Issue 5 by Red Line

THE RED LINE With Stories From Mark Goreeph Shannon Bennett Vaishnavi Girish

Bruce Harris Dan Maitland Shohidur Rahman Karen Albright Lin

I5 POWER

THE RED LINE Welcome Reader, To the fifth edition of The Red Line, dealing with all things related to Power. The Power for us resides with our judges so take a good look at the women of the Nanjing book club (below). These loveable and smiling faces hide minds as sharp and unforgiving as a bear trap; when they were asked to give us their undiluted opinion that was exactly what they did. Those writers with weak hearts should perhaps avoid the judgment for this issue, as the Nanjing club set a high benchmark and pulled no punches. We love them for it, support them to the hilt, and know all writing benefits from unprejudiced and straight-talking feedback. Their feedback follows the short-listed stories so that you can have a go yourselves. Before they don their black caps, collect their gavels, and proclaim judgment letâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s dive straight into seven different tales dealing with various perceptions, and uses, of Power. Toby and Stephen

The Committee for the Defense of the Unjustly Persecuted By Mark Goreeph

He was never sure how long the torture lasted but it

had been reborn into this world of violence and pri-

must have been months; he knew this because of the vation. There were moments of respite from this length of his hair and beard, how his wounds healed, isolated events that he momentarily interpreted as and that his fractures mended before they were

acts of kindness - like when they took him to hospi-

bloodied and broken again.

tal to have his leg plastered, and then the vitamin

He’d begun by assuming that suffering and torture injections for his fainting spells; but he soon realized that they made him stronger so that they could break

would unlock the secrets that his interrogators were

seeking: details on the committee, its members, their him again. The injections ceased when his fainting fits subsided and his leg was fractured again before

terrorist activities and how they planned to over-

throw the government. In the beginning, he’d tried to it had healed properly. explain that they’d got it all wrong – it wasn’t a rev-

To begin with they beat him with their fists, with

olutionary group, but a collective that gave aid to

metal bars; his feet were flayed with a whip of bam-

those who were being persecuted. After a while, he

boo. But these were the clumsy, fledgling caresses of

stopped trying to explain and, for the most part, kept a lover who, gaining in confidence and inventivesilent.

ness, subjected him to an endless repertoire of suffering, driving him ever onwards on a dark, pilgrim-

Though he had a dim memory of his life before

age of pain.

and of the night they had dragged him from his bed – these were all distant impressions. It was as if his

His worst moment was when they stripped off his

life had only really begun after his arrest when he

clothes and made him look at himself in a full-length 3

mirror and he saw what he had become: an emaciat- breathed life into him when his heart had stopped.By

ed, sickly-looking stranger covered in burns, cuts

the time he met Leo he could barely remember his

and scar tissue. Once he’d been proud of his looks

own name.

but not anymore.

He tried to brace himself as he was taken into the

Over time, he came to the realization that there

interrogation room and was shocked that his escorts

are two types of people who suffer torture: those

handled him so gently as they ushered him into car-

who end up confessing and those who hold out until peted office with comfortable chairs where a man they die. It was strange to find himself in the latter

sat at a desk talking quietly into a mobile phone.

camp; he’d never considered himself brave. Though When the man finished his call and looked up, he the torturers had been careful not kill him, he knew

could see that he was in his sixties with salt and pep-

that his body was failing and that he was dying.

per hair and that, unlike the others, he wore no uni-

About this time, he had a heart attack. As one of the form. guards pounded on his chest, another shouted;

‘Hallo Michael,’ the man said. ‘Please sit down.’

‘Don’t let the bastard die!’ Despite the pain, a part

He smiled warmly and extended his hand. ‘I’m

of him watched with wry amusement. He felt ready

Leo.’

to go, and when he awoke to find himself in hospital

It was strange to hear his name after such a long

he felt bitter disappointment.

time and it evoked painful, disturbing images of oth-

While his body hovered between life and death,

ers who had called him Michael. Shaking his head,

he was filled with a nagging dread: the spirit might

he tried to clear his mind of the memory of these

continue to suffer after the death of the body – crip-

people and sat down heavily in the chair. He ignored

pled, deranged and banished to a wandering purga-

the outstretched hand.

tory. But he did not die and the fear passed. He was

‘You won’t shake hands with me?’ Leo asked his

taken back to the house of pain and he met Leo for

tone still mild. ‘No, I don’t suppose you would giv-

the first time.

en the circumstances. But maybe in time you’ll learn

The other interrogators had been nameless faces

to trust me just a little.’

that he had made up nicknames for. There had been

There was something in his tone that disconcerted

‘Scarface’ – the older one with the fissured features

Michael because he detected no hint of menace or

that was so fond of electrodes - and the ‘Kid,’ who

irony behind the benignly-spoken words, just a tan-

favoured blowtorches and pliers, and who had

gible sense of wistfulness. He decided that it was 4

best to keep quiet, till he understood a little more of

this man’s methods.

Michael was silent for a moment. ‘They were

once.’

Leo dismissed the escorts and offered him first a cigarette, a cup of coffee, and then a glass of spirits

‘Maybe they can be again,’ Leo said and he gave him a warm, friendly smile.

but Michael shook his head. The older man

Up until then, Michael had assumed that the man

shrugged, then pushed a button on his desk and

in front of him was a very good actor but suddenly it

piped music issued from speakers in the wall.

came to him that this man wasn’t faking. He felt

‘Turn it off.’ Michael muttered.

something shift inside him and he was filled with

Leo’s hand hovered over his desk for a moment.

sudden apprehension; he was pitted against his most

‘As you wish but I’m surprised. I thought you liked

formidable and dangerous adversary. If he wasn’t

Handel.’ Then he turned off the music.

careful, Leo would bring him down where all else

Michael began to tremble and the sweat poured out of him in rivulets. He’d never allowed his torturers

had failed by employing the most devious weapon of all.

the satisfaction of hearing him beg or seeing him

Over the next few weeks, Leo became his con-

weep but when the first strains of the music had

stant companion. To begin with Michael resisted his

flooded over him, he had known that he was close to advances by hurling insults at him or stubbornly retears. He tried to dig his fingers into the palms of his maining silent but Leo was impervious to all of this hands but the nails had been uprooted long ago; so

and would merely look at him with kindly eyes as he

instead he took deep breaths to distract himself.

continued his one-way conversations. He was tactile

‘Sorry about the music,’ Leo told him. ‘You see, I get a little lonely here. The others are hardly a cul-

tured bunch – sport, drink and porn mostly. I was

and Michael found this the hardest to bear; a friendly squeeze of the shoulder was infinitely harder to endure than a thousand electric shocks. For a while, it seemed as if the confessional had

looking forward to meeting you, to talking about-‘ ‘The Committee? My revolutionary activities?’ he demanded disdainfully.

been reversed, so that Leo was the one who confided the secrets of his heart to Michael telling him that, though he loved his country, he hated the govern-

‘No, not that. I was hoping to talk about books, plays, films, music. They are my interests; my passions. Yours too, I believe.’

ment. Later he spoke of his sorrow, at how the army had taken his son, that his wife was now a stranger

to him but most of all how he longed for death, par5

ticularly between midnight and dawn when he

was then that he felt a shard of pain cutting deep in-

couldn’t sleep and the future seemed hopeless.

side him as a torrent of tears flooded out of him.

‘I try to blot it all out,’ he told Michael. ‘I get

Michael wept bitterly, mourning for his old life as

drunk every night, otherwise I can’t sleep. I’ve sac-

well as the new. He saw himself signing confes-

rificed everything and now there’s nothing left to

sions, naming names and standing before a judge as

give.’

he received his sentence. His only hope was that it

Michael was shocked to see the streak of tears on would all be over quickly and that they would execute him.

the older man’s face. Feeling a lump in his own throat, he looked quickly away.

‘I’ll look after you,’ Leo told him. ‘As if you were my own darling son.’ He kissed Michael’s head.

‘I’m sorry,’ Leo muttered. ‘I know that I’m em-

‘You’re safe now. Daddy’s here.’

barrassing you but I can’t help myself. You remind me so much of my son.’ The words hung between them for a long, terrible moment and then Leo reached over and grasped his

hand. He tried to wrestle his fingers free but the other man hung on doggedly. ‘Please,’ Michael pleaded. ‘Let go of me.’ ‘It’s okay,’ Leo told him, his voice rasping with emotion. ‘I know how you feel. It’s unbearable to live without love.’ He pulled Michael to him then, locking him in a gentle but firm embrace. Michael felt the older man’s stubble grate against his cheek and felt Leo trembling against him. He tried to push him away but his captor was stronger and hung tightly to him, like a drowning man. Michael struggled mightily against this loving treachery, fighting for his very soul it seemed, but he was caught fast. Finally, sweating, exhausted, he could resist no longer and it 6

Touch By Shannon Bennett

“How long will this last?”

“If I lose the connection, I can’t get it back.” I felt

I shrugged as my hand continued to skim

him still beneath me.

over his cool skin. Even without applying pressure I

“You mean it only works once?” His gaze

could feel the grooves of his ribs under my palm.

was intent on my face, monitoring my response.

“As long as I keep touching you.”

Watching for the slightest hint of deception.

“And if you stop?” “Then you go back to the way you were.”

I nodded. “One time deal. Keeps things in check, I guess.”

“You mean I die again.”

“How do you know?” he demanded.

He spat it out like he was convicting me of

“Trial and error.”

“Oh.” He looked away and exhaled slowly.

some nefarious plot against him. It wasn’t the first time I’d encountered that response. I suppose it was

Careful to maintain contact, I slid my hand to his

natural. I didn’t call him on it. “Can you die if you

face and traced the dark rings under his impossibly

aren’t really alive?” I asked instead. “I think you just large eyes. He twitched but didn’t try to escape my slip back into it. Like sleep.”

fingers. “How do I look?” “Tired.”

With a ragged gasp his chest inflated, sucking in his already gaunt abdomen and forcing my

“Better than looking dead, I suppose.”

hand to scramble for purchase. “Careful,” I warned. 7

“You’re beautiful,” I said honestly. “But I

The embarrassment is all mine.”

think you already know that.” I shifted him over

“I’ve seen worse.” I scooted over the remain-

slightly on the table. “Do you mind?” I queried, ges- ing few inches and curled my body around his, tuckturing to myself and indicating the empty space next ing my cheek against his shoulder. We lay in silence to him.

for a few minutes, saying nothing. It wasn’t a prob“Go ahead.”

lem. No one was going to disturb us.

I clambered up onto the stainless steel sur-

“Have you always been able to do this?” he

face and settled down next to him. “Thanks.”

asked finally.

“You didn’t have to ask, you know. This is

“Yeah. Well, I assume so at least. I didn’t

your palace, after all.”

spend a lot of time around the deceased when I was an infant.”

I ignored the sardonic tone. “I don’t like to make assumptions. Some people don’t want me in

“How did you find out you could do it? Did

their personal space.”

you just… know?”

“Do you do this often?”

“I picked up my hamster.” The memory

made me grimace even after thirty-some years. “I

“Often enough, I suppose.” I propped up my head with my free arm and continued studying his

didn’t realise she had died. She was hard and cold in

face. He really was terribly pretty – all sharp lines

my hand, and then suddenly she wasn’t. I freaked

and shadowed hollows, framed with honeyed curls

out and dropped her. When I could bring myself to

that had been dark and lank before I washed them.

look at her again, she was dead as anything. I

“It’s not always like this, though.” I felt my cheeks

thought I’d just imagined it.”

warm. “I mean, it’s different with each person.”

“Eww.”

“You’re blushing,” he observed. “Why are

I thought he was going to leave it at that, a

you embarrassed? I’m the one who’s lying here na-

single one-syllable comment on something that

ked after being found dead in a bathroom with a

would have blown someone else’s mind, but I was

needle in my arm.”

wrong.

“Covered in vomit. Don’t forget the vomit.”

“When did you discover you hadn’t?”

Unease flashed across his features before

“When my mom died.”

disappearing behind a self-deprecating smirk. “See?

“I’m sorry.” It was an apology for prying, 8

not an offered condolence. The dead rarely seem

experimented a little. I found out that when I wear

disturbed by others dying. I guess it comes with dis- gloves it doesn’t work.” covering death itself is nothing to fear. Or so I’ve been told. “It’s okay. She’d been sick for a long time.”

“But why work in a funeral home in the first place?” he pressed. “Isn’t that just asking for trouble?”

I felt as though I’d spent a lifetime holding vigil by

“I can’t picture doing anything else. Maybe

her hospital bed. “I was alone with her one after-

being a coroner, I suppose, but that’s more of the

noon. My dad had taken my brothers down to the

same.” I smiled into his skin. “I can commune with

cafeteria, but I wasn’t hungry. I was reading my

the dead. It’s my gift, for lack of a better term.

book when I heard the cardiac monitor go off. I ran

Would you expect someone with a brilliant voice to

over and grabbed her, and suddenly she was there

avoid a career in music?”

again. We just looked at each other. When we heard someone coming in to check the alarm, she told me to let go.” “Did you?”

“That’s different,” he said dismissively. I wasn’t sure if he was vilipending my skill or that of the hypothetical musician. I don’t think he even realised he was doing it.

“Yes.” He shifted uncomfortably against the hard

“You’re being rather judgmental for someone who just died of a heroin overdose,” I pointed

surface underneath us. Rigor mortis broke the in-

out. “What exactly makes you comfortable conjec-

stant I placed my hands on a body, but it took time

turing about my life choices?”

for people to regain feeling in their limbs. For the

“True. True,” he repeated. “But maybe the

nerves to start relaying status reports back to the

fact I wasted my life makes me uniquely able to of-

brain again.

fer advice to others on how not to do the same.”

“We can change positions,” I offered. “You don’t need to stay laid out flat like that.” “No need,” he declined with a note of impatience. “I’m fine. Why did you go into this line of

“What makes you think I’m wasting my life?” I asked mildly. I try not to argue with people when I do this. It feels wrong, like I’m sending them on with strife in their souls.

work? Doesn’t it cause problems?” I shook my head again. “After my mom, I

“Well, you’re here. Lying on a table in a funeral home with a dead man, instead of spending

time with someone real.”

bring back? Yes.”

“You’re real.”

“You’re a necrophiliac?” His nose crinkled

“Debatable. And regardless, I’m a flash in

slightly in disgust despite his obvious fascination

the pan.” He cocked his head. “Wait. Is that it? Is

with the possibility. Old habits. Old habits, snob-

this a fear of commitment thing? Are you only giv-

bery, and a soupçon of hypocrisy.

ing me your time because I can’t demand it of you?” I could hear the sneer of incredulity in his words.

“I don’t think so. I don’t consider you dead. Rest assured I won’t be pleasuring myself with your

“Do you feel safer telling your secrets to people who corpse after this is over.” have no choice but to literally take them to the

A smile spread across his face, revealing

grave?”

teeth so perfect it would be a crime to seal his mouth

“I’m an embalmer. I’d be here regardless of

later. “But in the interim?”

if you were sentient or not.”

I looked at him steadily.

“You know what I mean.”

His eyes lit up. “Really?”

I counted to ten and considered what he was

“Only if you want.”

asking. This wasn’t the first time I’d had those accusations leveled against me. Maybe they were true,

n’t, for the last bit, because of… I didn’t really care

maybe they weren’t. It didn’t make much difference. “Perhaps. I don’t feel like I’m missing out on any-

“Oh, I do. I mean, it’s been a while. I could-

at the time, but-” He stopped tripping over his words long enough to draw air. “Wait. How does it work?”

thing, though.” “Same as it always does.” I sat up and He snorted. “Are you kidding me? I can think of a few obvious examples.” “You mean like having sex?” Of course he did. I rolled onto my back but kept my hand firm

pressed my lips against his before he could ask any

more questions. When I pulled away, his eyes were closed and his breathing was heavy. “See? I just need to make sure to keep a hand somewhere on

against his stomach. “I’m not. I mean, I am. Having you. Otherwise it could be a bit gross. For me, at it. Sometimes. If the person is interested.”

least. You wouldn’t notice.”

He raised himself up for the first time and

“So it has to be your hands?”

stared at me. “So you…”

“So I occasionally have sex with people I

“Mmhmm. Do you notice how it tingles where my hands are, but not in the other parts where 10

we’re touching?”

and even then it was just a crack. It wasn’t enough. I

“I think my whole body is tingling right now. wanted them unobstructed, visible for as long as But I’ll take your word for it.” The promise of sexu- possible before I closed them forever. al gratification had erased all hint of maliciousness

“Soon.” I rubbed my hand over his thin

from his voice, replacing it with an eager desire to

chest. “There isn’t exactly an expiry date, but this is

please. It always did.

as good a time as any.”

When our lips parted again, I slid to the floor, slipping off my shoes and stepping out of my

He smiled, the first completely genuine smile I’d seen all night. “I’m still not convinced this isn’t

pants before climbing back into his lap. “Help me,” I some strange hallucination.” whispered, tugging at the hem of my shirt. We ma-

“It isn’t. But even if it were, it wouldn’t mat-

neuvered the fabric over my head and off one wrist

ter.” I crawled down and stood next to the table, my

and then the other.

palm still planted firmly on his sternum. With the

His hands moved up my chest and onto my

fingers of my free hand I brushed through the soft

breasts, cradling them like they were something pre- curls that framed his face. “Reality is subjective.” cious. “You’re gorgeous.”

“How very philosophically pompous of

“Not really. But I suppose to you, right now, you.” His grin turned sheepish. Sincerely repentant I am.” I shifted to my knees and sank down onto

in his post-orgasmic bliss. “I’m sorry. I just feel

him, effectively ending the discussion. He groaned,

comfortable with you. I don’t mean to be insulting.”

burrowing into my neck until I nudged his chin up-

“I wasn’t. Insulted.” Dying brought a frank-

ward. “I want to see you.” It didn’t take long, and when he came I

ness to people that was missing in the living. Even in those who hadn’t gone through life with the sense

found myself transfixed by the expression on his

of entitlement he had. I wasn’t sure how authentic it

face. They always looked beautiful, the men and

was, but I enjoyed it nonetheless. “But I think I’m

women I brought back; so much more alive than the allowed to spend time navel-gazing. I brought you living I had done this with. He was beyond that,

back to life, didn’t I? Imagine what Nietzsche would

though. He was impossible to look away from. I

do with this. Is what I’m doing the embodiment of

stayed perched over him, waiting to see his eyes

nihilism, or the antithesis of it? I have a lot of time

again.

to ponder these things when I’m down here alone, “Is it time?” He spoke before opening them,

you know.” 11

He reached up and brushed my brow with

I was drawn to them. What exactly it is that makes

his fingertips before tucking a few mousy strands

them special.

behind my ear. “How often are you alone?”

“You want to hear that I picked you for

“You mean how often do I do this? Bring

something other than your looks, but at the same

someone back?”

time you assume that’s why.”

“Yes.”

I watched as he fought the urge to look away, shrugging insolently against the stainless steel

“Depends. On my mood. On the person I’m

below him instead. “Is that so wrong of me?”

working on. On how much I feel like playing God when I wake up in the morning.”

“No. No, it isn’t. Not at all.” I abandoned the curl I was playing with and ran my fingers over the

“How do you decide?”

contours of his face, dipping into the hollows of his

“Who I touch?” He nodded. “Curiosity.”

cheeks and along the length of his nose before fol“About what?”

lowing the philtrum to the soft curve of his lips. The

“Oh, anything. I have no particular require-

features I had seen in pictures long prior to seeing

ments,” I admitted, studying the infinitesimal move- them under the fluorescent lights of my cave. “I supment of his eyelids. The constant interplay between

pose you just made me sad.”

Orbucularis oculi and Levator palpebrae superioris. “Sometimes I’m curious about how they died, or

“Thank you.” He studied my face for a minute more before taking a deep breath. “I think I’m

about the life they led before. Sometimes I’m sad for

ready now.”

them and want to make things better. Some people I hated this part. “I’m glad I got to meet

repulse me, but I want to hear them speak, hear their side. Some people I just like the look of. They look

you.”

fun, or exotic, or beautiful. There aren’t any hard

“Me too.”

and fast rules.”

When I lifted my hand, the effect was imme-

“Why did you pick me?” They always wonder. Actually, that’s a lie. Everyone thinks they’re something special and that, by extension, their selection was never up for de-

diate. His body relaxed into the metal underneath as the eyes that had been fixed on mine dulled, no longer capable of taking in the world around them. Gone beyond my reach this time around.

I blinked back the sting in my eyes before

bate. What they wonder about is the specific reason 12

collecting my clothing off the floor and redressing.

My subterranean enclave was as stark and

What came after the face was easier, some-

how, despite how much more invasive it was. I was

sterile as an operating room, with the added charm

cloistered behind my apron, my glasses, my respira-

of being located in the basement of a mortuary. A

tor. It made things impersonal when I sliced through

very expensive mortuary, but a mortuary nonethe-

to his carotid to place the cannula. When I cut the

less. All the accoutrements in the world couldn’t dis- drainage tube into his jugular. I stepped back and guise the fact this was a place constructed around

assessed the body in front of me. An addict who had

death. Music helped, a little. And so I cued up Ar-

been found dead with a needle still firmly in his arm.

cade Fire and prepared my work station, laying the

Collapsed veins, then. While my machine indiffer-

tools out with efficiency born of experience. Pulled

ently replaced blood with formaldehyde, I prepared

on gloves, erecting the barrier now required by regu- my hypodermic and started working on his hands. lation before I could touch the skin I had caressed so Careful not to dwell on how they had felt on my recently. Thin latex only. Greater division wasn’t

skin.

necessary for this part. The most intimate part.

Careful.

Like a barber to the dead, I lathered his face

My sutures are a point of pride, but I have

and brought out my straight razor, meticulously

never put as much care into a set as I did on his.

stripping his skin of stubble even as I remembered

Once I was done, his neck was a work of art. So

the way it felt scraping against me. It was medita-

were the stitches above his navel after I finished the

tive, being forced to slow down and focus on every

dirty work of embalming his cavity, as if being deli-

stroke of my blade. It centred me. I needed centring

cate with my needle would make up for running

after tonight. Needed it to be able to bring myself to through his organs with my trocar like a scared soldo the next steps. Capping the eyes that had just

dier brandishing a bayonet.

been staring into my own. Disinfecting and suturing shut the mouth that had just been speaking to me.

When I bathed him, I didn’t think about the fact I was washing off the sweat that had accumulat-

The lips I’d just been kissing. It was difficult, really, ed during sex, or the faint hint of my scent that reto seal a lover away so permanently. Sometimes I

mained on his skin, masked behind formaldehyde. I

wished my touch could dole out more than single

focused on cleaning away the blood, the chemicals. I

servings. That I could take out my favourites on spe- dried his hair, finger combing it under my diffuser cial occasions, like the good dishes.

until it fell away from his face in perfect waves. 13

Touched lip wax to the already indistinguishable

skinny black silk tie and adjusted his collar like we

neck sutures. Blended them away to nothing before

were standing in our bedroom before a big night out.

doing the same to the track marks that littered his

“You look dashing, if I do say so myself,” I teased,

inner arms despite the fact no one would ever see

smoothing out his lapels.

them again. With bottles and brushes I painstakingly brought him back to life for a second time, making

When I was sure nothing remained for me to do, I carefully lowered the lid.

his skin glow with artificial vitality before fitting him in the suit his family had provided. The label I

saw as I cut down the back reminded me just how different his life could have turned out. “Instead you became a junkie,” I said aloud as I began strapping him into the body lift, my voice rough from hours of silence. “You had the whole world available to you, you beautiful man, and instead you wound up down here with me. Getting in a

post-mortem quickie with the lonely little embalmer who knows all your secrets.” I secured the head sling and stepped back, reaching for the remote. With a touch of a button, he was moving toward the sleek stainless steel casket his parents had paid a small fortune for the day prior. The lift track was set up so the body went into the casket neatly every

time, but I still guided him in, setting him down perfectly centre on the lilac interior before unfastening the straps. His mother had insisted on the lilac. She’d calmly explained that it was his favorite colour even as tears ran unchecked down her face. The slate of his suit looked striking against the light purple hue. “Good choice, Mom.” I straightened the knot on the 14

Zaire

By Vaishnavi Girish

Zaire was a Singer. Umi had known that, as had many others. But Umi had known more and kept it a secret. Normally, Singers needed some honing of their skill but not Zaire. Since her days as a child, she had sung the leaves into bloom, sung the rain away, shaped metal with her voice for her childhood makebelieve plays. Yes, thought Umi, she had known about Zaire's unusually developed skill and had stayed silent. Now, inevitably, she was on trial. The prosecutor leaned in towards her. 'Are you listening, Umi, to what I'm saying?'

Umi wished he wouldn't use her first name even if they had known each other since he was a child. 'I am.' 'You have placed our society, our entire civilisation on the brink of collapse.' Umi wrinkled her face, 'Oh don't be so dramatic, Nevan'. Nevan blinked, caught off guard. Umi was the grandmother of the society - one of the oldest Singers they had. Her voice was weaker now but she had taught and trained a good many of the city's best Singers. If Nevan had had any delusions that this woman would

be cowed by the accusations, he was mistaken. She sat there unperturbed, as though they had approached 15

her at her training school with a crime that did not involve her being the sole culprit of.

'I'm not being dramatic,' replied Nevan. 'You knew Zaire was a danger, yet you let her go unreported.' Umi looked at Nevan squarely in the face. 'You expected me to report a seven year old child who had just sung a rosary out of dewdrops for the queen of her make-believe world?' 'She is not supposed to be able to sing water into a garland without training. She is not supposed to know any Song we haven't taught her! Who knows what else she can do!' Umi's eyebrows rose, 'What else are you afraid of her doing?' 'That, well-' Nevan was flustered, 'that is not the point.' 'Isn't it?' 'You know this Umi,' he said angrily, even though he had not wanted to lose his temper. Why did she refuse to understand what she knew? 'You know how our society is built.' 'Please,' replied Umi dryly. 'Refresh my mind.' 'You don't think there is anything wrong in this?' He ploughed on when Umi remained silent. 'Oh for the love of the heavens! Singers are powerful human beings. We have a population out of which five percent of the people are naturally more powerful than the others. And might I add powerful enough to take control of all else under certain conditions. So we keep them in check to make sure these conditions don't arise. We train them. We teach them only the Songs that can help humanity. You can do anything through Song so we ban people from composing their own. No person is allowed to write music alone. You of all people should know this!' 'And what would you have done with Zaire?' asked Umi. It was the man next to Nevan who replied. 'Singers as you know have the voice and the talent none can teach them that. But it is training that lets them influence people and matter.' He paused but Umi didn't acknowledge his statement and he went on, a slight frown creasing his forehead. 'Zaire on the other hand didn't need training. She can teach herself to do anything meaning that nothing is out of her bounds.' Nevan picked up where the other man had left of. 'Nothing is beyond her, do you understand? She can control people, manipulate them, she could destroy things, lives, kill, maim-' 16

'That is,â&#x20AC;&#x2122; Umi interrupted, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;if she composed the right Song and wished to do these things.'

'If Zaire can teach herself to sing metal into shape at the age of eight, she can certainly do these things and more at the age of twenty-two!' 'But she hasn't.' 'We cannot let it rest on the hands of her good nature! Do you realise how foolish that would be?' Umi smiled and Nevan had the nagging feeling that she was laughing at him. 'Yes, that would be foolish. We have long rid our society of trust.' 'Trust is dangerous. The last uncurbed Zaire that we had almost reduced our world into cinders.'

'You never did answer my question,' said Umi. 'What would you have done with the seven year old girl if I had turned her in?' Nevan felt the weight of Umi's gaze on his tongue and he couldn't answer her. Someone from the jury replied, 'We would have brought her up under highly controlled conditions. Made sure she could not write Songs of her own.' 'Yes,' murmured Umi. 'Of course.' The look on the old woman's face annoyed Nevan, 'Don't be so mighty about this, Umi. Do you think we like doing it? Besides, it isn't that big a deal - she would have still been able to sing wouldn't she? And our staff is very good at carrying out this treatment.' Umi's shoulders sagged a little and she felt exhausted all of a sudden. 'Let's wrap this up, shall we? Sentence me and I'll sort out the rest of my affairs within the days that I have.' There was a stony silence. 'Umi, it doesn't have to be that way,' said Nevan uncomfortably. 'Surely you don't think we would-' 'Hang me?' asked Umi with a thin smile. 'Isn't that the penalty for what I have done?' A buzz of voices arose from the jury. 'You can present your side Umi,' said Nevan. 'I don't have one.' 'Just tell us why you did it.' 'There was no reason.' 'Don't make this difficult for us, Umi,' pleaded Nevan. 'You're at liberty to sentence me as you please. I have no objection.' Of course they wouldn't finish it so early, thought Umi wearily. They went in circles, always finishing with a plea for her to tell them her side. What did they want? A story of blackmail in which someone twisted her arm to keep Zaire a secret? She snorted. If they wanted to do the dirty work, she wasn't going to help them out. Finally, the jury stood up and she felt a rush of relief. 17

'The accused has been found guilty of the charges laid against her. She will help rectify her mistake

as the state sees fit and in return will be spared her life.' Umi almost laughed at the look of magnanimity in the eyes of her jury. So they thought they had done her a favour. ** 'I want to see Zaire.' The woman at the doorway seemed uncertain. 'Come on girl, move aside. I don't have all day,' said Umi briskly. The woman sprang aside and Umi went in. It was a neat room. A vase of flowers sat by the bed. Everything was a sanitary shade of white - the sheets, the walls, even the furniture. And on the chair by the dresser, she saw Zaire sitting, hands entwined on her lap, fingering a ring -

gift from a boy she had loved? Umi couldn't remember. Yes, she was getting old. Zaire looked up when she came in and Umi felt it, as she had the first time she had seen Zaire. She felt herself swimming in the universe that was contained in those dark eyes. Zaire stood up, her liquid hair spilling over her shoulders as she did. 'Are you okay Umi? What did they say?' Umi waved her off, 'Nothing useful.' 'Umi,' protested Zaire but Umi cut her off. 'They went around in circles, child, and I'm not sure they even know what to do with me.'

'Or me?' Umi looked at Zaire's anxious face, still unlined, and tanned under the sun to a warm beech. 'You cannot keep it from me, Umi,' said Zaire with a faint smile. 'You cannot protect me any longer so you might as well tell me. I am going to find out sooner or later and I'd rather find out from you.' 'Let's go out for a walk, child,' said Umi. 'I'm not allowed to leave the premises,' said Zaire. Umi sniffed. 'Come on.' 'Excuse me-' began the woman outside. But Umi cut across her, 'We're going for a walk to the

hills.' 'But you are under strict rules not to leave the premises.' In the short while that Umi had spent inside Zaire's room, the woman had furnished herself with two hefty bodyguards. 'Tell anyone who comes looking for me where I am. They will track me anyway.' 'I'm sorry but if you attempt to leave, I will have to restrain you.' The bodyguards moved a step forward as though preparing themselves for a fight.

'If you lay a hand on either of us, I will sing you into oblivion,' warned Umi. 'I'm a convicted crimi-

nal as it is. I have nothing to lose.' And she looked so fierce, the age that lay over her lending her a sense of both authority and power, that the woman backed away. In silence, Umi swept past her, Zaire in tow. They walked through the winding paths to the valley where the mountains dipped down in the arc of a swallow's dive. Within minutes, they were standing in a place shrouded by forest-covered slopes shielding them on all sides but the south where the sky rushed in to meet them. Zaire turned to examine the trees. Green lay over them like spring's own theme punctuated by earthen notes of brown. The light that

slid through the woods spread out in a fan by her feet. 'Umi,' said Zaire softly. 'Do you want to hear a Song? I've been thinking of it for almost two years now. I think this is the place it was meant for.' Umi turned to face the girl beside her who still did not know the consequences of people. Don't sing it, child, she thought. But she felt a twist of curiosity to hear a new Song. It had been so long. 'Alright,' she said. Zaire's face was alight. She moved to stand beside the cones of light and began. The notes were soft

at first. They were a call to the wind, to the bark of trees, the leaves, to the hollows - anything, living and not, that could lend itself to her as an instrument. For no violinist would play for her. No pianist would dare join her Song. The valley rose to the occasion. Zaire wove wind through the right places for cooing of a flute. The leaves threw up the rustle of a maraca and the trees creaked their aged backs to weave a melody. Was that a bird? Did a bird join in? Umi wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t certain. With the mountain alive with her music, Zaire began her aria, still keeping her accompanying musicians abreast. Oh gods above, she was powerful! thought Umi numbly. No other Singer could have focused on so

many different threads of music, more so from objects that had not been fashioned into instruments. Zaire threw her head back and sang. Umi who had not paid attention to her words before, recognised the phrases and intonations of an old language, used in only the poetry of scriptures. Zaire with laughter in her voice named the mountains beautiful. She sang of the grace of the valley they stood in. How did the light feel, she asked, stretching out across the spaces between worlds? They moved her. Could she join them? Oh this world was amorphous in its fragmented bits. How this Song of the wild gathered her pieces. Yes, the power hidden behind their beautiful facade was terrible; weren't all beautiful things so?

Were the stars not ravaging fire? Could the seas not swallow the world? They moved her, she sang. 19

Was it in reply? wondered Umi, dazed. Was it in reply to her Song? The water from the valley

springs gathered in a cloud of mist about Zaire. Even the sunlight seemed to be straining away from its clearly defined contours to touch her dress. And Zaire with a flicker of a smile, changed the pace. She sang quick notes, powerful notes all flowing into one. Umi felt a gentle stirring at the pit of her mind. So that was what it was to create. She had sung many Songs in her sixty years as a Singer but never created one since she began training. Zaire's Song was a serenade to itself, thought Umi and it brought back things she had long cast away, being fishhooks into madness. I was like Zaire once, she thought, for the first time in years. She had created Songs as a child just

as Zaire had. But they had taken her apart swiftly, and with surgical precision removed that ability, keeping all else intact. She had never been able to think up a single melody since. The source of that, she didn't know what it was, was gone. Watching the ease with which Zaire let loose her voice, Umi realised what she saw almost palpably around the girl: the joy of having one's own Song. It made a space for itself where there had been no space before and its unmaking couldn't erase the space. It simply emptied it. Every new Singer that was brought to Umi had thankfully been without this gift - girls and boys with good voices, and talent for keeping rhythm and tune but without the desire or ability to make music. She had prayed she

would never have to deal with one like herself. And she had almost gotten away with it. Zaire finished the Song and let the music rest. She grinned at Umi. 'It was in my head for so long, I think this was where I found the last bits of music to finish it. Umi?' she added, for it was then that she caught sight of the other woman's ashen face. Only Umi's eyes looked bright, like they still lived within the notes of the Song that had just ended. 'I don't know how to help you,' said Umi softly. 'What do they want from you?' asked Zaire. Umi had evaded the question back at the institute. Now

she didn't. 'They want me to help them,' said Umi. 'Doing what exactly?' asked Zaire. 'Bringing you under control,' replied Umi. Zaire frowned. 'How much more control can I have? I'm not doing anything I shouldn't be doing.' 'Zaire, you created a Song.' 'But not for anything bad,' countered Zaire. No, thought Umi, you have done something far worse.

You created a Song for the human soul. You created a Song for the joy of creation. 20

'They don't want you to make any Songs.'

'Fine, I won't.'Umi almost smiled but she knew it would be lines of bitterness that would be distended across her face. 'No child, they don't want you to be able to make Songs.' She waited as Zaire digested that. 'They can't do that.' 'I'm living proof that it's possible.' For the first time since she had been arrested, there was shock in Zaire's face. 'Umi?' whispered Zaire. 'You were also like me?' 'Yes.'

'Umi, it doesn't have to be like that. You can make something now, here. They are never going to know. Make something â&#x20AC;&#x201C; sing it here where no one can hear us.' 'I cannot. I don't know how to anymore.' 'Do what you used to do before! You can, I'll help you-' 'I used to have things floating in my head - notes, melodies, phrases of music - chords I wasn't sure I'd ever heard before, ideas. Now all I hear is silence. Can you make music out of silence? I sing silence.' 'Oh Umi,' said Zaire, her voice cracking, and Umi knew that for the first time, she was faced with

someone who could fathom the horrors of the life she had led. 'Have you ever tried?' asked Zaire. 'For almost ten years after, I did,' replied Umi. 'But it felt like ripping open a sutured wound to grope among squelching organs for something I wasn't sure I would recognise.' Zaire lapsed into silence. Umi heard the bells toll in the distance. A reminder of the world outside this valley. They would find them soon. 'You know why I'm telling you this don't you?' she said sternly. 'It is not for your sympathy. It's to warn you against what is coming. I can't help you.' 'I can take them on,' replied Zaire grimly.

'No you cannot.' Zaire met Umi's gaze evenly but the old woman saw there was fire in it. Not the brightness of the light, not the joy of Song but the molten fire of the earth, and she felt a new chill. Zaire was not like her. 'I suppose we have to get back,' said Zaire, nodding in the direction of the bells. 'No!' cried Umi, clawing at Zaire's arm. 'Don't go back!' Zaire stared at Umi in surprise. She had never seen her lose control before. She looked like a crazed old woman with despair swirling across her face.

Gently, Zaire disengaged her arm and grasped Umi's shoulder. 'I am what I am, Umi,' she said. 'I

will face what I cannot escape.' 'They will turn the switch,' said Umi hoarsely. 'What switch?' asked Zaire in a soothing tone. 'They will take it and turn it over so that you find it disgusting. Then you recover, find it again, the thing in you that makes Songs, and start over. Then they do it again, dirty the music. You wipe it clean, sing it fresh, and over and over again they do it. Then it will be slightly stained but you think it will be alright, you will scrub it clean. But the stain spreads. And you sing but it is horrible. You can barely associ-

ate it with anything you can call yours. You can tell the good from bad and this is bad. Where is your good music? Why is everything that escapes you repulsive, dull and flavourless? One creates to express but this mundanity that you've made - what does it express? Nothing. You stop composing for a moment and feel relief. At least you don't feel shame for the inane works you produce. This carries on and you run from it until one day, you turn around and realise that you cannot create music even if you wished to. That is what they do.' Zaire looked at Umi and felt an overpowering grief. 'What's the point? What if someone just wants

to write Songs for the sake of it?' Don't you know the danger of a mind that can create? Umi thought. Don't you know that the joy of creating makes you far too independent to the world? What power it lends you? Because you can call such a Song yours, like no-one else can. But Umi did not say that. She gripped Zaire's shoulder firmly - an unspoken signature of composure for both of them, and they walked back.

***

Umi watches the stars dim. Or maybe it is her eyes that are dimming. Eighty-four years weigh on her. This is a moment to die, she thinks, shuffling through the woods. Clear headed, without pain, she wants her last thought to be soundless. She is tired of sound. She has not sung for almost fifteen years now. Nothing new, nothing old. She hasn't listened to music. Not since Zaire. Why tonight? she wonders. Then she realises it is the night. It has a surreal quality to it. The kind that Zaire would have sung about. Zaire who had lasted the treatment for almost eight years - that was twice the number that she, Umi, had. But Zaire had been brittle like glass. Unrelenting, tough and unbending. She hadn't burned in fire, hadn't bent

under load. The institute had recognised that in her and dealt her a sharp blow. They had shattered her. 22

Everyone knew what had happened but no one spoke about it. Which of the Silencers had Zaire

cut a deal with? For someone had sung to her - sung her voice into destruction. Zaire had then torn herself away from music and lived her life as a commoner, a disabled one at that, for she had no voice to speak with. Umi knew she had kept herself away from music, working in places where it was not needed. Until some fool had found use for a confiscated song that Zaire had written long ago. The institute had wanted her help to modify it. Umi often wished she had not been there. She had watched the notes lay Zaire open with a bloody scalpel. A day later, her lover had woken to his beloved's corpse lying stiff, cold and dispassionate in their bed.

Umi looks up as the breeze raises the white hairs on her head. Zaire, she thinks. 'Zaire,' she says. Far away, a river gushes and flows to its own music.

Blue Genes

By Bruce Harris

Dr. Thurston J. Bayfield looks out of the window of ing humming quietly from one corner of the room his comfortable, contemporary office in the Eden-

and gentle string chords from Classics You Have

ville Smith-Hewson Life Enhancement Facility as

Loved emerging from the other.

his clients, Mr. and Mrs. Palukivsky, drive their

‘We have available fresh juices of various kinds’,

Mercedes saloon into the car park. A beautiful day,

Cheryl says, with another smile. ‘I can also bring

Thurston thinks, and about to get more beautiful

caffeinated drinks if you will sign my embryo affec-

when these guys come up with a few hundred thou-

tation disclaimer’.

sand dollars. He glances down at his Client Contact Sally answers quickly, ‘Orange juice would be just Programme and watches with approval as Cheryl

fine’. Sally’s an attorney; she knows her way

rises from the reception desk to meet the couple. He around. Thurston’s lips purse. initiates his Reception Monitor to observe Cheryl’s welcoming techniques.

In downtown Edenville, the steam is rising in the

‘Mr. and Mrs. Palukivsky, you’re very welcome to

Buffalo Arena. Jez Turner has warmed up his main-

our Facility. Would you please follow me through

ly young audience; most of them are already red-

to our Reception Lounge?’

faced with laughter and the humid heat of the even-

The Palukivskys walk through to take their places in ing. The lights follow Jez’s slight figure around the two deep brown leather armchairs, the air condition- stage. After the early tensions, especially the Moth-

ers for a Decent America demo, the mood is laid

screen in front of you there, because we at Smith-

back and anticipatory.

Hewson like to feel we’re enabling our clients’

‘Man, this town has everything, don’ it? Even, hell, rights of choice, and we’re offering you this presentation for your information, and right after that,

a Make Your Own Babies place just out of town!’

we’ll be talking the whole thing over’.

A gratified sigh from the crowd, of mixed anticipa-

Before Luke or Sally can say anything, the office

tion and apprehension..

lights dim and the big screen shows a smiling, suited

‘You know, a few years down the line, you’ll put

man in front of a huge chuckling baby. Both figures

your kid together like a flatpack. Stick plastic ass A

stop moving and ‘Life Enhancement’ appears in the

to abdomen B; place dick E to balls F and G’.

big letters, with ‘Your Guide to the Smith-Hewson

The laughter circles and echoes around the arena.

Way’ in smaller letters immediately after. The suit-

‘Maybe you get to choose your own pieces from the

ed man’s face and shoulders occupy the whole

catalogue. You want a supermodel girl? Easy on the

screen and he is gazes out with intense, blue-eyed

big tits; she’ll be hitting the ground half way down

concentration. His voice is deep and even, serious

the catwalk’.

but non-threatening.

Louder; Jez follows it quickly.

‘You want a star athlete boy? Don’ gift him no super schlong, or he’s gonna be bouncing his dick over every hurdle in the race!’ Jez’s mime to this, carefully prepared before full length mirrors, reduces some of the audience to tears.

'Having a child is an important part of your life; maybe the most important part of all. A little child starts off small and vulnerable, and that kid’s chances in life depend on you. It’s a responsibility no real parent will take it lightly’. Pictures of babies are suddenly interrupted by a

‘Please be seated here, Mr. and Mrs. Palukivsky.

You know, darn it’, Thurston says, with a broad grin and a raised finger, ‘I’m just not too good with all this Mister and Missus stuff. It’s Luke and Sally, ain’t it?’ ‘It sure is’, Luke responds with a guarded smile of his own. ‘Well, I’m Thurston. That’s just fine. Now, Luke

and Sally, I’m going to ask you to look at that big

huge question mark filling the screen. Music fades

into the suited man, now wearing a white coat, sitting at a doctor’s desk. ‘I’m Dr. Matt Hewson and I’m a partner in the Smith-Hewson Institute. We want to be up front about what we offer here; we’re not hustlers at Smith-Hewson. We lay it on the line. So we’re showing you top dollar, top of the range, our most

empowering offer for you, the parent’. 25

Pictures of invalids fill the screen; the names of ma- Matt Hewson’s voice, deep and reassuring, contin-

jor illnesses follow each other. Luke and Sally look ues backing the screen summary. Under the big title across at each other; Sally smiles. Thurston feels a

‘Platinum Life Enhancement Programme’ and in

momentary pang of panic.

front of happily playing children, the number 1 appears and alongside it ‘Total Protection’.

Jez moves to front centre and leans out towards the

‘Our Platinum Programme ensures that everything

audience. 'And you know the first thing they're gon- that can be done to protect your child from all idenna do for your little dame or your little guy?

tified genetic weaknesses will be done by gene ad-

They're gonna make them healthy little dudes, free

justment, meaning widespread immunity from al-

from every killer bug the world has ever known, just most all of the major killers and organs robust by fixing to take out all the bad genes, all the blue

enough to withstand infection or fight it off by re-

genes, right, which make the kid real sad and sick'.

generation when it occurs’.

The arena quietens while Jez nods slowly, mournful- Luke is now tapping notes into a computer on his ly.

wrist and Bayfield watches him sideways on, glanc-

'Ain't that something, huh? You gotya millions of

ing down at Luke’s ‘client profile’. Luke is in

rich kids who ain't never gonna get sick. All you

‘P.R.’ , which in Bayfield’s vocabulary can be any-

guys with a whole lot of dollars, your ass is gonna

thing from an ad man to a private dick. That pang

live for eternity, you're gonna live until you're so

happens again.

pissed you'll be begging the white coat man, hey,

The screen changes to loud rock music and pictures

doc, lemme go, gimme a break, I've lived in this

of a Gay Pride march. Hewson appears again in

fucking Peacehaven gated community for two whole front of the film as if in the march; he is now centuries and, if I can't die, I'm gonna kill myself!’

dressed colourfully and wearing a moustache. ‘You

The noise gathers around the arena again; Jez rais- know’, he says, shouting cheerfully above the noise es his voice to go for it. ‘And how’s about if you

behind him, ‘it would be a sadder world if we were

don’ have those sacks of dollars? Well, fuck you,

all the same. Human diversity is fascinating; all the

you losers, because you know what’s gonna happen colours of the rainbow are there’. He moves away to you? You’re gonna die, suckers, that’s what’s

and the screen follows the marchers as they dance,

gonna happen to you!’

run or walk past, some smiling or blowing kisses at the cameras.

The screen changes and Hewson appears outside a

chase them around or hang them or lock the mothers

hospital ward holding a clipboard.

up no more, because we’re gonna breed their low-

‘But diversity doesn’t have to be compulsory. Di-

down faggot asses the hell out of our brave new

versity has to allow for choice, and when choices are straight Paradise, man!’ available, we’re entitled to make them. Now science allows you a choice; allows you – let’s call it what it is and not be afraid of it – the power, you never had before. Recent studies show that as much

as 95% of our sexuality is determined by our genes. If you want your child to be a member of a minority who have included many able and talented people’ – pictures of famous gay people rise and fade on the

He moves to the edge of the stage. ‘What in the hell did these fags ever do for the world, huh? What contribution, listen to me now, have they ever made to human life and thought? Squat, man, that’s what!’

Blue Genes, Page 6 A small, unmicrophoned voice sounds from the edge of the stage. ‘What you say?'

screen – ‘you may give them that right, and they

may thank you for allowing them a chance to be dif- He turns to the side of the stage, and back to the ferent’.

crowd.

Hewson returns to the consulting room, looking

‘We got some fag stagehand waving his goddam

across his desk into the camera.

wrist at me here. Michael who? Michaelangelo?

‘But if you don’t, that’s alright too. You know, free- Statues of nude guys? Sistine chapels? Leonardo da dom is the only real way for all of us, but freedom

who? Mona who? Tchaikovsky who? Oscar Wilde

isn’t always easy’. A big number 2: ‘Sexuality. Our who? Sir Elton who? You think these guys have Platinum Programme ensures that when you’ve cho- done as much for mankind as regular Harry Klutz sen the right way for you, we can pass that gift on to with his beers, fries and weekend pussy? Mona Lisa

your child’.

matches up to Harry’s Friday poker game? Shit to that, man, regular guys from here on in, putting

Jez is sweating lightly in the night; the faces are

their dicks only where their holinesses say they

mostly blurs now, but there is buzz enough to push

oughta go. Guys – right!’ – he marches across the

at the door.

stage – ‘all in regular jock guy uniform! Girls –

‘And there’s something else these great guys gonna

left! All in perty dame dresses! Heaven is Straight

do for us, for the whole world! They’re gonna wipe

Land, y’all! Heaven for the heterosexual and Hades

out the faggots! Ain’t that a breeze? No-one has to for the homo!’ 27

The voice sounds again. Jez tuts in disgust.

could save thousands of dollars later on in expensive

‘He says gays have the right to be the hell the way

treatments’.

they are, just as we have the right to be the hell the

Close up on Hewson’s face.

way we are, even if they’re not great artists or musi- ‘Sometimes nations and individuals need to work cians. I think the guy is some kind of goddam liber-

together in the interests of all’.

al.’ The Buffalo Arena is rock and rolling; Jez has them Thurston sees Luke and Sally exchange another in-

where he wants them. He could

scrutable glance, then catches Luke’s expression as

crow about it later to Sol the promoter, who said to

he turns away and back to his wrist. Thurston starts drop that routine in Edenville. But Jez knows looking at his appendix on ‘Frequently Asked Client enough not to push his luck; one more item on this Questions’.

only.

On the screen, a number of athletes are getting on to

Again, retreat towards the back of the stage; drop

their starter blocks. Hewson appears again, this time the voice a little. by the side of the track with a starter’s gun.

‘You know, it would be real nice to feel that all these guys are starting off with an equal chance of winning the race, and for this race, they are!’ He fires the gun and the runners leap off the blocks. The screen changes to images of blind and disabled children, Hewson’s voice slow and quiet in the background.

‘But for the race of life, maybe some are not, and maybe it’s hard enough in a big crowded world to make your way without anyone making extra problems for you’. Hewson appears standing next to a large American flag. ‘And, of course, we have the nation to consider.

Taking a smaller cost on to your own shoulders

‘And people, how good it is to know that the rich

blind will see, the rich lame will walk, the rich deaf will hear. Those poor rich bastards who have to take these disabilities through life will have to no longer. Well, hallelujah and ay-men. Only’ – he raises an arm and lets one finger point into the air – ‘there’s one serious disability we’re just not facing up to here, and that is the terrible disability of being

stupid! That’s all these sad dorks facing life trying to handle stupidity!’ Jed stands straight and throws his shoulders back, darting his head right and left. ‘Have you ever had conversations with really, truly stupid assholes? Guys, try it. It’s educational, trust me. Listen to things that can be said by the chroni-

cally stupid’. 28

He pulls a long, vacant face at the audience.

Matt Hewson sits again in his consulting room,

‘Whoever heard of a rock musician who’s blind?’

looking across the desk.

'Why hell now, Johnny Stupid. How’s about Stevie

‘Remember the race back there? Well, if one of

Wonder?’

those runners was your child, our programme could

‘Oh, shit, yeah, Stevie Wonder. I guess I forgot him. ensure that he started with everything all the other But then, who ever heard of a deaf music compos-

guys got, and if he falls by the wayside, you can

er?'

pick him right up and set him going again! No

'Well, try Ludwig Van Beethoven on there for size,

childhood wasted in suffering, no treatments eating

John'.

away at your heart and your wallet. Isn’t that worth

'Well, yeah, I suppose. Hell, I’m having a really

thinking about?’

stupid day today, Jez, ain’t I? But how’s about art-

A big 3 appears in front of him. ‘Potential – our

ists? You could never have an artist who was a

Platinum Programme will maximise your child’s

dwarf, because how’s he gonna reach the goddam

chances of realising it’.

easel thing?.

Tburston J. Bayfield regards Sally Palukivsky as the

'O.K., Johnny, well there kind of was Toulouse Lau- window light plays on her face. She seems un-

trec. Did you ever hear of him?’

moved, her expression neutral; the women, he

'Oh, right, you got it. But nothing no artist did

thinks, are supposed to be melting the hell down by

would ever count for shit if he went crazy and cut off now. Her husband is still occupied with his notes. his own ear.’

Thurston is trying to place the name Palukivsky

Jez pauses for the audience to catch up.

amongst the private dicks he’s known; the unease

‘Now that’s different, that one, Johnny. The guy may continues to rise within him. have been crazy, but he wasn’t stupid!'

‘Wonder child’. Pictures pass on the screen of chil-

'Well, O.K., Jez, but I got one last one which will

dren playing instruments, doing sums, writing equa-

really get you, this’ll really fuck you up, smart ass!

tions on blackboards.

Who ever heard of a cripple being President of these ‘For their Mums and Dads, maybe they’re all wonUnited States?' 'Franklin D. Roosevelt, Johnny Stu- der children. But the ones we’re talking about here pid, and now get the hell back into your stupid box

have special, exceptional talents, talents which have

until we work out how the fuck to get rid of the real

made them

stupid gene!’

famous’. Pictures of ex-child stars and prodigies

appear. 29

‘But it isn’t always easy when you’re too clever for

the other kids to understand’.

Jez takes his second encore and looks down fondly

Hewson appears in a classroom where a boy is sit-

at them, spread out all over

ting alone; the sound of children playing outside em- the arena sitting and standing, and an atmosphere of phasises the boy’s isolation.

steamy goodwill in the air.

‘How much easier it would be for this child to be

‘You know’, he says, more quietly, feeling a little

with his own gifted kind, people he can really talk

unnerved at the idolising way some of them look at

to’.

him, ‘there’s one way we can maybe allow a little

The scene moves to a school playing field where

stupidity – you know, like I was saying earlier?’

Hewson is watching a baseball game. Hewson ap-

A smattering of applause; he hurries on.

plauds with the other adults, then turns to the cam-

‘What are your kids doing tonight, huh? Sleepover

era.

somewhere, yeah? Grandma? If they’re kids made

‘Playing together, we know well enough now,

in the Facility, maybe they’re standing in their bed-

means learning together, and whatever the gifts you

rooms doing quadratic equations on the wall, yeah?

would like to bestow on your child, how much use

Maybe practising the cello? Still on the same game

he makes of them depends a lot on who helps him

of chess with another Facility kid two blocks away?

along, and that means other kids too. The Smith-

Or maybe they’re still in school, busting their ass

Hewsom programme is ensuring that your kid will

trying to split the atom all over again. People,

have company, and the right kind of company to en-

we’ve all got a kid in there, you know? Let the kids

sure that his success in life. A big 4 appears on the

stay kids for a bit, yeah, let them do the dumbass

screen, followed by ‘Maximising Talent – the Plati-

things that kids do, goof off round the house, eat

num Programme makes for the full realisation’.

some crap they like sometimes, all that stuff, yeah,

Sally’s expression hasn’t changed. Luke is starting

or, hell, we’re all going to be old before we’re old,

to read back his notes. Thurston checks his own

and then we’ve got two fucking centuries to sit and

notes accompanying the Client Contact Programme.

wonder where the fun went’.

‘Remember that if clients don’t seem receptive to

The arena was quiet enough at last to allow the out-

the initial company presentation, this may be indicative of anxieties and tensions within their relationship which may be susceptible to your subsequent

individualised interventions’.

side noises of the Mothers for a Decent America to make themselves heard. ‘Man’, Jed says, ‘that there’s one bunch of noisy Mothers.

Goodnight, Edenville. Be lucky’. 30

‘Before we wrap it up here, Luke and me have been

Hewson face and shoulders dominate the screen

making a few calculations on previous cases we’ve

again.

known – Luke has agented most of them with the

‘I’m now going to hand you over to your own per-

media - and checking a few things out, Smith-

sonal Smith-Hewson consultant, who can explain

Hewson and elsewhere,’ Sally says, her voice now

how the full programme may be moderated to suit

like grating metal. Thurston looks slightly flustered

your budget and priorities. We aim to be flexible

and leans forward in his chair; Sally continues quiet-

and we aim to meet your demands just as well as we ly.

can. Thank you for listening, and remember the one ‘Let me tell you something about power, Mr. Baybig question that this is about’. Close up on his eyes field, Thurston, whatever. Let me tell you the godstaring unblinkingly into the camera.

dam risks of taking over creation. You heard of sub-

‘How much is this kid’s life worth to you?’

poenas, Thurston? You heard about having the ass

Several large sums of money flash on the screen,

sued off you? I know what I’m saying here,

each with question marks, just before the screen

capiche? We sign up for the deal. I get the whole

blinks off and the office lights brighten. Thurston

treatment. I mean all of it. But if you screw up on

gives the couple his widest and warmest smile as he any detail of this thing, if you screw up on so much goes for the deal. Neither of them respond. Luke is

as one little goddam item out of this deal of yours,

watching Thurston with a cynical smile.

my company will be into Smith-Hewson for not less

‘O.K., Luke and Sally, may I take you through the

than thirty million bucks. Playing God the Almighty

whole range –‘

has results, you know what I mean? Heaven if

‘No’, Sally interrupts quietly. ‘We’ll do the whole

you’re good, and way the hell down to the other

dam thing; we didn’t come here to fuck around’.

place if you ain’t. Over to you, Thurston’.

The formalities for the Platinum Programme are concluded in no more than half an hour, and Thurston Bayfield has settled comfortably back in his chair, dismissing his fears as unnecessary; perhaps he needed a vacation, he thinks. He looks up to see Luke and Sally examining him. The intense and very worldly gaze of Sally in particular makes Mr.

Bayfield sit even further back in his chair. 31

Asteroids By Dan Maitland

The man who saved the world, to paraphrase a Da-

He pressed escape and quit the game, headed

vid Bowie song, that's how he liked to think of him- out into the kitchen to put the kettle on. It had been self when he played Asteroids Deluxe (rev 2) on the over an hour since his last cigarette and he was now Macmame download on his computer. He remem-

allowed another one. He whistled a little tune and

bered the time in the early eighties when you had to

switched on the radio: Radio Four; he was an intel-

queue to get on this game in the futurist nightclubs,

lectual.

and only the coolest could handle its exacting demands. He was aware of the irony inherent in the fact that he would now have stood head and shoulders above all of them, due to his unlimited free access, combined with his unlimited free time. He finished his current mission with a small explosion of separating white lines and sighed, he still had trou-

Meanwhile in a government space observatory at Jodrell Bank, they began to pick up an incoming

signal from a satellite that for many years had been travelling towards the outer reaches of the solar system. The man who was watching the screen suddenly stood up, looking worried.

ble getting on to a fourth life and knew that he just "Has anyone seen the man who is in charge

wasn't trying hard enough, he wasn't Zen enough, needed to let himself be better - there were no limi-

here?" he asked.

tations.

"I think he is doing something important and

scientific in another room," said the man who was

and big circular type cluster ships, that split into

smaller triangles when you fired upon them.

watching the screen next to him. "Well, I think someone should tell him to

"Who are the asteroid Aliens," said one of them, and they were all a little bit worried when the

come in here and look at my screen pretty fast," said first screen watcher explained. the first man, again. "Why do you think that?" asked the second

The afternoon had been a bit boring after he had finished his cigarette and coffee. He had at-

scientific type screen watcher, who had a beard and

tempted to do a bit of writing as he fancied himself

glasses, and needed a haircut really.

as a bit of a writer and had once had a poem pub-

"Because they're back" There was a moment of silence in the room full of flashing little lights and screens and big whir-

lished, but that hadn't worked out, so he had gone to a cafe and eaten some lunch - and read the Daily Mirror. He returned home at about four thirty to find a

ring computers, as all attempted to digest the information. And some of them felt a little bit afraid.

phone message upon his answer machine. It had

Then:

said: "This is an important political science type

"Who are?" The original scientific type space watcher sighed as though becoming depressed and said, as though it was obvious, "The Asteroid Aliens."

secret person. We have been monitoring your progress on the Macmame Asteroids download and it turns out that even though you seem to have trouble getting to a fourth life, you are mankind's best

There were quite a lot of young men in the room, who hadn't been involved in space science in the eighties - as they were still at school - and didn't know who the Asteroid Aliens were. They knew, of course, that computer games were used to secretly train the populace in the art of shooting down antag-

chance to defeat the Asteroid Aliens that last tried to

invade during the eighties and unfortunately appear to be returning. We would be awfully grateful if you would pop over to Jodrell bank and sit in font of our screen and fire at them for us. We will be sending a government type official car."

onistic extra terrestrials, but had never heard about A horn sounded outside. He looked out of his

the asteroid aliens - who hid amongst big clumps of asteroids and attacked using hollow looking saucers

window and saw the car. The driver had a cap on.

They had to stop at a shop on the way as he

"Not really," said the man who was in charge

had forgotten his cigarettes in the rush to leave the

there. "The ventilation isn't very good you see, and

flat. The driver was playing radio Two, it was a little if you have one everyone will want one." bit common. He was excited.

"Oh," he said, "OK..." They led him to a console and sat him down in

They arrived at Jodrell Bank just as it was

front of a familiar looking control panel. Then took

closing for the day and dusk was falling. There were pity on him. a few tourists leaving in their cars. He thought they

"Listen," said the man who was in charge,

looked impressed, through their windows, at the of-

"The aliens won't be here for about half an hour,

ficial type government car that he was arriving in.

why don't you pop outside and have a cigarette now

He hummed the guitar intro to the David Bowie tune and then come back in about ten minutes and get as the driver opened his door, and thought he heard

warmed up with a few simulations."

the driver sigh in a rather depressed sort of a way.

"OK," he said.

They walked through the entrance into a nor-

"I'll join you," said about ten of the remaining

mal type area and then through a hidden door into a

eleven men in the room, very quickly.

more secret government Men-In-Black alien fighting The man who was in charge sighed heavily, as

type area. There were computers whirring and men

though to say, What are you supposed to do with

sitting looking at screens. There were lights going on and off, and overhead a red light glowing above a sign that said Alien Invasion Warning in military type letters.

workers like these. The world is in danger you know. But he didn't actually say anything, after all he'd said that the 'Man who saved the world' fellow could go, and it wouldn't really be fair...

Everybody looked at him and a man came up to him and shook his hand. The Aliens were a little early and the man who

"Thank God you're here," said the man. "I'm the man who is in charge here."

was in charge had to hurry out of the secret door and go and get everybody.

"Hello," he replied. Then, "Is it OK to smoke "Come on," he said, almost angrily, "The al-

in here?" The driver hadn't let him smoke in the car.

iens are a little early."

They all puffed the last few drags out of their

The second ship went down at around17 000,

cigarettes and strolled back to the secret door. They

and the man who was in charge whispered uneasily,

had to knock and wait a minuite as the man who was "Good show old chap, but you'll have to knock them in charge had forgotten to leave it on the latch.

out with this one, we don't have anymore of these

"Sorry about that," he said, apologetically.

old girls left." He meant spaceships.

The red light was still on and had grown, perhaps, a bit redder, as the men re-entered the room. "Sorry to rush you," said the man who was in charge, "But would you mind awfully sitting down

He swore to himself, he'd rather not have known that, that meant no free lives at all. Sweat was beginning to run into his eyes as the desperate

aliens converged all their forces upon his whirling

and firing at the aliens rather quickly as they have

craft. He wondered if one of the scientists would be

already blown up rather a large part of Australia -

prepared to wipe his brow, then dismissed the idea -

our intelligence chaps have got away so far with

it was a bit homosexual.

saying it's bush fires.." He began firing at them.

In the corner of his screen a little dial began totting up his kills. As in his Macmame download, it was fairly easy at first, then began to get gradually harder as the Asteroid Invaders realised that they were being opposed and sent more ships and more asteroids to attack his remote control space ship which was shaped like a kind of hollow triangle up-

on his screen.

There wasn't much time to think now, as he spun and fired and shielded in all directions. The aliens had almost run out of Asteroids and he was in a showdown with their last five ships and one cluster ship. The last ships were miniature and very difficult to hit, and he knew that his force field was about to run out. He focused upon his Zen. And let himself be as good as he was. His fingers were a blur, the screen a confusion of arcing lines, the speaker a symphony of bleeps and crashes. Then Blank screen. Then enemy had gone. He

He lost his first ship at around 10 000 points, which was about standard, and swore softly to himself as he transferred to ship number two. It was get-

turned from his machine and began to rise, once again gasping for a fag. "Awfully good show...Well done," began to

ting harder, he executed a double turn manoeuvre

and was forced to activated his deflector shield as he issue from the watching scientists, until, "Oh no!" spun away from a cunning combination attack. The

He was pushed back into his chair. The aliens

scientists in the room gasped and applauded softly.

had returned. Vast numbers of ships surrounded the 35

screen, just his lonely triangle spinning tragically in

"Of course, you can't tell anyone about

the middle. He was outgunned and he knew it. The

this...Don't want any panic you know," said the

man who was in charge began to sob, quietly. But

MWWIC as he passed the cup of tea, and patted his

then, like in the film Zulu, the alien ships did a little back. wiggle type dance and left. They had returned to sa-

"No, I suppose not'" said the poor fellow, be-

lute him as a warrior.

fore they shot him.

A cheer erupted and he was carried shoulder high out of the secret door and into the entrance type

normal area, where he was passed a lit cigarette and eventually a piping hot cup of tea, personally made by the man who was in charge.

The Importance of a Penis

By Karen Albright Lin

I married a Chinese man. It took two years

“They were fed and fed, only to be married off

for his family to accept the first blond woman into

with dowries into other families. Basically, girl

the clan. Then I got pregnant.

children were bad investments.”

The pressure was on. I was eating celery by

I thought of all the little girls sitting in orphan-

the crateful, an alkaline food. According to Chinese ages in China. Someday, the one-child policy will herbal lore, celery would tilt the chances in favor of

result in a thousand-to-one ratio of men to women.

giving birth to a boy.

Females will be in control, requiring dowries from

“Why does it matter?” I said to my hubby,

men who will walk ten steps behind them.

Wen. “I was the first born in my family and I’m interesting, productive, and important. It’s not as if

TWO nephews rolled on our wedding bed to double our chances of having a boy.

we need a rugged young man to go work the fields.”

“Don’t worry,” Wen reassured. “I’ll love the

He put on his imaginary scholarly cap, smiled, baby whether it’s a boy or a girl.” and cleared his throat. “Traditionally, girls were

I knew that was true.

considered as good to raise as geese.” My jaw dropped.

“We could always try again for a boy.” He should have stopped while he was ahead.

During an ultrasound, I insisted, “No, we don’t

Ma gave me a sideways glance.

want to know the sex of the baby.”

I sipped the thick brown liquid then ran to

Wen leaned to study the screen.

the sink and spit it out. I turned. Ma’s eyes wid-

“Don’t tell him,” I told the doctor as I

ened as if I’d just torn down a mile stretch of the

nudged Wen. “You said it didn’t matter.”

Great Wall. “Good for baby,” Ma restated emphatically,

Huff. “I’ll wait. Besides, a friend of mine was told his wife’s ultrasound showed a boy.

as if I would doom my child to be born with more

Turned out the little appendage was a cleverly

arms than a Hindu God if I didn’t drink the entire

placed finger. Tricky girl, disappointed father.”

cup. She pointed at the remaining herbal

I imagined tiny girls naturally selected for their pointing ability, inciting a Darwinian flux of clever females bringing about a social surge to pow-

blechchhhhhhh! “Three times a day.” I wondered if this was related to the male baby thing. A little late for that. “I can’t.” I wondered how Wen would gra-

er. One day, when the baby was tickling inside

me like a cricket in its cage, I came home to a horrendous smell.

ciously translate to his mother. She had spent the morning in a Chinatown herbal shop and the afternoon preparing the noxious concoction. I just couldn’t. “Maybe good for baby, but very bad for me. If

Wen’s mother was boiling something in the

I get sick, that’s not good for the baby.”

kitchen that permeated the house. Like vomit left a Ma’s disappointment seemed to wear off as

few days under a skunk tree.

my winter melon belly grew and I carried the weight “Good for baby,” my mother-in-law said handing me a cup. I glanced beseechingly at Wen. He nodded encouragement like one of those

up front—a sign it was male. I wished the family

wasn’t counting on me popping out a boy. I hadn’t eaten quite the number of celery sticks recommended and had even snuck in a few grapefruits—

Bobble Head dogs in the back window of a car. The pregnancy culprits. subversive cad! “At least pretend to try it.” What he said to his mother was lost in no

The third trimester rolled in hot and horny. For once in my life, I had large breasts. Too bad the

translation. I’d like to think he tried to intervene on belly bulged out farther. Sex required creativity, my behalf. Clearly he didn’t succeed.

and I had to convince my hubby that he wasn’t 38

punching our child.

feeding. I was admonished, “Important. No cold

My water broke conveniently over the toilet. into your open joints. No bath or shower for a This baby was quite the cooperative little one—

month.”

probably a girl.

Gross.

Once in the hospital, Wen fed me ice chips for

I went back to eating as many grapefruits as I

a day as the baby resisted making its grand entrance. wanted. I breastfed whenever and wherever. After “He’s angry he’s coming along too late. He wanted a month of sponge baths, compliments of sympato be a dragon instead of a snake.” Wen referred to

thetic Wen, I finally luxuriated in a hot, full-body

the baby’s astrological sign. Snake is a baby drag-

shower. He joined me, eyes lit with confessing

on—not nearly as powerful. Well, nobody told me

stars. “I’m glad you gave me a boy.” Magically

I needed to go off the pill a year earlier. And what

producing a baby complete with a penis was my

was with the “he wanted to be a dragon” …. ?

greatest accomplishment and contribution to his

Contractions came one atop the other. A maintenance man entered to change a light bulb.

family. I haven’t been able to eat a stalk of celery since.

Wen insisted he leave. “Ow!” It could have been an Emperor and ten concubines lined up watching. I wouldn’t have cared. Wen was the first man in his family to witness the messy birth of his first….drum roll….BOY. As Wen cut our baby’s rip cord, I heard him exhale a

sigh at spotting the little penis. The celery had paid off. I’d delivered the desired package. I returned home to a house reeking of vinegar and calves’ liver soup (vinegar puckers the uterus and liver replenishes the blood). The living room was crowded with a tribe embarrassed over breast-

Mephistopheles

By Shohidur Rahman

Excuse me.

been through the wars, and that is the gospel truth. Allow me to introduce myself. Will you shake

Sir, excuse me.

hands? Ali Ahmed is the name. I am the Chinua Achebe professor of Modern Literature at the University of Nigeria - a body which, I am sure you will

I am sorry to accost you thus, on this most unfavour- agree, is amongst Nigeriaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s most prestigious. You able of nights. Please, sir, do not blench in that man- have heard of the Chinua Achebe chair, have you ner and show a white face as if some great fear had

not? It is, if I may say so, a most distinguished seat

come over you. There really is nothing to be fright-

on an august board, and I learned with some surprise

ened of.

of my acceptance into the tenure some twenty years ago. Twenty felicitous years I have led there since

Let me apologise for my attire first of all. I have

then! How the times can suddenly change. Ah me.

And I am far from home.

Do you have a moment, sir? Do you have just a little Yes, yes, but you wish to know why I have con-

while for me to relate to you something which I

fronted you – you in particular – while the wind is

daresay will sway you not in the least, but which

blowing about us and buffeting our cheeks in these

affects me through and through, down to the core?

ghostly streets. It is not the most pleasant of nights

Let me satisfy your curiosity by relating to you as

for a sudden appearance out of the dark, no.

strange a sequence of events, as pitiful a tale, as might ever buffet your ears; and, that said, I have

told, and myself heard, some most unusual stories in It has been, if I may say, a very strange sequence of

my time. But take heed: what I am about to relate is

events that has led to this juncture, a man in his late

for your ears only, and it is only because I feel I

fifties - dressed with not the greatest punctiliousness

have met a fellow journeyman in this disturbed and

to every point, as I have said - addressing a much

perverse Universe, which we call home, that I tell

younger man who looks as if he knows his business,

you it thus.

and is going about it directly.

My family is from India, in an area that has become Well, first let me say that it pleases me to come

the modern Pakistan. We were Muslims, and it was

across another Asian in these Northern climes, a

in the 1950s that my father had it fall to his lot to

brown face if I might put it that way. We have

receive the extreme unction to be called away to Af-

something in common, do we not? Where do you

rica. My father did well in the new continent -

hail from, might I ask? From Pakistan? India? Aaah, Bangladesh, that most capital country. A country that has been voted into the group of the Next-11 by America’s most senior economists, or so I have heard. A country with a great and rich cultural heritage. Come, come, let me shake you by the hand again, sir, countryman, fellow of the soil. What is your name? Aah, very good, very good, one of the beneficent names of God.

enough to pay for the weddings of his many brothers back in der Heimat. We had a shop and a restaurant, so my father could afford to give me a good education. It is from these genteel roots that I emerged, a studious, academic sort, and it was not long before I was being courted by some of Africa’s top universities. I embarked on my PhD in South Africa, but ultimately settled in Lagos. By golly! but Nigeria is a beautiful country, full of paradox and mystery. (It,

too, is amongst the group of Next-11 countries.)

‘Coetzee, Kafka, Gogol: A Metaphysical Compari-

son’. I have written many papers, and it is one of the Well, things happened, as they are wont to do, and with one thing and another it was not very long before I applied for, and successfully obtained, the Chinua Achebe chair in Modern African Literature. You recall that I have said that I led twenty extremely felicitous years in that capacity? What I am about to tell you may make you question your place in Nature - but! But! I am at pains to point out that what I say must be between us two only, that it must not leave these precincts. I have enemies, sir, and my story, unfurled to its full extent, may very well have the effect of toppling me completely from the position I have, through pains and labour, thus far achieved.

more middling affairs of that gamut. It lacks in detail what it tries to make up for in scope and ambition. What then was my surprise one day to be in the lecture hall, presenting a lecture on Mahfouz, when, when I looked up, I saw that very self-same paper sitting in the hall, assiduously taking notes. I was

astounded! Of course I dissembled to hide my discomposure, and then, throughout the rest of the lecture, I kept a keen eye on that paper, that temerarious and impudent paper! It even had the extreme audacity to ask me questions on the subject of my lecture. I was apoplectic. I do hope that the beetroot colour I turned was not too startling for my students.

There is a great danger to one’s health, I have heard, in the raising of one’s blood pressure in this fashion.

I was always writing papers, you see. It is a sort of requirement of these chairs that one is continually compelled to justify the raison d’etre of the office and the merit of one’s own incumbency. There is a

considerable stipend attached to the accession, and the competition to fill the position is something to behold - a thrashing about such as you have never seen! I thank God that I was ultimately able to confirm my suitability, and thus bring my family over into the lifestyle they so deserve.

Sir, one day I sat down and wrote a paper entitled

Sir, I see that you doubt my word. Let me assure you, let me take your arm and intimate to you with every shred of my being, that my own paper was attending my lectures. My own paper was taking notes and asking questions – attempting, it seemed to me, to unseat me from my position and show me up for a charlatan. It took its place there amongst other students as ‘to the manner born’. I was as astounded as you are now.

I plotted against the paper. I stayed up nights plan42

ning and trying to think ahead its next move. But, I

feel abject in the extreme to say, I could do nothing

Sir, would you care to join me in the pub? Let us

about it. It continued to attend my lectures - and

betake ourselves to a place that holds cheer, and

those of other lecturers, for all I knew – and shamed lighted compartments, that we may each see the othme on my home ground. I might have planned a

er in sharper relief, and relate the things that have

vendetta against it, I suppose, but then what would

befallen us more clearly. I am sure you will agree

my students have thought – a professor having it in

that what has come to pass with me, at least, is ex-

for his own paper? I glimpsed its machinations on

traordinary to the highest degree.

campus, watched its shadowy movements in halls and refectories, powerless to do anything about it. It Will this do? It has signage like a pub, and from the

was with a deal of despondency that I learned, after

view one gains through its windows one draws the

not so very long, that it had attended graduation – passed its degree summa cum laude. More time went by and I learned that the paper was applying to become the next Chinua Achebe lecturer in Modern

conclusion that there is indeed a merry atmosphere within. Come, let us enter and partake of something heady and good.

African literature. It was unbelievable. Will you allow me the honour of buying this round? I felt that I had to escape, to win a breathing space. I planned a trip to Europe, where I thought I could find the room to move. I have been through Sweden and Norway, Germany and Austria, countries all of

I will have a little sherry, nothing too strong. It goes to my head. Ah! I see you drink beer. A real man’s drink. I was not wrong in approaching you. You are the very strength to which I can turn. I see that now.

the highest pitch of excellence in culture and art, living out of hotel rooms, sleeping when the mood

You say that some of the ladies here are glancing at

came over me, my waking life interleaved by the

us. Aha ha ha! Well, how could they not? Two such

most dreadful nightmares. I do not know, I say,

handsome brutes as we? Look at that one. She is a

whether I am asleep or awake! Now I have come

trifle short, perhaps, and a little plain. She is dumpy

upon these Isles, to the bonnie fords and glens of

around the middle, her hair has recently been

Scotland, to walk, to uplift my soul, and to plan. To

through one of these modern machines. She looks,

plan, to plan, to plan! I must sharpen my knives, I

in conclusion, like mutton dressed as lamb. But she

must prepare my instruments. 43

is keen. She is deliciously keen. Look at the way her

smile twinkles and lights up at you. Let me suggest, So when I heard this I thought all was lost, that there my friend, that when all this is blown over we meet

was nothing more to live for. My heart was in the

again, two doughty souls, two spirits alike, and we

very doldrums, sunk to the lowest part of me. I wan-

will take to the town to paint it red! What say you?!

dered the streets of Edinburgh, a lost soul, lurching sightless and eyeless, a very ‘tattered coat on a

But let me take up my story again, though it pains

stick’. And then the last straw came. When I tried to

me to draw up the threads. It is a woeful enough

withdraw money from my account - just the other

tale. So, you see, I had come here to recuperate, to

day - I found that I could not. I absolutely could not!

plan my next move, a paper that would set the cat

Well, sir, I was left to draw what conclusion I could

among the pigeons, a dissertation on the New Afri-

- that it – my upstart paper – has taken over my ac-

can writing – Adichie, Moses Isegawa - names to

count - has, in fine, taken control of my finances,

conjure with - a sustained look at the predicament of and is spending the stipend of the chair of the pan-African literature, how Africa is changing to

Chinua Achebe lecturer in Modern African Litera-

meet the challenges of the coming century.

ture as it sees fit. I was – I am - mortally wounded. I

am half the man I was, a paltry remnant cowering in my boots. I ask you to help me, sir. Please, with my I have the major portion of the work here – look – in this bag that I always carry with me. I have toiled over it these many weeks. It is born of my sinew, a distillation of all my thought. I planned its release in

hand extended to yours, do what you can for me, an unlucky man, a man who has stumbled on his way, and who can no longer bear to look in the eye of the day.

the spring of this year. But then what was my sur-

prise when I received certain letters from my wife – from my wife, sir – that related to me how my paper Sir, you look alarmed. Don’t be. If you have any on Coetzee and so on had gained ingress to my

misgivings about anything that I have said, if you

home, had usurped my place in my wife’s heart, and have any doubts whatsoever, please just walk away. made itself comfortable where I should be. Sir, it

Finish your drink, and walk away. But if you would

dallies with my wife, and plays with my children!

help a fellow countryman, a journeyman of the soul,

Do you credit it? Dare you? It has stolen into the

one who has lectured in the finest halls on the Afri-

shrine and made off with the family silver! Sir!

can continent – expounded, in his little way, on the 44

spirit and final purposes of Man - please do not

with a number in Lagos which can be checked to

spurn me, do not take your leave of me, do not use

prove that I am who I say I am. I will provide you

the toe of your shoe to turn me into the dust. Rather, with the number of the guest house where I have do what you can.

been staying. Call them, there is nothing to lose.

This is what I propose. In two weeks, on the 12th, I

You say you have no money to give? That you are a

will have in my hand papers that will reveal the

poor student? Why, sir, we are the same brethren!

Coetzee paper to be a fraud and an imposter, with no We are fellows of the same fraternity! Tsk, tsk, sir. right to the Chinua Achebe chair, or to my wife, or

We wear the cloth of a higher dispensation. Let us

to my finances. It is a private belief of mine, as a

not despair. We must, poor academics that we are,

matter of fact, that the Coetzee paper is some sort of look out for one anotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s backs. Let me ask, do you evil sprite that has come to afflict me, like one of the not have a maintenance grant provided you by the Eumenides emerged from the earth to beset a man,

government? I understand, I understand! Of course

though he has lived a guiltless life. It is a fate, and

the sum paid out for such a grant is not much, can-

we cannot explain fates, we can merely try to help

not be much. But then â&#x20AC;&#x201C; one little question - do not

those they afflict. I will, I say, in two weeks have

your parents furnish you with a salary? They are

papers that will wrest me free of this evil being, and both passed on? I have been remiss, I see now that I shall regain control of my affairs. Do not ask me

my imposition was too great, that it cannot be

how I will go about this. That is for me and destiny

helped.

to conceive of together. All that I ask for is your willing hand, and a little money, if I am to hatch my plot. My comeback, if you will.

Ah me, I am a lost soul then. There is no hope for

me. All I can expect is that that paper, that arriviste, will take over all that I have held dear, and it will be

Wait a while, sir! Please be seated! I do not ask for

as if my life were obliterated. There will be nothing

much. Merely a trifle. A bagatelle only. And let me

left for me but to wander the streets in shabby shoes,

tide your ear with this: I will, I swear, redouble any

a discolouration on the Earth sweating like the very

amount that you lend me. I, Ali Ahmed, will return,

African slaves whose burdensome song I have for so

and render in equal sum, all monies passing between long sung in the books of the great African writers.

us on this day. I will go further. I will provide you

Grime and toil shall be my daily wage from now on. 45

Ay me. Will you just await me while I repair to the

There, you are satisfied. I am indeed currently resid-

washroom? I thank you.

ing at that little guest house on Minto Street. I am, no more, no less, Ali Ahmed, Professor at the University of Nigeria, once holding there the Chinua

My word, the latrines in this place really are in need of a thorough sanitizing. I had to clean myself thrice. What shall I do with this paper towel? There was no bin. What, sir? You have thought it over? You are willing to help? Sir – I cannot speak. I am weeping. I am a poor man ‘more sinned against than sinning’. It would give me pleasure, sir, if you took my hand and guided me out of this place. Here, on this path let us go. Let us go, sir, and be together in silence

Achebe chair of Modern African Literature. Then you will do it? Oh, I cannot communicate the joy that I feel. Fie! I am weeping again. Please excuse me, sir. Man is but a poor thing. Put a flower before

him and he smiles, put a dagger before him and he blenches. A creature of the most Pavlovian responses, the utmost conditioning. Here! Here is the automated telling machine!

awhile. You can afford only £250 at most, the limit of your

But come what may, I must hand you what I have said myself I will provide. Here, here, are the numbers. The first is the number for the Faculty at the University of Nigeria. The other is for my guest house. Do you have the requisite coin to make the call from a public phone box? Look, here is a phone booth.

Wait! Stay your hand! A little thought. It will now be night at the University. There will be nobody there. No matter. You may call at any time at your disposal, you have the number. Please, call the guest house.

daily withdrawal amount? Sir, sir, £1 would be better than nothing. £250 is munificence multiplied many times over. This will help me out beyond measure. Our meeting was a blessing disguised as a chance encounter. No, no, it is sufficient sir. Please do not trouble yourself. And do not worry that it will be in vain.

Let me remind you of our arrangement that my story does not enter daily discourse. I fear what may happen if it should. You have heard my tale, you know of my plight and the evil forces ranged against me. Sir, your name again? Yes: blessed of Allah, the One God of the believers, the God of Muhammed,

the God of Moses and of Abraham. Yes. You shall 46

see that the money is used well. And you shall hear

One day Ali Ahmed, professor of Modern African

from me again. I shall search you out. Sometime in

Literature, will once again hold sway! Picture him

the future, at some happy juncture when all is flow-

on his sojourns on the hot African plains, amongst

ers and we may smile again, we shall carouse to-

the white buildings!

gether and laugh at crude circumstance. Please furnish me with your number, that I may call you when I think the time right. Thank you. And the money? Thank you so much. Remember the 12th! On that

But now I will take my leave of you. Bon voyage. We shall meet again, my friend. Until next time, bon voyage, bon voyage.

date I shall reimburse you for your trouble twofold.

THE JUDGEMENT

Asteroids (or The Man Who Saved the World) The story reminded several of our members of a radio podcast called Mysterious Universe, which not only dealt with the supernatural and ‘men in black’ but mirrored the storyline a little too closely. We therefore judged the story as unoriginal. The beginning of the story was unconventional (in that it did not start with a proper sentence) - the title simply ran into the first sentence. All the members agreed that the story suffered from a weak and confusing start, and despite some interesting “scene setting” one-liners throughout, more reminiscent of a screenplay, it carried the reader along a familiar path to an inevitable ending.

Mephistopheles This was by far the best and unique treatment of a short story but there was unanimous agreement that its style and story-line was so obviously reminiscent of, and in fact identical to, ‘The Reluctant Fundamentalist’ that we rejected it. We were unable to treat either its language or content as original.

Zaire The theme of this story was original, but overall the story was in serious need of editing. An interesting start and some unbelievable dialogue lumbered its way into a denouement and climax squeezed into the last few paragraphs. Despite elegant touches in description and character development, the inconsistent pacing created a jumbled and unclear conclusion.

Touch The story was generally well received by our members who thought it was an original story line and setting. The dialogue at the beginning was realistic and philosophical (although the start would have been better suited to a more engaging narrative) yet the story developed at an appropriate pace. The author went into great detail about the embalming work and although it was acceptable to us, we thought that others of a more delicate disposition might find it too gruesome. Nevertheless we enjoyed reading the elegant use of language. 48

Several members thought that it reminded them of ‘Hollowood’ which is a sci-fi series and also bringing people back to life by placing hands on the corpse. We were unsure whether the author was inspired by the story or whether the similarity was purely coincidental.

Blue-Genes This story explores a fairly hackneyed subject in a somewhat tired style and without a resounding climax. The text, given its use of the present tense, visual imaging and staccato style, has the hallmarks of stage directions and we wondered whether the author might be more suited to screenplays than short stories. Given that, it was a readable option compared to some of the other entries, complete with its interspersion of a two-bit comic and his over-expressive language. The ending however seemed anti-climatic . “Over to you Thurston”, is bathetic and something you would more likely find in a movie.

The Committee for the Defence of the Unjustly Persecuted In this story the author‘s skilful use of language, realistic dialogue and phrasing turned something which could have been good into something great. His understated use of language to describe the horrors of torture is laudable. The pacing of the story was excellent and the take on the ‘good cop, bad cop’ style of interrogation was well considered, well planned and executed. The ending was strong and the author was successful in building a visual image of the scene. It was the only story which continued to engage us after finishing it.

The Importance of a Penis

Given that this is a book club with members accustomed to Chinese tradition and writings, the story felt hackneyed to some, heartfelt to others. Unfortunately, the writing was staccato in style, more akin to disjointed pieces of text stuck together than the expected flow of a well-constructed short story. While the vocabulary and grammar lacked precision (for example, many of our readers were turned off by the author’s use of the word ‘hubby’), some of the analogies and descriptive language seemed unique. Although the basic premise of the story would be considered solid if indeed it reflected a personal experience, the author should have paid more attention to its pace and flow. There was general agreement the story lacked maturity in style and flow.

Results There were only two submissions which, after removal of what we considered unoriginal work, were considered original and enjoyable to read; The Committee for the Defence of the Unjustly Persecuted and Touch. Of these two we were unanimous in our choice of The Committee for the Defence of the Unjustly Persecuted as the winner and Touch as runner-up. The other four stories are ranked equally. Each had strengths but distinct failings and as such, it was hard to differentiate them. Mephistopheles was immediately rejected for plagiarism.

THE RED LINE 50