of the natives had had a day like this. And yet all it took was the murder of an old pervert.

"We should do that again," said The Nun.

She was still in her habit, but she was sprawled out on a bamboo mat, exhausted from all the sex and pottery. She wasn't old by any regard but she was definitely no spring chicken. "I feel eighteen again," she said, being handed back her knickers. "It was fun wasn't it?"

It wasn't clear if she was referring to the orgy or the murder. It didn't matter, though, one probably wouldn't have occurred without the other, and even if she was talking about the sex, everyone looked around the room thinking to themselves about who should be killed next.

"Definitely," they all agreed.

"Hi, guys!"

Charisma burst into the hut. She looked composed and back to her usual spritely self. Her energy and mood were as they should be, just a notch or two above what would be acceptable in any normal setting. Her every word was loud and piercing, each sounding like a small rock, passing through a pane of glass.

"First of all, just...wow! Haven't seen this kind of group interaction in...well...ever. It's obvious the thoughts of gratefulness and loving kindness that we have been manifesting in our meets have really taken seed. I'm so happy for you all. And more so, I'm really happy for me too, not because it was all my work..."

She paused, half expecting to be told that I was.

"I'm just lost for words. You know me, guys, I am probably the most humble person in this room but oh my goshala, you make me feel so illuminated inside. And I can see myself in all of you. I can see how I first overcame my personal obstacles and set upon the path of..."

She might have told this story a hundred times so far but that didn't discourage her. In fact, she had told it a thousand fold more. But she still told it as if it were the first time – as if she just broken her spiritual drought. She spoke with such passion as if she had never felt this way before. She rattled on about every facet of her life as if it were of dire importance – as if she had earned that right.

"I do have to ask again, has anyone seen Snapping Turtle at all? We seem to be missing one or two others. I'm trying too..."

She scanned the group's faces. It was poorly lit in the hut but still she did her best to see who was who, and who was missing. "We seem to be down three people," she said, sounding more confused than worried.

The Old Man sat on his bamboo mat looking nonchalant. He was actually kind of pleased with himself. Not for his murdering, that was just something he did very well, no, he was pleased because finally, after all, this time, he could sit cross-legged. It wasn't the lotus or anything showy like that, but compared to how he was sitting before, this was nothing short of enlightened.

"Geeze I hope they are ok but I feel they are, you know? I just feel it."

"You're probably right," shouted The Old Man.

A young fella sniggered. He had been part of the group carrying the dead body. He was one of the first to get involved. He offered to take the lead and cut through the forest canopy, but in the end he settled for being a pallbearer. He was the most enthusiastic by far and it came as a surprise when, two weeks later, it was he who was being strangled and beaten to death with his body dragged blue and lifeless into the deepest part of the forest. For now, though, he was sniggering, and figuring everything was A-OK.

Charisma stared at the three empty mats. She hated having to stand, and having to be outside of the circle. How could she connect if their souls and atoms did not touch?

"I'll borrow a mat, just for now," she said, justifying her guilt to the group.

Nobody seemed to notice. Nobody even cared.

"So tonight is special..."

She started every night with the same passage.

"We are in the midst of a disseminating moon, so in that, I thought we could take this time to ground ourselves on what we have learned, accomplished and have still yet to achieve on this path towards spiritual equanimity. I want to first before we discuss the presence of fairies and mermaids, talk about the connectivity between our conscious waking selves, and not only nature – as in the trees, the wind and the moon – but also, in all that we cannot see. And here I want to really express what is absent in modern society which is, the relationship between science and spirituality. And when I say spirituality, I can be referring to nay belief in general that seeks and fulfils in illuminating one's internal self, but does not seek to marginalise any other human being or any other human experience for that matter."

The Old Man could feel his urge growing once more.

"If you look at the true geniuses of our time, they could, on one hand, be all five tenets of knowledge and wisdom. Look at Da Vinci for example. He was just as much a scientist and mathematician as he was a faith seeker and inventor and..."

Her voice trailed off, not that any of the group were listening.

"And then we saw the segmentation of ideology. Science split from faith, and creativity became the vice of the jester or the playwright, hardly anyone of any real significant influence. And then those divisions divided even further until it was impossible to define one true faith just as it was, to agree on one working model of the universe. And what came of that? Look where we are now. Their world and their city are in ruins and we are not. We have food and shelter for one and all."

As she said so, she looked at the two empty mats and it was true, once again they had enough for everyone. There was a mat and a bed for every person, and not a single one would go without food.

"Equanimity," she said, "depends on upon each working for the benefit of all. We have this. We have Heaven as it once was described. We have Utopia as it once was said could neither exist nor thrive. We are the better humans, though we are no better than anyone else. We are the enlightened, though we ourselves know that we are still infants, crawling about in the dark. And the reason we are so magnificent, the reason we continue to thrive," she said, once again staring at the two empty mats, "is because we are the unification of all the great ideals. We are science crossed with spirituality. We are pride and humility fused to the end of the writer's quill. We, as empaths, are bridges between what can be explained in nature, and what can only be explained by intuition. We are that bridge."

The itch that The Old Man felt always came on like a bout of heartburn. He'd always have to let it stew somewhat to see whether he could make do with an antacid, or whether he' have to go out and strangle someone. He could usually do both in the same run. But he was feeling that burn now, rising up in his chest. It might have been all the kale he had this afternoon, or then again, he might just be on the wings of a murderous binge.

"Quantum physics," said Charisma.

Most of the group looked lost. Some of them had heard about this type of mad thinking, but neither had the expertise nor the basic insight to do anything other than follow along and try their hardest to understand. Charisma, though, she almost looked like every bit the expert.

"Now, I don't know a lot about quantum physics, but I believe I did in a past life and that this natural knowledge is seeping through into my present day conscious state. Which is especially true for an intuitive like me, someone who has knowledge springs in their minds like flowers, or even how colour came from anywhere onto the earth – from like nowhere. That's the kind of knowledge I have. It's not studied or learned, it's more classical than that. Mine is handed down – through past lives, and through spiritual and alien encounters. I'm very special, I'll just say that, so.........."

She spent a good thirty minutes getting further and further from her point.

"What we give is what we get," she said.

And that was when Greg came sneaking up to The Old Man. He wanted to be as inconspicuous as possible so he crouched in front of The Girl and made it seem that he was leering at her ample cleavage.

"Can we do my wife next?" he asked.

He was staring back over his shoulder trying to look as cool as possible. He gave his wife the thumbs up and hinted that he was doing his best, and she should fucking chill.

"I don't have long," he said. "What do you think?"

"Who's we?" said The Old Man.

"Like before, but his time, my wife. But if it could be painless it would be best. I don't want her to be hurt."

"But you want to kill her?"

"Yeah, well no, but... I want her to not exist anymore, but I don't want her to feel bad about it. I don't want her to suffer or be in any pain. Just if you could do something really fast so she doesn't even know, and she dies instantly."

"Why do you want her dead?"

"I don't really know. I thought of a hundred different things that I thought could happen but this was the only one that I couldn't find one valid reason not to do it."

"Because you love her," said The Girl.

"Nah, that's not a reason."

"But do you?"

"Of course, that's how I'm this mess. I wish I could just walk away. Believe me, I've tried, I've thought about it, but every time I do, I break down, I cry like a little bitch, I tell her I love her and we have dirty shameful sex."

At this point, Greg knew his wife was getting suspicious. He would have to act fast, so he reached his hand onto the Girl's knee first which she shook off, then he reached his hand to her breast.

"What the fuck?" she screamed, hitting his hand away.

"I'm sorry. I'm not actually like this."

He looked back over his shoulder and his wife was smiling, urging him on.

Greg turned quickly to The Old Man. "Would you?" he asked, looking scared and desperate.

"We'll see," said The Old Man.

"Please, consider it. I have to get out. Whatever you want, it's yours; you name it."

Greg turned back to The Girl and she met his stare with a fiery vitriol.

"I'm really sorry," he said. "It's her, not me, I promise."

Greg snuck back to his spot in the hut, seated beside Hillary. As she cuddled up beside him, wrapping her arm around his like some strangling vine, he stared at The Old Man and he nodded surreptitiously. Inside his stomach, he could feel the knots of treason and treachery twisting and turning. His skin felt cold and shivery, and his mind felt light and dizzy. Were his head a balloon, it would surely rise right to the top of the hut, were its gangly strings not in Hillary's dear clutches. He wanted to vomit. He wanted to run. He wanted to call the whole thing off. He wanted to say he was sorry, and he wanted to say that he loved her. Then he wanted to fuck her. And she could piss all over him, and he could piss all over her. And then they could eat popcorn and watch re-runs her favourite sitcoms. He wanted to say that he loved her, he did. This was half the reason that he felt sick. But more than that, he wanted her dead.

"So..." asked Hillary.

She held onto that one syllable for an inappropriate amount of time. When she was like this – inquisitive, impatient and horny – she got excited and she dragged her words out in this screeching tone that sounded like a scooter being manhandled in first gear.

Greg stared idly at The Old Man.

"Did she go for it? What did she say? Is she into it?"

He knew the answer. It involved grabbing her by the shoulders and while gently shaking her, shouting the words, "This is not the solution. This will not make us better." He wanted to. He imagined himself doing it over and over in his head. He imagined this more than he did, any of the fantasies that Hillary dreamt up, no matter how many women, or what kinds of creams were involved. This was what he wanted most of all. He thought about when they made love, and he thought about it when they fucked. He thought about it whenever they kissed, and he thought about it whenever she sucked his cock. But he hadn't the courage to say it. He hadn't the nerve or the will to undress himself like that and be so blatantly honest.

"Well......."

Again her voice rose.

"Did you do the move I told you?"

"Yes," said Greg, wishing he were small enough to be blown into smithereens.

"And......."

It was like she was riding up a very steep hill.

"Well......"

Aside from everything else, this might have been one of Greg's greatest peeves.

"She told me to fuck off," he said.

"Really?"

"Yeah, really."

"You did it right, though, right? Did you do the reach around?"

"Yes."

"And nothing?"

"No."

"Really? I love that move. Who wouldn't vibe on that? Says a lot, though."

Greg let out a massive gasp.

"What's the matter, babe?"

"Nothing."

"You didn't breathe like it was nothing. You seem off. Are you upset? Is that's what's wrong?"

"I was meditating."

"Don't worry about her, babe. We'll find someone else, trust me. I am so set on this. What about you?"

The answer was 'No'.

"Yeah," he said.

"Don't worry. It'll happen. We just have to will it? It's like Charisma says when you focus on what you want it is naturally drawn to you. What do you think about her? She's kind of sexy, in an open-minded, free-spirited, anything goes kind of way. I bet she'd like the move."

Greg started to daydream of carrying her body through the scrub.

"It doesn't have to be a girl either," she said.

And now he dreamt of hacking her to pieces.

"Love is the most precious and sacred thing," said Charisma, looking at Hilary and Greg, and at all the other couples in the camp. She wore a smile as if it were a diamond tiara. Hers had more shine and it was more eloquently pronounced than any of the others. It was the kind of smile that made one feel useless, insignificant and not nearly as arted or knowledgeable than one though they were. It was the kind of smile that wiped one's slate clean.

"What?"

Greg looked and sounded like he had swallowed a bad egg.

"I'm not gay!"

"Well I know that," giggled Hilary. "Not for you, for me."

Was she hinting at this all along?

"And you can watch."

"Hold on, did this all start with you saying you wanted to see me with another woman."

The thought of him fucking some bare-bummed, busty blonde flooded his mind.

"Yeah," said Hillary, biting her finger. "I still want that. Don't tell anyone."

"Don't tell anyone?"

"he sounded fuddled and bemused.

"You bloody told everyone here. And my mum."

"Make me feel dirty then."

"Look I don't want to make you feel dirty. Fantasies are normal. They're important. I just. I don't think they're supposed to amount to anything, or else they wouldn't be fantasies anymore now, would they? They'd be bloody plans."

"Well if you don't wanna do it..."

"I didn't say that."

He did want to do it – in theory.

"Well, then what then? I'm getting mixed signals."

"Just... How did it go from you watching me fuck some... whore..."

"Or someone we pick up in a bar."

"You see that doesn't just happen. We don't just go out for tacos and come home with some hot girl whose gonna want to get fucked shitless while you sit there watching. That's what whores are for."

"Nope. I don't like prostitutes. They have diseases."

"They have classy ones."

He was firm on this point.

"Or fuck it, whatever," he said. That's not the point."

"What's the point, hubby bubbly?"

"The point is...."

He eyed The Old Man once more. His look said, 'Ready when you are, chief'.

"Look, one minute you want to watch me with some other chick, then it goes to me and you sharing a girlfriend, and then finally me watching you getting drilled by some big dicked wanker. Ah, fuck it."

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing, fuck it."

"Don't be like that. We can do what you want to do."

"Nah, fuck it."

"Well, now I'm upset."

"Well, that's not my fault."

"Then whose fault is it?"

"Fuck me. I don't know. Mine. Yours. The fucking fairies. Look, are we doing the fantasy or not?"

Hilary smiled.

Greg, though, looked tense. Were he a kettle he'd be blowing steam by now.

"Of course we are," said Hilary.

"Well which bloody one?"

"Are you better yet?"

"What?"

"Just checking."

Greg gasped several times.

"I love you," said Hilary.

"Ahh fuck."

Hilary smiled, a cheeky forgive me kind of grin.

"I love you too," said Greg.

It was unfortunate, but it was true.

"Before we get to tonight's topic..."

It had already three hours, and only now Charisma broached on the topic.

"I want to just go on a tangent for a second or two."

This would be another hour or two at least.

"Just, before we talk about how to call fairies, unicorns, and mermaids, I want to just take this moment once more for us to meditate as a group. There is so much to be grateful for, but most of all, I am grateful for having all of you in my life, in my heart, and in the palm of my hands as your guide, your leader, your empath, your chosen one, your divine eye, your mystic, your sage, your teacher, your leader, your mother, your mind, your heart, and your womb. Our community is whole. The perfect balance, and I am so grateful."

Once again, she was staring at the two empty mats. She smiled and she hugged herself. "I wish it could stay this way forever," she said.

And as she did, there was a roar of an engine and the sound of small trees splintering and being ripped in half as the out of control vehicle sped towards their camp. All eyes shifted in that direction – peering madly through the open door of the hut and scared stiff, not knowing whether to run and be slowed down, or to sit in a group, and hope that someone else would be picked off in the initial impact.

The screeching got louder and then there was the sound of tumbling and twisting metal, followed by one last final bang and then what sounded like a sun shower of broken glass raining down on the path outside their hut.

It was quiet after the collision – amber, The Old Man would say.

Eventually, a door creaked open. It sounded like some metal Frankenstein gnawing on a mountainside. The door screeched several times. It sounded stuck.

"Fuck," shouted someone in the car.

It was a man's voice. He didn't sound angry, and he didn't sound like he was in shock. If anything, he sounded pleasantly surprised.

"How's that, honey?" he said. "You alright?"

Inside the hut, nobody dared moved. They were all scared to death.

"I did not expect that last roll, babe, what about you?"

"That tree came out of nowhere."

It must have been his wife. She sounded shaken and maybe injured, but even still, she too sounded in some way pleased and more than a little surprised.

"How's the wee one? You ok there, bud?"

"Sweet, dad. Might be stuck, though."

"I'll get ya out. Hang tight there, little buddy."

All of this played out in the darkness. The Father did as he said he would. He got his son out in one piece and he was quite jovial about it the entire time. He brushed his son off and then did the same to his wife and to himself. And then, when they were somewhat scrubbed up, they stepped out of the darkness and into the light of the hut.

"How are ya?"

The three of them were cut and scratched. They were covered in dust and small shards of glass. The boy's hair was puffed out on all sides and the wife and a nervous wobble in one of her knees. NO matter how calm she was from the waist up, her left knee just wouldn't quit.

The Father had a board in his hand. It looked like an Ouija board. There was a spinning dial and a whole pile of commands lined up around a circle. One of the commands said 'Kill everyone', while others were more discreet such as; 'Wave and offer a polite hello, 'Dig a hole', 'Go straight to bed', 'Bake a tin of muffins'. The board was titled, 'Greetings and salutations'. At least half of the commands on there were in some way violent, and least a quarter required an oven or a baking tray. The Father spun the dial and the family watched, exhilarated. And everyone watched with them. The small arrow passed the board a dozen times until it started to slow and just as The Father was reaching for his gun, the arrow skipped one more spot.

"Hi there, we're the Hughes'. Nice to bloody meet ya."

Immediately the native were on their feet and welcoming the new additions to their camp. Some of them offered o brush The Mother's hair, while others asked the same question a thousand times over about how they got here, where they had come from, and what it was like having survived such a miraculous crash in their car.

The whole while, though, Charisma stayed on the outside of the circle

"Unicorns, guys," she said. "Unicorns."

It was no use, nobody was listening. But try and try she did.

"The trick to calling a mermaid is to spread your energy like a beam of light."

So now she started to shout.

"You have to tap your beam of light on the surface of the water, ever so gently."

She was screaming so loud that her voice cut in and out.

"And you say, 'Come mermaid, come' and if you think it, and feel it, and see it, it will happen."

Now it sounded like she was picking a fight.

"The mermaid will come!"

"Hey guys look," said The Father, pointing to the empty mats. "What do you say? Do we stay or go?"

How lucky for the newcomers, there were three of them and there were three empty mats, just as there were three empty beds and three places at the dinner table. How lucky, and what a nice surprise.

"Coin, coin, coin, coin," chanted The Son.

The Father slipped a coin and The Son shouted 'Heads' and heads it was.

"Looks like we're staying," said The Father. "Who would have guessed?"

Charisma stood outside of the circle once more except this time with a shy, nervous smile on her face. It wasn't a happy kind of smile. Were anyone looking they'd know, it was the kind of smile that garnered a bit of worry and maybe even an intervention. But nobody noticed and even if they did, it was as if nobody even cared.

The natives were infatuated with the new arrivals. Charisma should have been. Normally she would have but it just seemed like no-one wanted to listen. It just seemed like nobody really cared. They were all just fake followers, stupid half-interested believers. This was just like high school all over again.

# XXXV

It had been a difficult week. There had been so much change and so much to acclimate to. Charisma felt as if she herself were in retrograde. Nothing seemed to work as planned. Her art classes drew little inspiration. She couldn't really blame any one person in particular; they all had a hand in it. Ever since that bus got here it had become harder and harder for her to connect with anyone. Not that it was a breeze before but in the past few weeks, it seemed like people were mocking her. It wasn't everyone. The Old Man had made remarkable progress and he was always a darling in every activity, but there were one or two that did little effort to hide the fact that they'd rather be somewhere else. And all it took one was one weak and pessimistic link, just one, to break the chain of magic. Charisma didn't know who it was per se, but it was taking its toll and today of all days, she needed a break – she had to get away.

And so she found herself sitting on the river's edge, gently tapping her palm on the surface of the water. She had been here since before dawn – meditating and calling on the wisdom of The Mermaids. But there must have been a disturbance beneath the water that was greater than or equal to the one beneath her skin.

Disturbances like these were common, that's why it was so hard to contact Mermaids, and even harder if one wanted to call on a Fairy or a Unicorn.

The Greys weren't so difficult. They moved about in animal and more often than not, human form, all the time. Sometimes one would think they were talking to their neighbour, their grocer, or even Aunt Janine when in reality they were being visited by a Grey. That was how The Grey's worked, by subliminal advances. They would visit all kinds of people in all kinds of shapes and forms and they would collect data and even do system updates on people's conscious states – elevating them to higher states of being and awareness.

Charisma had met with maybe fifty Greys. She'd been aboard their spaceship more than a dozen times and though she couldn't speak their language, she could understand almost all of their commands. She would spend hours sitting on the end of her bed, talking back and forth with The Greys who came dressed as her cat discussing everything from divine purpose to love and loneliness and other complex feelings that she had had inside.

No, The Greys were easy. For an empath, calling on a Grey was no different to the average unawakened person calling for a taxi. Fairies, though, required sensitivity and patience. It wasn't enough to just believe, one had to be in the right part of the forest, under the right doorway, at exactly the right second. Charisma had only met one fairy. Its name was Teluise. Though its shape was petite and feminine, it was, in fact, sexless. Charisma was three years old at the time. She remembered the feeling more than she did the actual experience. It was impossible to forget. And it was the same year that her father left.

"Mermaid, mermaid, mermaid, come, come, come," she sang, as she lightly tapped on the water. "From beneath your mossy rock to the sun, sun, sun."

She did this until just after sunset. The mermaid did not come. There could have been a thousand reasons why, but the most obvious was the disturbance in her energy field. Quite simply, The Mermaid did not want to meet her. She was sadder now than she was before. Every thought she had was dark and each one was too heavy to carry around – yet still she clung to them all. There were many times in her life where she had felt like this kind of rejection. This was up there with some of the worst.

Before she returned to camp, she spent some time meditating – focusing only on her breath. She sounded like she was in the throes of labour. She hissed in and out until her head got dizzy and she almost fainted. It was then that she composed herself and made her way back to camp.

"I am a beam of light," she said, as she walked along the path. "Without me, all of the colours melt into vapid darkness. I am a beam, of light and I am a bridge between worlds. I am the keeper of colour. I elevate lives. I elevate the world. I love myself. I am awesome. I love myself. I am great. I love myself. I'm fantastic. Saving the world is my fate. Seal your fate Charisma. Seal your fate. I trust you and I love you."

She passed two Greys on her way back to camp. One was in the shape of a bird that was up in a nearby tree pretending to pick twigs and bark for its nest. The other was up in outer space, but she could feel it watching her through its alien binoculars.

"Hi guys," she said, prancing back into camp.

A handful of people looked up from their beetroot soup and waved. It was a poor acknowledgement but at least they noticed her – that was something.

"Where is everyone?" she asked.

And it was true. Camp was quiet, far quieter than it should have been. There were maybe a dozen or more people missing. This was rare at dinnertime.

"Did they go for a hike?"

The Girl winked at The Old Man. Her intentions were anything but clear. She might have had some linseed caught in her eye or she might have been hinting at some nefarious deeds that they had only recently committed. It could have been one or the other. It was hard to tell, especially considering she had helped prepare the soup.

The Old Man, though, was arched over with his back legs straight and his hands stretched out in front of his bowing head. "Almost got it," he said, unsure of how the hell he was gonna get out of such a bind.

"That's awesome," said Charisma, though her voice was flat and she sounded anything but inspired.

"How do I look?" asked The Old Man. "Did I get it?"

He, on the other hand, had had a change of spirit and had really taken to all of the classes and activities. Yoga was his favourite, obviously, and then there was primitive tool design. He made a spear in his first class. It wasn't anything technical or even pretty for that matter. It was just a long stick shaved to a point. It worked, though. He used it that night and every other day since.

"I think I got the arch," he said, struggling to keep his wobbling legs from toppling him over.

His arch was terrible. One leg was straight and the other bent; and the straight one stuck on the strangest of angles; that, and his back looked like a bridge which had recently buckled. It was wonder how he ever managed such a feat in the first place. This looked anything but comfortable. Even to look at him was taxing.

"You're doing fine," said Charisma.

She didn't look at him once. She was staring around the empty hut, looking at all the empty mats and feeling pretty much the same way inside. All those whispering ghosts that tell you "You can't do this," and "You can't do that," they all crept out of their hiding space and they started to collude and conspire against her. Some of them were the voices of her mother and father. Some of them were the voices of jilted ex-lovers and others were like a chorus of cruel and jealous friends.

"Are you doing ok?" said her mother's patronising voice, over and over again.

Her father's was more direct.

"Ha!" it said, laughing in one short, sharp syllable.

"Are you doing ok?"

"Ha!"

"Are you doing ok?"

"Ha!"

"Don't you think it's time to come home?"

Her mother went on and on and on, and her father met each question with cold, snapping laugh. This, she could deal with. It hadn't broken her before so why should it now. But it was the mocking of her lovers and friends that got right to the bone.

"You're intense."

"You're strange."

"You're clingy and deranged."

"I don't want to offend you, but everything that everyone says is true."

"You're depressing."

"You're delusional."

"You're hell to be around."

"I don't want to offend you, so I think that it's best if you go."

"Your tits are too small."

"Your arse is not round."

"You're pretty in some ways, but I'm afraid to say you're a terrible fuck."

"Nobody loves you."

"Nobody wants you."

"Not as a lover, a whore, or a friend."

"Are you doing ok?"

"Ha!"

"Are you doing ok?"

"Ha!"

"Are you doing ok? Are you doing ok? Are you doing ok?"

"Fuck," screamed Charisma. "Fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck."

She ran out the hut swatting away the voices that circled about her head.

"I did it!"

The Old Man was ecstatic. He had in fact done it. He found the perfect arch. He looked every bit the Zen guru. The others looked on but they did so with growing disinterest. The Girl stared at The Old Man like a dog that had grown ill of begging for its food. Greg had almost the same look. He, on the other hand, had not yet given up on his constant whining and soft begging eyes.

"What are you thinking, honey?" asked Hilary.

Whatever it was, it involved hatchets and hitmen.

"Nothing," he said.

The truth was he was imagining her being bludgeoned, or being dragged out into the bush by masked intruders. Obviously, they would be people from the camp, but for the sake of drama and effect, their faces were always covered. He would never lend any harm himself. He would tag along about a stone's throw behind – close enough to hear the thumps, but far enough to not have to see a thing.

But even in his head, he couldn't escape her. The same scene would always out, one that he couldn't script any other way. He'd be crouched behind a log or some shrub, shaking and nervous as hell. He'd be waiting for the crack of splintered wood and then the thump of a body being dumped into a grave and covered with leaves and twigs. But the same thing happened each time and he couldn't do a bloody thing about it.

She'd call out his name. At first, she'd scream, and it's sound no different to all the times that he had spilled something or pissed on the seat or the floor. That was the scream he could ignore. But the others, though, they hit a nerve each and every time. Her second scream would sound like she was genuinely afraid as if she'd been spooked by a prowler in the kitchen or the yard. It was that scream that would have Greg spring up from behind the shrub, and it was the one's that followed which had him disarm her attackers one by one and single-handedly come to her rescue before a single blow was struck. He would stand there in each and every dream, looking down at her attackers and feeling capable of anything. Then he would look at her and she would look at him, and she'd say, "Oh me, oh my," and she'd say "I love you," a thousand times. She'd run into his arms and they'd kiss – her lips pressed firm against his. Then she'd say, "I'll never leave you," and it's then that poor old Greg would break down and cry.

"I love Jenga," screamed The Old Man.

"Yoga."

"What's that now?"

"Yoga."

"Oh, they have that here?"

"No. Yoga. Not Jenga. Yoga."

"It's all semantics, isn't it?. The principle is the same. Should just be called 'Try not to topple over'. I'll have some yoghurt, though."

"There's no yoghurt."

"It's finished? Already?"

"There never was any."

"Well, then why did you say there was in the first place?"

Peering through the lower end of his crotch, The Old Man smiled nefariously. The last of this group – the last dozen or so – they were easy to rile. All it took was a little stubborn ignorance and their tapestry of Zen would wind itself into an infuriated knot. They'd try to breathe their way out of it. Some of them would kiss and hug their magic crystals while others would resort to a bout of induced vomiting or low-intensity exercise which usually just involved going for a stroll and cooling off.

The more in touch with their inner feelings they were, the more disturbed they eventually became. It wasn't even that difficult to get under their skin. He could just ask a stupid question and then say 'Why' repeatedly to their every response.

The Old Man likened it to starting an old lawn mower. Sometimes you had to spend half a day kicking and shouting and cursing a lot, just to turn the fucker over, but when you did, you could spend the other half just wandering about aimless, feeling like you're getting something done.

Some of these natives were hard to wind up, especially those that had been here for years. The newer ones – those on vacation from the city – they had tougher skin. They were all disconnected from one another as much as they were, disconnected from themselves. You could say anything to them and they wouldn't so much as bat an eye. They didn't rile and they didn't bother or worry – and where was the fun in that?

The dozen or so natives that hadn't been killed yet were kept alive only for their thin skins. It was their frustrations and how quickly they could snap that brought The Old Man a great deal of joy. They would go from watery and patient to snapping turtles in an instant. And then, knowing they had broken their sanctity, they would instantly be embroiled in a sea of shame and regret, apologising relentlessly to the very man who caused their uproar. The Old Man didn't know which reaction he preferred the most – seeing these wafer-like hippies exploding into a comical fury, or watching them fold like wet origami, weeping and snivelling, and begging for forgiveness. The longer he held out, the more self-deprecating they became until either he got bored, or one of them crossed the line in what they were willing to offer to cleanse their wicked ways. It wasn't a great high. It wasn't like the blues. But it was sufficient to keep his urges at bay.

"It's pronounced Yaw-gah," said Felipe, who preferred to be called by his forest name – Whistling Wood.

"I want you to kill me," said The Girl. "But I don't want to know about it."

The Girl had the same needy look on her face she'd had since they first met in the club. This time, though, it was coupled with a nervous tremor that made her smile even though she wasn't happy, and it made her hands shake, even though she wasn't cold. It was the first time she had spoken too, without one hand nursing her belly.

The Old Man gave her a discerning look.

"How about Thundering Thistle over there," he said, pointing to Whistling Wood. "He's my favourite, but if it's gonna chirp you up then..."

"I have to kill my baby. I have to, but I can't do it myself. I can't have it."

"Kids aren't all that bad you know. They're fucked, sure. But they can also be funny and quite loving. And eventually they grow up, move out, and you can shit in peace. I know it's scary. I had two myself. They were always bickering, driving me bloody bananas. Now they do that for a living. But if you want to kill, I completely understand. But I'm not gonna do what you can do yourself. You know, it's our mistakes that define us as being human but it's how we deal with them that defines the type of men that we are – or women, in your case."

"Is there a God?"

"What do you think?"

"Rationally speaking, there's no way there could be."

"So then there isn't."

"Then why do I feel like this? I don't want the baby. I want nothing to do with it. But why can't I kill it? And why do I hate myself whenever the thought enters my mind?"

"It's just a feeling. Feelings aren't supernatural. They're just part of the mechanism of preservation. Nature wants you to have that baby, irrespective of how that seed got inside you. Nature doesn't give two shits to how you truly feel about it, that's why you'll love I and hate it in the same breath and for the rest of your life, you won't do a bloody thing about it except feed it, look after it, help it grow until it finds a mate of its own and the cycle bloody continues. You feel terrible now, thinking about killing that foetus, and if you do choose to abort, you will feel a thousand times worse until you don't anymore, and then, like all sentient beings, you go on doing what everyone does. Buy yourself a TV, clean the carpet, fuck a stranger, take up yoga, or learn an instrument. I tell ya, though; guilt runs a shorter course than resentment."

"Do you resent having children?"

"That's a tough one. I'd say no because I love them, no matter what strife they get themselves into. But I do resent one thing."

"What's that?"

She was sitting cross-legged in front of The Old Man, hanging on the end of his every word. Though she could just feel the foetus in her womb shifting and lightly kicking, it was easier to ignore now.

"What is the worst thing that you've ever done?"

The Girl instantly thought about all the times she had let down her mother and father, and all of the friendships and relationships that she had spoiled or sabotaged in some way. She thought of all the people she had let down in her life – all of the things she had done wrong and had yet to apologise for.

"I killed God," said The Old Man. "And here I am killing Krishna and Buddha too."

"God isn't real. You can't kill what isn't real."

"When my children were young, their mother went mad. She was violent, heard voices in her head, and before she was a danger to herself, she was a real danger to our kids. She was obsessed with the idea of Heaven. She took every word in the bible literally. She became a miserable person and she sought to bring out that character in everyone she met. Eventually, she never left the home so she would just settle for me and the kids. She thought our life was too rich – that we needed to suffer in order for our deaths to having meaning and purpose. And she went about making our lives as miserable as they could be. She hanged herself on Christmas morning – right beside the tree. It was the kids that found her. Poor buggers. And so from that point, I went about helping my kids as best I could so they didn't end up like her. So I raised them secular. I taught them the best I could on how to be a good, decent person, and at the same time, how not to live with the idea of a purposeless existence and to not freak out."

The Girl looked a little shocked like she was witnessing the distant light from the birth of a revolution. She forgot all about her own predicament for a second. She knew he was a serial killer, but she had no idea he was a fucking rock star.

"You're tryna tell me you wrote The Secularist Manifesto?"

"No. That was my daughter. I just planted the seed."

"That's incredible. You must be so proud."

Now that he thought about it...

"I love both my children. And I am proud of who they have become, more than what they have achieved."

"You're The Administrator's father?"

"I am."

"I don't get it. Then how the hell did you end up in this mess? Can't you just call someone?"

"I've been in far worse conditions and had to do far worse to get myself out, things that still haunt me to this day. There's a lot of reason I can't sleep right at night, but I still have only regret."

"How does killing God matter? You do realise you are the godfather of modern philosophy. Any hope that humanity has is entirely because of your doing. I'm no mathematician but I'm pretty sure something that grand cancels out any moral debt you think you might have."

"It's not God inasmuch as..."

He hadn't said this out loud, not to anyone.

"I miss the blues," he said.

"The blues? As in the music?"

"If you had to ask you wouldn't get it no matter how simple I tell it. Religion was horrible, it was. I'm not denying that. It's not something we can ever go back to. There's no right way to sustain a religion. But the blues... Dear God."

He sighed immensely.

"There was nothing that could – at the same time – warm your blood and chill your bones like a man singing for redemption. That I miss. Yep," he said, sighing again. I miss the blues."

"Will you kill me, though?"

"I'll think about it."

The way she pleaded and the way she begged; that, coupled with how she gently caressed the round of her belly – it was almost like the blues.

# XXXVI

As days ticked over, the camp grew smaller and smaller. By the fifth day of the following week, there were only eight left. This included The Old Man, The Girl, Greg and Hillary, The Hughes, and of course, Charisma. The latter had sunken into a deep and unrelenting depression. With every native that left her camp, she felt the old wounds of her youth rising to the surface once more.

She had her father's laugh echoing in her head, and she had mother's droll tone spinning around and around – the same old blasted verse. She spent every waking second by the lake gently tapping on the water's surface. Sometimes she would whisper and plead, and sometimes she would hum her favourite songs. What she couldn't do was go back into camp. Each time she did, whether it was to prepare some soup or to relieve herself, she would notice that another native was missing. And though no-one said anything, the fact that so many had left meant that when her back was turned, all of them had to be talking about her. They had to be judging her. And more than likely they were ridiculing her. They were writing her off, not as a whack job, but as an amateur – as someone who could barely maintain her own equanimity, let alone guide others to their own spiritual plateau. Pretty soon they'd probably start gossiping about her upper lip and the spaces in her teeth, and they'd probably be comparing her to more successful empaths and light workers; ones with more followers, who had already published their first or second books, and who weren't as flat chested as she was – not that it bothered her, just that she knew that this is what people probably thought.

So she sat there, day in-day out, tapping on the water's surface and enticing a mermaid to come to the water's edge. In truth, she had no idea what she would say to the mermaid. She hadn't thought it through this far ahead. She assumed they would communicate by some inter-dimensional language. For this reason, she had spent several years while getting her accounting degree, studying and learning the language of dolphins and whales. Though she knew they were different, she assumed that their differences were trivial. Could it be any harder than an Irishman ordering an ice-cream in the south of France? And if she could learn the language of one, then she could communicate – in part – with all the mammals of the ocean, and the noble merpeople who protected them.

So tap she did, humming lightly at first, and then building to what sounded like a pained wail as the thoughts of inadequacy, ugliness and uselessness speared like thick, black storm clouds in her mind.

The fact that the natives snuck away was the past that hurt the most. It wasn't so much that her teaching failed them, for an empath is merely a guide and if one is not prepared to follow then their failure is inevitable. It is, after-all, up to each person to walk their own mile. Sting as it might, their failures were a testament to their commitment. What hurt Charisma the most – apart from the intensity at which she cared – was that nobody had the decency to tell her to her face.

Maybe they thought she couldn't handle it. Maybe they thought she would break down and cry and cut herself with the end of scissors or take a handful of pills from the medicine cabinet – enough to warrant a week off of school. Either way, it's the fact that it all occurred behind her back which made it so difficult to bear.

She knew, as well, that right now the other seven natives were probably discussing who would go next. They were probably rolling dice or picking straws. But if they didn't like her, and if she wasn't pretty or cool enough, then why didn't they just all leave at once? That would hurt, sure, but not as much as this. The Fact that every day they were talking about it, and every day one of them left, that's the part that stung the most. They acted like they cared. They acted like she mattered; but really, they were all just manifesting meanness. And they were all cowards, each and every one of them. None of them had the courage to tell her how they felt right to her face. Instead, she had to imagine what they said, and she had to be the one who delivered the message because they were too gutless.

Stupid people.

Wish they didn't leave.

In the camp, The Hughes' were busy teaching their young boy about shapes and numbers. On a sheet of paper, The Father drew a circle and then a square and then a circle again.

"What comes next?" he asked.

As The Son started to draw a square, The Father slapped him in the back of the head. It wasn't terribly strong, but enough to make the boy wince, and for his square to turn into a rectangle.

"Again," he said.

This time, he drew a blue house followed by a red house, a blue house, and another red house. "What colour house comes next?" he asked.

The Son was nervous. He knew the answer. Every fibre in his being knew the answer. It was a straightforward sequence. Blue, red, blue, red, blue, red. Not even a monkey could get this wrong. Still, as he lifted the blue marker, he felt this sudden urge to run. The urge could have also been solved with any other spontaneous action. He could iron some clothes, make an omelette, write a sonnet, or do some cardio work out in the sun. He could do anything except draw a blue house.

And as he did, The Father slapped him once more on the back of the head. The Son put down the blue marker even though it defied all tangible logic. He picked up a green crayon instead and drew the best part of every traffic light.

"Good lad," said The Father.

"I hope you don't mind," asked The Old Man, interrupting.

The Father whispered to his son. "You keep going on these exercises by yourself. Pinch yourself if you have to."

"Can I ask about your method?"

The Father looked as if he might punch The Old Man.

"I'm not judging. Not at all. I'm very interested in fact."

By the looks of him, very rarely had he been allowed the opportunity to explain his learning methods as opposed to defending them.

"What is the point of slapping the boy?"

He didn't at all sound judging.

"To stop him from forming patterns."

"What's wrong with patterns?"

"Patterns are the precursor to existential dread. And so we, as a family, do our best to avoid routine so as not to have our consciousness overwhelmed by the reality of a godless and meaningless existence."

"Does it work?"

"Honey, how do you feel?"

On the other side of the hut, The Mother was doing one handed push-ups. She had never tried them before, but the fact that her success or failure was impossible to predict, she did them as if they were her favourite thing to do in the world. Her arms wobbled. She had already fallen fifty times and her chin was a little bloody and bruised. Sill, though, she gave it one more shot.

"Spectacular, honey bear. How do you feel?"

A minute later she was sweeping and naming all the animals she had ever seen that lived inside of cages. She swept only as long as she managed to keep distracted from the thoughts of being, the horrific meaningless attributed to it. And as she did this, The Son continued his exercises, pinching and scratching himself – and even going as far as slapping the back of his own head – whenever he felt the urge to continue a pattern.

"We try to learn new things constantly. Their sheer frustration of being a beginner of anything is pure bliss. It gives no space for self-awareness and self-evaluation. Consciousness is a curse that we do our best to disengage from. We keep ourselves busy and we do so randomly."

He showed The Old Man one of many spinning wheels that The Hughes' carried. This one had a list of chores and physical activities.

"All my brothers killed themselves. And most of my friends from school too. We all grew up together. But right after college, they started dropping one after the other. Every day I have to think of a reason not to kill myself. And so do they," he said, pointing at his wife and child. "That's all there is to existence. It's either cancer, a pile up on the M-10, or a noose. Years ago it was easier. You could gas yourself in your car or stick your head in the oven, but now you can't. God damn energy efficient clean society – made it so no gas can kill you, only make you a retard. It's pattern forming that does it. Doesn't matter how much you do, or how busy you keep yourself, if its regular, consistent and pattern forming, eventually you don't have to think about anything anymore, and so you start to think about life and purpose and the fact that you're slowly dying; that and you're getting less attractive and you can't fuck like you used to - and even when you could, you weren't getting any. But if you keep yourself busy, then these thoughts don't surface. You can deal with the fact that you're gonna die, and you're gonna die alone. You can deal with the fact that at some point you're never gonna exist. You can even deal with the fact that in five billion years, the sun will quit, and none of this will exist – none of it."

"Why don't you just learn to grasp your fears? If you do not fear death, then you are free to make what you will of existence."

"Without fear, what's to stop any of us from killing ourselves?"

Already his heart was starting to palpitate. He could feel an attack coming on.

"I can help you," said The Old Man. "You and your family."

"We're fine. As long as we have randomness, we'll get through."

"Well, at least let me show you something I've been working on. It's very similar."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I understand you. I have my own ways of dealing with these kinds of feelings. Let's go for a walk. I'll show you something you'd never expect."

The Father looked adoringly at his wife and child.

"It's fine," said The Old Man, "you can bring them too."

# XXXVII

There could have been a hundred reasons as to why The Old Man killed The Hughes'. Each would have been just as right as the other. They could have all been right, but that doesn't mean The Old Man would admit to either one. Whatever his reasons were, for the first time, The Old Man felt a sense of remorse. He walked back to camp feeling a little less zest than he normally would. He didn't regret killing the family, but he didn't feel good about it either. It was an odd feeling - an uncomfortable one. It was one that he had felt once or twice before. Sometimes the right thing felt so terribly wrong.

There were just the three back at camp – The Girl, Hillary, and Greg.

"I'd thought you'd left," said Hillary. "That's lucky. What shall we do?"

The Old Man stared at The Girl.

"I think it's about time," he said.

The Girl got up from her mat. It was the first time she had smiled in weeks.

"I'll get my things," she said.

"Where are you going? What are you doing? What's going on?"

Greg was panicky. He didn't want to be left alone.

"Can I come?"

"Oh we'd love to," said Hillary, hugging her husband. "Where are we going?"

"It's not that I don't want to take you with us...."

There was a long pause – a strange and awkward silence. Surely he should have finished that sentence. Surely there should have been some consoling reason as to why they were not welcome. Maybe there was but as The Old Man started to speak, maybe he changed his mind. Maybe he didn't want them to come – as simple as that.

"What about our deal?"

Greg made no effort to hide his distress.

"What deal, honey flower?"

"Nothing."

"What deal? Is it a surprise? Is it something for us? Is it...."

She squeezed him so tight that he felt one of his ribs pop.

"He's a little old, but he looks good for his age. I mean, you have to make do, don't you. Oh, I'm so happy, baby."

Greg watched through a gap in Hilary's arms as The Old Man walked out of the hut and with The Girl beside him, he walked out of their lives forever.

Eventually, Greg and Hillary made their way back to the city. Things were a little shaky at first but they learned to settle back into their old rhythms. They never did have their sexual encounter. Instead, they kept themselves busy in other ways Greg got his old job back and he even joined a bowling team; while Hillary really dug her heels into motherhood. They looked happy, as most couples did, and in the end, Greg was relieved that The Old Man didn't kill her. Every now and then he'd think about it and then he'd feel so guilty that he'd either massage her feet or disinfect the bathroom sink – things she'd least expect. They lived long lives – well into their sixties. On the eve of their fortieth anniversary, the sedan they were driving hit some black ice and swerved into a tree. They both died instantly. Later, in the inquest, it was shown that the driver had made no attempt to brake, but to this day, even their children don't know who was driving that night.

Charisma tapped away on the surface of that lake for weeks. She didn't even know that the camp had entirely gone. She assumed as much. But if she only knew they had all been murdered and none of them had abandoned her, she wouldn't feel half as bad.

Something happened, though, that even Charisma would be lost for words to explain. It was the end of a long day of calling, at the point where she about to give up and make her way back to camp, that something happened.

"Holy shit," was the first thing that came to mind, and it was also the first thing she said out loud.

"What? What is it?"

Charisma had no idea what to say. She tumbled backwards, unable to look away, but lost for anything useful to say, outside of "Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit."

There in the water was a Merman. Charisma couldn't believe her eyes. From the waist down he looked like an enormous dolphin, but from the waist up, he was a hunk of manly flesh; albeit a little scrawny. He looked mad as hell, though.

"Look, normally I'd just ignore it, but you've been banging away for weeks now. It's getting really difficult to get things done down there. Now, what is it? What's the big dilemma?"

"You're real?"

"That's it?"

"No, I mean, you're really real."

The Merman shook his head.

"Oh fuck," he said. "You're one of those."

"Sorry?"

"Did you eat some of those berries?"

He pointed to a small bush behind Charisma.

"Oh yeah," she said. "They were awesome. A little bitter, though."

"Yeah, you're having a seizure right now. This here," said The Merman, point to him and her. "Yeah, this isn't actually happening. Your brain is shutting down. Probably you're not even conscious. How long have you been here?"

"I just got here."

Truth was, the more she tried to remember the least she could.

"If I were you, I'd stick my fingers down my throat as quick as bloody possible."

When he spoke, his tail flicked at the water. It made the cutest little splashes. He looked so conflicted. The top half of his body was so serious and grumpy looking, while the bottom half looked like it was the life of the party.

"Can you take me to your underwater kingdom?"

"Kingdom? Lady, I have a one bedroom cavern at the bottom of a murky lake. I don't know what kingdoms you think we Merpeople have, but I hate to disappoint ya, the housing market's a tough one. There's no kingdoms here, just flats and bloody suburbs."

"Can I see?"

"What's wrong with your world?"

"I don't know. Do you ever feel like you don't belong? like you're an alien or you're meant for something bigger?"

"Like to rule the Merpeople of the placid lakes?"

"Yes," said Charisma, ecstatic.

"No, you're delusional. And if it's not the berries you ate then maybe you just have the wrong type of friends. Have you tried a different hobby?"

"I'm an empath."

"What is that?"

"I feel things."

"We all feel things, lovey."

"I feel things more than normal people. I'm special."

"Really? You kind of sound like a douche. I'm not saying you are. I'm sure you're a nice person and all, but I wouldn't go around making that your mantra."

"You wouldn't understand."

"Maybe not. But I'm not banging on your fucking door, now am I?"

"Sorry about that."

"You know, it's not all that difficult. Nobody's having it easy, but we all have our way of dealing with shit. Maybe if you tone it down a notch or two, don't be so....."

"Expressive?"

"I was gonna say excessive, but yeah, whatever floats your boat. Look, life is tricky, it is. There's no sure-fire way to anything. You're an eight or eighty girl, I get it. With all these people you're pushing away, what or who are you holding onto?"

"I'm sorry for being pushy, I am. I just, I don't feel like I belong in this body. I don't feel like I belong in this world. I love being underwater. I love taking long baths. And if you'd let me, I'd love to come with you, and maybe be your Merwife."

"You don't even know my name."

"What is it then?"

"Gill."

"That's beautiful, Gill. I'm Charisma."

He knew it was wrong, but still, he didn't refuse. This said more about Gill than anything else. "Ok," he said. "But you have to enter yourself. It has to be on your own accord."

Charisma was elated. She was over the moon. She was on cloud nine. She was...

"I love you," she said, as her paralysed body slipped from its placing and rolled down the embankment towards the water's edge. There was a loud splash as her body entered the water, and there were some bubbles too, as the last of the air was expelled from her lungs. She floated silently towards the middle of the lake, and there she stayed.

# XXXVIII

He didn't head back to the city. He could of, but he didn't. Instead, The Old Man wandered aimlessly through the forest. He went in whatever direction he was heading as long as it was far from whence he had come. It was quiet out here. It wasn't silent but it was quiet. There were thousands of birds all chatting amongst one another, and there were billions of insects buzzing and ticking away. Some of them would buzz right by his ear, but none of them would ever touch. There was a fair amount of noise, though. It sounded like a forest should. Still, for all that noise, it was, in its own way, peaceful and quiet.

Most of the trees were quite high. Finding one with a low enough branch would be quite a challenge, especially one that was strong enough to take his weight. He wasn't in much of a rush anyway so he took breaks whenever he could and allowed himself the odd cat nap here or there, sometimes sleeping away half the day. He hadn't felt this free for as long as he could remember. It wouldn't last forever – he knew that, but it wasn't the kind of thing you sped up just for the sake of getting to the end.

He thought about his kids a lot. He supposed that this was common so close to the end. It had been a while since he had sat down and actually tried to remember anything. Usually, a memory would spring out of the blue here or there and catch him off guard. Rarely, though, had he ever willingly tried to sift through his old head and see what he could find.

In the end, it was quite depressing. He could barely hold onto a single memory long enough to remember when or where it occurred, or to which one of his two children it belonged. He could remember their births perfectly, but he couldn't remember either one of their faces. He could remember the doctors and nurses and his wife, cursing for Jesus at they cut open her perennial. He couldn't, though, remember if they were crying or not; if they had hair on their heads; or even if their eyes were open.

What he could remember was all the fighting. He could remember all the times he shouted and lost his cool. He could remember how his children would block their fingers in their ears and hide under their pillows. He could remember all the times that he swore to himself that it would never happen again and that he would be a better father from that point on. And he remembered too, all the times he wished they would go away, and all the times he told them in those exact words.

And now they were gone, at least all the good memories. They were the ones that escaped him, and they were the ones that he needed most. He hadn't been a bad father – not entirely. There may have been millions of fond memories but it was the one percent of the bad ones that were the cornerstones in how he judged and ultimately defined himself. There were so many good memories, this he knew but they were so much harder to prove, and even one – right now - would be worth all the loneliness that he had felt.

The Old Man saw the perfect tree in the distance. As he walked towards it, he took the long string from his pocket and he fashioned a noose. He could have sworn that leaves crackling beneath his shoes were louder than usual.

The tree was perfect. The low lying branch could have taken twice his weight, maybe more. He was lucky to find a tree like this. It wasn't very common. Were he a superstitious man, he would surely have branded a fluke like this as a God-given sign.

It was strange at this point. He had taken more lives than he cared to remember. He had watched the life disappear from enough eyes to fill a hundred theatres. He had witnessed death enough times that he could tell you exactly at what point a body stopped being a person.

But still, it was strange. No matter how many people he had killed, he had never himself assumed that he would ever die. He knew he would – intellectually speaking, but he always assumed it would be sudden like a car crash, a gunshot, or a shark bite. As he tied off the string, he cursed himself for not owning a gun or living by the sea.

"This is gonna hurt," he said to himself. "Is it gonna hurt?"

He tried to remember each and every strangulation. All those people, all those countless times, and not once did he ask: "Does it hurt?"

"Don't be bloody stupid. Stop being such a fucking coward. It's your time goddamnit."

He'd never used an expression like that before, not since before his wife. How fitting then that she should decide to show herself after all these years. She'd come to him from time to time either as a thought, a passing likeness or as a ghost in his dreams. She was never the focus, though. That was her way. That's what made her the focus. She'd always stay on the outside of his nightmares and feverish daytime delusions. She'd never be the focus of the dream, but she'd be there nonetheless – aged as he had aged and looking nothing like the woman that he married, nor the woman that he found hanging from a light fixture. She would always come to him as the woman that he had always imagined herself being. And it would take some time for him to realise that it was her, but in the end, he always did.

The woman before him now was the woman he remembered. It was the woman he last saw when he stumbled accidentally upon her hanging and thrashing body. He looked at her now as he had then. He wanted to help her but he couldn't decide if that was to let her hang to death, or to grab her legs and slowly ease her down. Looking at her now, it was no easier than it had been when he first found her. She probably thought nobody would find her. She probably thought it would be quick and quiet and nobody would know until the morning. But she hadn't counted on the thrashing about, and what kind of toll that would put on the walls and the ceiling. And it was the cracking sound, which sounded like the whole foundation was collapsing, that had woken The Old Man from his sleep and had him stumble down the stairs.

The Old Man stared at his noose now. It hung from the lowest branch on the sturdiest tree, and from it hung his dead wife. She thrashed about, gripping at rope that squeezed around her neck with one hand, while the other reached desperately to the man that she had spent the latter part of her life demoralising, emasculating, and blaming – for making her impure; for divorcing her from the piety of Jesus Christ, and finally, for how she hated herself because of it.

There she hung before him, just as she had hung before.

"Just bloody do it you old fool," he said out loud.

"I beg your pardon."

The Old Man froze.

His wife vanished.

His hands trembled.

All of his bravery was gone.

"Excuse me?"

There was a voice, as old as his, coming from through the brush.

"You there."

It was a woman's voice.

The Old Man stood in front of the tree. The noose swung back and forth lightly. His wife, though, was gone. Her face and her image had vanished once more. He stared at the noose, incapable of taking it down, just as he was, incapable of tying himself to it. He merely stood there, stunned and defeated as the sound of footsteps got louder and louder, and then eventually, he felt a soft hand on his shoulder.

"I'd ask what you're doing here, but I'm a little afraid of what I might hear."

She too was staring at the noose. She'd seen many before.

"I'll be getting cold soon," she said, taking off her cardigan and putting it onto The Old Man's shoulder. "Let's get you inside. Get you some grub, and a nice port. That'll warm you up."

The Old Man turned – not on his own accord, but because he let her turn him. He let himself free into her warm and gentle spirit. He let himself look in her eyes. And he let himself let go for a second of all the burden he had been carrying. He let his muscles relax. He let his defences all fall down. He let nervousness get the better of him and he let his cheeks redden. Then he let a shy smile wash over his face. He let all the ghosts of his past float away, just as he let The Old Lady turn him away from the noose, then take him by the hand and guide him – away from his past and into the present moment.

They walked the short distance to her cabin, and in that time, The Old Man had never felt so light and free. His legs felt young, as did his rampantly beating heart. His body felt both hot and cold. He felt like he was freezing to death in the middle of an active volcano. His hands shook. His feet shook. Even his head shook. He hadn't felt this kind of nerve before. It felt like something to be concerned about – that maybe one of them should call a paramedic. He had never wanted to kiss another person so dire in his life.

She did it for him. She kissed his cheek first, and when she saw how he smiled and closed his eyes, she lightly kissed his lips. The Old Man could have sworn his heart exploded. He could have sworn that from it was born a hundred trillion particles and that all of them were swarming about in some chaotic and passionate dance. He could have sworn too, that by looking in her eyes, the chaos in his heart started to cool and form, and he could have sworn that from that one kiss, an entire universe was born beneath his frail old skin. He felt, in that instant, as if he had an infinite amount of time. He felt as if his life had only just begun.

"You sit down and get yourself comfortable. I'll get you a drink."

The Old Man sat down in a quaint rocking chair. It smelt of the very flowers that were patterned on its fabric. Every part of her cabin had its own particular feel. But in its entirety, it felt like home.

For the first time, The Old Man felt like he was home.

"Here you go, dear," she said, handing The Old Man a glass of port.

For a great while, they didn't speak. It didn't feel like they had to. It felt like they learned from one another just by being in each other's company – just by staring at each other and occasionally, holding each other's hands.

"Do you like music?" she asked.

His first thought was no. Definitely not the kind of music one found on radios or being played in concerts or hummed by strangers on the street. The kind of music he craved was that which his own children had prohibited. It was the only music that ever soothed he urges that - for half of his life - had caused him to do unspeakable things. It was the music that he had loved since he was a boy. It was the only music that truly carried the honesty and the passion of human beings. It was the only music that - even an atheist like himself would say – spoke from the very soul of mankind. It was the only music that he longed for. Outside of his children, it was the good thing in this world that he truly missed. And it too was the only thing to stop his violent urges.

"Now I haven't worked this thing in quite a while."

The Old Lade came out with a gramophone. She set it up on the side table.

"Now, I have record or two here somewhere. Geeze it's been so long since I pulled them out. I know they're here, though. No silly law is gonna make me give up grandfather's favourite albums. Now where did I put it?"

Normally at this point, especially around a stranger, The Old Man would be feeling tingles in his fingertips. He'd be feeling a rumbling in his belly. And he'd be feeling an itch in the back of his head – somewhere deep inside that his fingers could never reach. He would succumb to the onset of his violent urges, regardless of how amorous he felt about this kind and undeserving stranger. Normally he would, but as he stared at the gramophone, and as he watched The Old Lady fumbling through her drawers and cabinets for an old record, those urges which had become the only constant in his life, they failed to surface. He watched her and instead of feeling dizzy and nauseous, he felt giddy and excited like when his children were four, and he watched them sneaking out of their beds at midnight and tiptoeing their way to the presents under the tree.

"Here they are," said The Old Lady. "Not sure about your taste or not, but it's the only records I have, so if you don't like it, you can shove it."

She said it in a way that was darling.

"Which do you want to hear first?"

"My god, I can't contain myself," though The Old Man. "I wonder what they'll be."

She held up the two records, and he shivered with excitement.

"Billie Holiday," she said, "or Robert Johnston."

"You choose," said The Old Man, incapable of making that choice himself. How could one choose? Why would one choose? This was not something he could ever do by himself.

The Old Lady put on the first record and instantly as if his veins had been doused in a shower of heroin, a sudden warmth washed over his mind. And it coated too, the back of his throat. He felt every nerve and muscle in his body relax. It was as if he were submerged in lightly flowing river where he himself passed by every one of his thoughts as if they were rocks, boulders, and reeds, that stuck out of the river bed.

He passed all of his nightmares, and he passed each and every glutinous urge. He passed them all without bidding so much as a farewell. He passed them all without acknowledging that they were actually there. He passed them all, without a thought or a care.

The Old Lad pulled her chair closer to his, and they say for hours, watching the day close out, without saying a single word. They held their glasses of port in one hand, and themselves in the other. And while the music filled their hearts and souls, both The Old Man and The Old Lady held onto one another as if their lives depended on it, and both swayed gently to the music while the sun set and the night sky filled with glittering stars and bright burning planets.

The Old Man was about to tell her he loved her. If he had of, it wouldn't have been a lie. He didn't get the chance, though. Somewhere between her smiling at him and kissing the back of his hand, and he realising that his life finally had a sense of purpose and belonging; the music stopped.

"Oh dear," said The Old Lady.

It didn't sound as dire to her as it did to The Old Man.

"Oh, drats," she said, almost making a mockery of The Old Man's sudden fright.

"What happened?" he said. "Can it be fixed?"

"Looks like the needle broke," she said, holding up the splintered end. "I'm not surprised really. This thing is centuries old. Surprised it even worked in the first place. I might have another needle around here. Give me a sec."

"Do you think you do? Do you? Whatta you think?"

The river that he had been gently floating upon was now murky and full thick granular sediment. He was stuck in the one spot while around him, the water got faster and deeper, and filled with horrendous fucking shit. All of his nightmares and burdens, they all rushed towards him at a speed that he had never felt before. All the horrible thoughts, they all flooded back into his mind. All the terrible urges, they quickly presented themselves, and while The Old Lady scourged haplessly and humorously through cabinet after cabinet, The Old Man started to fever, sweat, and shake.

"You'd swear I've never even been through these drawers. I'm finding stuff I didn't even know I had."

She was taking her fucking time.

Why was she taking so long?

"Hurry the fuck up. Please. For your own sake, let alone mine."

He stood behind her now with an old kettle cord in his hands. His urges made him shake and tremble, but when he held that cord tight, he felt calm, safe and sure. This feeling, though, would not last, not unless that cord was around her neck. Then he would be swimming again. Then all the thoughts and all the bad dreams would be left aside and gently floated down the river.

"I am so sorry," he whispered as leant in to tie the cord around her neck.

"I found it!"

The Old Man stumbled backwards.

"Oh thank God," he said. "I could kiss you. I think I love you."

His urges stopped suddenly.

"No, wait... Just as I thought," said The Old Lady, befuddled. "Just a regular sewing needle."

Also by C. Sean McGee:

A Rising Fall (CITY b00k 001)

Utopian Circus (CITY b00k 011)

Heaven is Full of Arseholes

Coffee and Sugar

Christine

Rock Book Volume I: The Boy from the County Hell

Rock Book Volume II: Dark Side of the Moon

Alex and The Gruff (a tale of horror)

The Terror{blist}

The Anarchist

Happy People Live Here

The Time Traveler's Wife

Ineffable

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