Castles Made of Sand (14 page)

He groped under the blanket, which she saw was really some kind of Celtic mantle. A couple of police liaison officers, not quite as happy as Doug with this situation, made a half-move. Fergal brought out an Irish harp, most of the gilding gone but all the strings in place. ‘I saw yez first on the tv, Dissolution Summer. I’ve never missed a chance since. Ye’re the bravest girl I ever saw, an’ a queen of the music. Ye’r worth ten of Ax Preston, which I hope he knows, and ten hundred of this bastard Aoxomoxoa: and now I’ve told ye, which was half me plan in coming to England. Here’s me harp. I’d lay it at yer feet. But I’d only look a feckin’ eedjit and embarrass ye, so I won’t do that.’

She couldn’t think of a response.

Fergal’s complexion grew even more scarlet. He cleared his throat. ‘Uh, well, that’s the business done. Now, Sage, me favourite fallen angel, is there anywhere here a man could get a drink?’

Sage detested being called a fallen angel—a media term for former global stars, trapped and impoverished by the data quarantine. But the living skull merely beamed affectionately. ‘Ooh, I think we could arrange that.’

They crossed the square, Fergal staring in frank curiosity at the A-listers, the armed police side by side with hippy guards; the slick and gaudy revolutionary art. ‘Fock, this is amazin’. I niver thought, this time last year, ye’d still be keeping it all going. An’ how’s the band, Ax? Shane and Jordan, and yer girlfriend. Sorry, I shouldn’t say that. Yer ex-girlfriend. Lovely woman, I forget her name, yer drummer. I don’t see them. Are they here?’

‘They’re not in London at the moment.’

‘Oh, right so. You know, there’s been rumours, it’s a shame. I’d hate to think that the Chosen—’

‘Nothing’s wrong with the band.’

‘That’s grand, because I can see how it must be tough, havin’ yer frontman into focking government politics—’

‘I’m not into government politics. I’m into Community Service, state ceremonies and putting on a free concerts. Everything’s fine, Fergal.’

The Few were delighted with their visitor. Federal Ireland was outside data quarantine (judged innocent of the Ivan/Lara disaster by the Commissioners); which made Fergal even more welcome. They took him back to the Insanitude, gave him a tour of the old pile—as much of it as wasn’t Boat People accommodation—and then out to eat at their favourite Mexican. The Few were hungry for news, the Irishman insistent that the Rock and Roll Reich was
famous
out there, in the world they could no longer reach. They were the coolest thing going in the wreck of Europe—

‘Fock,’ he kept saying, ‘here am I among the legends!’; and repeating with flattering pride stories of the Playboys’ part in the mad panic tour last summer, when the Few and friends were racing around the Refugee-struck regions, through the worst storms of a century, staving off anarchy with rock concerts.

‘Jaysus, that was the best hard fun I iver had on a tour, barring none. Dez ye recall that night in Manchester, or was it Preston, Sage?’

‘Yeah,’ said George Merrick. ‘You bet we do. We’re playing about our fifth Altamont in a week, the Manchester Irish are in the mosh, screaming
kill the Latvians
, and you
fuckers
start heckling from the side of the stage—’

‘Aye, well, we’re traditional musicians. We took offence, and rightly so, at the shite you were laying down. An then yer man Sage, ten foot tall in that fockin’ spaceman outfit, dives thirty feet an’ comes over and sez to me, “Will we give you bastards what you are asking for now or later?”’

‘An’ Fergal here,’ supplied Bill, ‘says, “We didn’t know you do requests. In that case, we’ll have, ‘A Nation Once Again’,”, and then—’

‘You left out, “If Sage can find his voice in those tin knickers”,’ put in Chip.

‘Yeah, there was the tin knickers remark. Think that was from Pierce Lyon.’

‘Aye, that’s right. It was when Sage picked up our Peezy—he’s a little man—and threw him off the stage, that the fockin’ punters took it into their minds to get involved. An’ it was pissing down, and there was mud fockin’
everywhere
—’

‘I don’t think I heard this before,’ said Ax. ‘I fondly imagined we were all trying to keep the level of violence
down
—’

‘Hey, don’t listen, Sah,’ protested Aoxomoxoa, the skull beaming rakishly. ‘I don’t remember the leprechaun-tossing, it must’ve been my shadow—’

‘Oh Jaysus, I fergot, ye’ve turned over a new leaf. Will it be okay though if I tell the story of that barney we had at Glasto, first time we ever met—?’

The story of the famous barney at Glasto. Stories abounding, well known but worth repeating. Fergal Kearney, devouring red wine in astounding quantities, was still going strong when they returned to the San after midnight: living up to his reputation for the highest quality
craìc
.

Dilip and Chip and Ver stripped to bodymasks and cache-sex and went off to join the dance, (it was melting-hot in the State Apartments). Ax and his court settled regally in the Bow Room chill-out lounge. Sweaty, glittering clubbers, passing in and out, made excuses to say hi. The live band who’d been playing the ballroom arrived to pay their respects, and were graciously allowed to remain.

Fiorinda chatted with the singer from the band, a brash, overawed fifteen-year-old called Areeka Aziz. Areeka was a Next Big Thing, and had been identified as prime Reich material. She must be recruited. Will you scrub hospital toilets, kid? How are you on digging potatoes for the cameras, teaching feral eight year olds to read and write? They’ll listen to you: you’re a rockstar. You do get self-defence training. This is what happened to me, now it’s your turn.

Me, Ax Preston’s chickenhawk—

The sound of that Irish voice grated on her. Fergal was at the other table and the company wasn’t quiet, but she could hear every word. He’d reached the garrolous stage, he was explaining why he’d defected:

‘Fockin’ Dublin government sez there’s no Countercultural Problem in Oirland, fockin’ shite. Right enough it’s not the Counterculture that’s the problem, it’s the fockin’ bastards using it fer their own sinister aims, an’ I know where it’s heading. It’ll be like the fockin’ Catholic church all over again, and will the people rise up against the tyranny of it? Will they fock—’

That voice. She couldn’t help it, she just didn’t like that sound—

‘Fockin’ Irish, they’re a race of political masochists, they love their fockin’ chiefs and princes an’ a strong hand belting them. It’s like the man said in the play.
Abair an focal
republic
i nGaoluinn
?’

The Few turned to George Merrick.

‘He says, “
say ‘republic’ for me in the Irish
”,’ said George. ‘The point being, I reckon, that there’s no such word.’

‘
Jaysus
. I had fergot ye had the Gaelic. I shall have to watch me tongue—’

‘There’s no word for
republic
in Cornish either,’ said George.

‘I’m only glad there’s a countrywoman of mine among ye to stand up for me.’

The Irishman cast a wistful glance towards Fiorinda, who was sitting with her straight back turned to him: still dressed for the artshow, feet tucked up under her storm-cloud indigo skirts, a silver grey bolero jacket covering her shoulders, a little silver cap on her burning hair—

He had raised his voice, which he didn’t need to. ‘I am not Irish,’ she said, turning her head reluctantly, the cut-crystal vowels very apparent.

‘Aye, well. Half-Irish, I meant to say.’

Chip and Ver and Dilip had just appeared, towelling themselves with sodden teeshirts. They stopped short. A
frisson
went round the whole party. You can’t talk about Fiorinda’s Irish ancestry—! What’s Fergal thinking of?

The rock and roll brat shrugged. ‘Tuh. My father was born in Chicago.’

‘Ye can be Irish by adoption, ’tis a culture, not a race.’

Rufus O’Niall: born in Chicago of Afro-Caribbean and Irish American ancestry (but even that much information was legend: all records of his parentage had vanished). Raised in Northern Ireland by his adoptive parents, a minor Hollywood actress and a Belfast businessman. Became a megastar with a band called
The Wild Geese
. Married twice, divorced twice, nasty taste for very young girls. Had a daughter with London rock journalist Suzy Slater, a relationship that broke up when the child was four. When that daughter was twelve she was groomed by her aunt, procuress to the famous, and delivered to Rufus. The little girl became pregnant by him. She had no idea he was her father. Opinion differs as to whether Rufus knew what he was doing.

Everyone knows the story.
Shut up
, Fergal. But no, he can’t stop digging—

‘Yer dad’s a black-hearted swine, Fiorinda, as yez don’t need me to tell ye. He’s one of the bastards I was just talking of. But I hate the whole fockin’ Irish nation meself, an’ I’m still an Irishman.’

‘I don’t follow your logic.’

‘Jaysus, girl, I’m saying don’t turn yer back on yer heritage, because one man did ye a terrible wrong when ye was too young to know—’

‘What
I
want to know,’ announced Chip, loudly, flopping down in an empty chair, ‘is, when are we going to see some Gay Pride from Aoxomoxoa?’

‘Oh come on,’ said Rob, equally loud, lamming some of those art-workshop sparks at the insolent kid (Rob’s were acid yellow). ‘Leave the guys some dignity. You want Fiorinda to make you a video or something?’

‘Hey, it’s a plan. That could be a nice little earner.’

‘The words tigers and vaseline come to mind—’ sighed Felice, rolling her eyes.

‘He’d never do it,’ said Allie, with regret, ‘not after everything he’s said about gays. He’s such a hypocrite. Okay, we use a body double. Should be easy. I’ll check my personal database.’

‘Nah. Has to be the boss. We’ll let ’im have his mask—’

‘Why is it always
me
?’ demanded Sage. ‘Why don’t you fuckers pick on Ax?’

‘Because I’m the great dictator,’ said Ax, leaning beside his Minister on the sofa they were sharing, grinning complacently. ‘They wouldn’t dare.’

‘You’re his bitch, Sage,’ said Dilip. ‘We thought you knew.’

Fergal, looking confused, joined in the general laughter.

Fiorinda had escaped to the toilets, got there in time to throw up, violently, copiously. She clung to the porcelain anchor of a wash basin, staring through the face in the mirror. The raffish splendour of the State Apartments didn’t extend behind the scenes. Here there were broken tiles, ancient fittings, dirt in the corners. Such is the shabby little hothouse of the Rock and Roll Reich, where every trapped soul knows what you mustn’t say to Fiorinda, where everyone jumps a mile if someone dares to mention the dreaded name. Oh fuckit, this is ridiculous, put it behind you, worse things have happened to plenty of nicer twelve-year-olds, I was asking for it,
why am I fucking shaking?
Thank God Fergal Kearney would never know the abyss into which he had plunged her—

Shit, what did I say to Areeka before I scooted? I was filthy rude to her, I know I was.
Shit
. Have to fix that.

Now I’m going back, and I’ll behave like a human being. I can do it.

She opened the door. Sage and Ax were in the dark passageway outside (biological sex not an issue, but you don’t invade the Ladies at the San unless you are
dressed
like a lady). Ax had her bag.

‘Moving on,’ he said, tucking it onto her shoulder.

‘Raves to rave,’ said Sage, kneeling to put her sandals on her feet.

‘The night to explore.’

‘What are you
doing
? I’m finem, we have guests, let’s get back.’

‘Not fucking likely,’ said Ax. ‘Fergal has had his audience. Let’s hit the town.’

London was dark, motorised traffic scarce, but the night was warm and the streets were full of people: carrying their own lights, looking for the party. Sage and Ax and Fiorinda joined the shadowy carnival. Some unmarked time later they were in a club called 69 on the Caledonian Road, behind Kings Cross Station, dancing to Desmond Dekker, Marvin Gaye. Catching eyekicks of startled recognition in the fitful light, but no fuss from Ax Preston’s children. At the back of the crowd Fiorinda danced with Ax, easy and close, letting the bittersweet defiant mood of the ancient music lift her. It was
so wonderful
to be in his arms, and Sage right there (leaning against the wall, meditatively smoking an Ananda, tenderly watching his lovers). Not jealous, not hurting, loving this beautiful guitar-man as much as she did. Devil take tomorrow, what does anything else matter, as long as I have my tiger and my wolf—

‘Sage!’ she stage-whispered, over Ax’s shoulder. ‘I have to have this Ax. Find me somewhere sort-of private. Right now.’

‘What about you, Mr Dictator?’

‘
Yeah.
’

‘Okay. Leave this to me.’

He led them out the back, to a car park, dank and dark, by the Regent Canal, buddleia and willowherb sprouting from the asphalt, almost empty but for a couple of rows of derelicts that might have been there since Dissolution. Sage lifts Fiorinda onto the bonnet of a flat-tyred Vauxhall, divests her of her pretty pants (he loves having her underwear in his pocket—) and stoops over her, the skull mask glimmering silver. ‘My brat, but you don’t like al fresco sex?’

‘This isn’t outdoors,’ said Fiorinda, hugging him with arms and legs. ‘This is an urban exterior, which is totally different, I
love
this—’

One deep kiss and he moved aside, saying All yours, Sah—a little atavistic ritual happening here, part laughing, part strangely intense. Fiorinda took Ax, Ax silently powering into her, God,
wonderful
, while Sage kept watch at the end of the row. Then Sage was back, twisting Mr Dictator’s hair in a silky rope, biting the nape of his neck, big cat style:
hey, brother, move over, I want her
, and it was Ax’s turn to stand guard… The whole double act took about five minutes, and it was bliss.

They sat in a row, backs against the defunct Vauxhall, passing a spliff: the rain falling on them like cold kisses. The air smelled of railway grime, puddles glimmered on black, cracked pavement. Fiorinda, a warm wall on either side of her, looked up into the opaque sky and couldn’t stop grinning. Nobody understands us, she thought. Not anyone in this fucking country, not our dear, protective, demanding friends, no one: because
this
is all we want. Nothing else, just this. Forever, ever, ever.