Days (32 page)

Mungo finally capitalises on an advantage point and batters the ball home to win the game. Exhausted, he drops his racquet and bends double, bracing his hands on his knees. It is then, looking up from under a red, dripping brow, that he notices the new arrival watching from the sidelines.

Chas spots the spectator at the same time, and says, drolly, “Ah, the conquering hero returns. Nice outfit, Sonny. I assume you didn’t go out on the shop floor dressed like that.”

Sonny doesn’t reply. His fingers are clawed into the fence; this appears to be all that is holding him upright. His eyes moon from one brother to the other as though, as far as he is concerned, the game hasn’t come to an end.

Mungo straightens up warily. “Sonny? Is everything all right? How did it go downstairs?”

There is a pause. Then, slowly, Sonny turns his face in Mungo’s direction. “Hm?”

“I said –”

“What’s the score, Mungo? Who’s winning?”

“Oh Christ,” whispers Chas.

Mungo reaches the fence in a few brisk strides. He lowers his face to Sonny’s and inhales once, hard, then leans back, nodding sombrely. Sonny grins sloppily up at him. One of his hands loses its grip and he slips and almost collapses, but manages to secure himself a fresh handhold just in time.

Mungo’s words begin as a moan but rise steadily to a roar. “Oh, you little bastard, you little fucking bastard, you idiot, you fucking idiot, what have you done, what have you done, what in Christ’s name have you done? Couldn’t even abstain for a couple of hours, could you? A couple of hours, you mindless fuckwit, you stupid little turd! You couldn’t even do that one thing, that one tiny thing you were asked to do, without screwing it up! You useless piece of shit, you useless, traitorous piece of shit! Do you know what I’m going to do to you? Do you? I’m going to
kill
you! I’m going to rip your heart out of your chest and fucking
feed
it to you, that’s what I’m going to do!”

“Mungo, cool it.”

“No, Chas, I will not ‘cool it’. I will
not
fucking ‘cool it’! I bend over backwards to help this fly-covered heap of dogshit, I give him another chance, a chance he does
not
deserve, and what do I get? How does he reward me? By spitting in my fucking face!”

Regardless of the fence between them, Mungo makes a furious lunge for Sonny. Likewise regardless of the fence between them, Sonny backpedals hurriedly. Stumbling, he falls squarely on his behind, scraping his hands on the gravel.

“What happened downstairs, Sonny?” says Mungo, shaking the chainlink. “What did you do? What did you say to the heads of Books and Computers? Did you tell them what we told you to tell them? Or did you just manage to make
us
look ridiculous? What did you do, Sonny? What did you
say
?”

For the first time Sonny is fearful. Mungo’s bulging scarlet face looms in his vision like a medieval gargoyle. It would seem to be well within Mungo’s power to tear a hole in the fence and reach through the gap to do the same to Sonny.

Chas lays a tentative hand on Mungo’s shoulder. “Mungo, listen.”

Mungo twitches his head, not taking his eyes off Sonny. “What, Chas?”

“We don’t know what went on down there.”

“We don’t have to know. Look at him. Pissed out of his skull. And don’t tell me he got that way since coming back upstairs. I know Sonny’s drinking habits, and these are the results of a good hour’s worth we’re seeing here. He
must
have gone down there drunk and he
must
have screwed things up.”

“But we don’t know that for sure, not yet. And until we do, our best course is to get him stowed away safely out of sight. Take him down to his apartment and make sure he stays there.”

“Why?”

“Because if the others find out that he went downstairs in this state, there’s no telling what’ll happen. I mean, look how well
you
reacted, and you’re supposed to be his ally.”

Mungo peers down at Sonny, who has by this time lost interest in his brothers and is distractedly picking pieces of grit from his palms. “Wouldn’t it be better just to drag him straight to the Boardroom and show them? Show them what a worthless little prick he is?”

“Possibly, but like I said, I doubt they’ll take it well.”

“So what? Why do you all of a sudden care what happens to Sonny?”

Chas hesitates, then says, “Let’s put it this way. I may not completely believe in this Seven business, but that’s no reason to put it in jeopardy.”

Mungo lets the implication of his brother’s statement sink in. “Yes. I see. So we keep Sonny’s condition hidden from the others, and hope and pray that he did what he was supposed to downstairs.”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“All in the name of preserving the integrity of the Seven.”

“Correct.”

Mungo draws in a deep, controlling breath and lets it out again, his shoulders slumping, his anger unbinding. “You’re right, of course. The Seven comes before everything else.” He lets go of the fence and turns in the direction of the tennis court gate. “But I swear to God, Chas,” he growls, “if he’s done any damage down there, any damage at all, I’ll murder him with my bare hands.”

“If it turns out he did, Mungo, you’ll have to take a number and join the queue.”

Neither of these statements is an idle boast. Mungo and Chas are the sons of a man who gouged out his own eye with a pen-knife in order to get his own way. That streak of determination, that desire to succeed whatever the cost, is in their genes. Just as Septimus committed violence against himself, so his offspring have the potential to commit violence against
them
selves. It is, you might say, a sin of the father that is ready to be visited upon the sons.

27

7th December, 1941
: the day the Japanese launched their surprise air attack on the U.S. Naval base at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, precipitating active U.S. participation in World War II.

12.35 p.m.

I
N HER OFFICE
cubicle Miss Dalloway sits with a Brie-and-cucumber sandwich in one hand and
The Art of War
open on her knee. The book’s spine is so well broken that she does not have to hold the pages down with her hand.

She eats the sandwich mechanically and methodically, and when she has finished she licks the tips of her fingers clean one by one. Then she drinks a small bottle of mineral water, and fastidiously disposes of the empty bottle and the sandwich wrapper in the waste-paper basket. Silly, she knows, to be so concerned about tidiness when, if all goes according to plan this afternoon, a litter-free office will be the least of her worries. But old habits, of course, die hard.

She closes
The Art of War
and places it on top of the desk. She has read the book so many times by now that she knows it by heart, but she finds the familiar cadences of the sentences reassuring, the logical precision of Sun Tzu’s words comforting and calming.

Taking a key from her trouser pocket, she unlocks one of the desk’s drawers and takes out another book, this one a more recent addition to her personal library.

It is a cheaply-produced trade paperback printed on thick, coarse paper and published by a small press whose list otherwise consists of conspiracy-theory tracts, UFO-spotting manuals, and how-to guides on the subject of growing and smoking marijuana. The book’s front cover mimics a manila dossier, with the title “rubber-stamped” across it at an angle in blockish, rough-textured characters, as though this is in fact some top-secret goverment file. No author is credited anywhere, not even in the publisher’s indicia.

The book is called
Kitchen-Sink Arsenal
, and like
The Art of War
, it shows the signs of having been well-read and well-used.

Miss Dalloway sets
Kitchen-Sink Arsenal
down beside
The Art of War
on her desktop and smooths it open, ready, at a certain page. Then, stiffly, she stands up, pressing her knuckles into the small of her back, all of a sudden conscious of a dozen skeletal aches and pains that she could have sworn weren’t there before. She feels old. Not just in years. Spiritually. Her soul sick and weary – the legacy of a life of devotion to the ailing and ungenerous master that is literature.

Picking up the Platinum card belonging to Mrs C A Shukhov, she heads out to the information desk.

Oscar and Edgar are on duty. The rest of her darlings are either at lunch or busy elsewhere in the department.

“My boys,” she says.

The two Bookworms melt with delight at the tenderness with which she has addressed them.

“My boys, I have need of you.”

“What can we do for you, Miss Dalloway?” says Oscar. “Anything you want. Name it.”

Before she can tell them, a customer approaches the desk, wanting to know where he can find books on cassette.

“We don’t stock books on cassette here, sir,” Miss Dalloway informs the man. “You’ll find those in the Visual Impairment Department on the Indigo Floor. The only kind of books we stock in this department are the kind you read.”

“Books on cassette!” Oscar exclaims before the customer is quite out of earshot. “What a joke!”

“Pretty soon you won’t have to bother reading any more,” says Edgar. “All you’ll do is attach an electrode to your head and download a book directly into your brain in a couple of seconds.”

“Edgar, we don’t use words like ‘download’ in this department.”

“Sorry, Miss Dalloway.”

“But the sentiment is a noble one, and appreciated. Thank you. Now, as I was saying. The mission. As you will no doubt recall, last Tuesday afternoon I sent a number of you out into the store to buy me certain items. You, Oscar, I asked to get me a can of fuel oil.”

“And you asked
me
to buy you a nine-volt battery,” says Edgar.

“And didn’t Malcolm have to get you a camera flashbulb?” says Oscar.

“And it was Colin, I think, you sent for a bag of garden fertiliser.”

“And Mervyn got you a beer keg.”

“Quite,” says Miss Dalloway. “And I’m sure you all thought it was an eccentric shopping list, but you went out and brought back every item on it all the same, without question, because you’re good boys, all of you.”

At the compliment the two Bookworms preen and quiver like stroked cats.

“And now I need one of you to go and buy two more items in order to complete the list.”

“Say no more, Miss Dalloway,” says Oscar. “Just tell me what they are, and I’ll go and get them.”

“Thank you, Oscar,” says Miss Dalloway, “but, as you will see in a moment, this task is going to require someone who is quick on his feet.” She gently pats the roll of fat that bulges between the base of Oscar’s skull and his collar. “No offence, my darling, but you’re hardly built for speed. Not to mention the fact that you have a broken arm...”

Oscar puts on a not wholly convincing show of dismay.

“Besides, I have need of you here,” Miss Dalloway adds. “For moral support.”

“But –”

“‘They also serve who only stand and wait,’ Oscar.”

“Which therefore, by a process of elimination, leaves me,” says the habitually gloomy Edgar, managing to look both pleased and put-upon at once. “What is it you want me to buy, Miss Dalloway?”

“Before I tell you that, Edgar, I feel it is only fair to warn you that there is going to be an element of risk involved. If, once you learn what I want from you, you change your mind, I will understand perfectly, and I won’t think any less of you.”

Edgar reassures his head of department that nothing can be too much trouble, that she can never ask too much of him, that she is in fact doing
him
a favour by sending him out on this mission, risky though it may be. And even though Miss Dalloway knew that that was what his response would be, she is still touched.

“Then listen carefully. I need a roll of insulated copper wire and an alarm clock – the old-fashioned kind, nothing digital, one with a wind-up mechanism and bells on top.”

“I thought you said the mission was going to be dangerous,” says Edgar with a snort. “I think I can manage to get you some wire and an alarm clock without too much difficulty.”

“Perhaps. However, unlike last time, this time you won’t be using your own card. You’ll be using this.” And she holds up the purloined Platinum.

“Isn’t that the one Malcolm handed in the other day?” says Oscar, squinting.

“That’s correct.”

“So shouldn’t you have –?” Oscar catches himself before he can finish a question that might be construed as casting aspersions on his beloved head of department’s judgement.

Miss Dalloway finishes the question for him anyway. “Yes, Oscar, you’re right, I should have passed it on to Accounts, and I didn’t. A breach of regulations, but then posterity will show that, on balance, I have been a woman more sinned against than sinning.”

“But surely it’ll have been reported lost,” says Edgar. “If I try to use it, Security will come down on me like a tonne of bricks.”

“Which is what lends the mission its element of risk. Knowing that, are you still willing to go?”

“May I enquire why you want me to use that particular card, Miss Dalloway?” says Edgar. “You must have a reason. You always have a reason for everything you do.”

“True, Edgar, and yes, you may enquire. The answer is simple. I want Days to know what I am up to. I want everyone to know.”

“Um, Miss Dalloway,” says Oscar hesitantly. “Sorry for asking this, but what
is
it, exactly, that you’re up to?”

Miss Dalloway shakes her head. It will be better if she doesn’t tell them yet. That way Edgar’s pleas of ignorance, should Security catch up with him, will have the added virtue of authenticity. “When the time comes, all will be revealed. Until then, I must ask you to trust me, and for you, Edgar, to demonstrate that trust by buying the wire and the clock and bringing them safely back here.”

“Does it have something to do with what you were up yesterday behind the books, at your desk?” says Oscar. “You know, when you told us not to disturb you for a couple of hours?”