Lie of the Land (15 page)

‘You said to come over any time.'

‘No bother,' said Terry. ‘I'm down at Hendrik's. Come and have a drop of some truly foul home-brew.'

‘You're kidding. What is it?'

They walked down the track.

‘Elderflower wine, but it didn't turn out quite right.' Terry smiled. ‘It works, but with a few unpleasant side-effects.'

People were introduced, Hendrik de Vries and his Filipino wife, Maganda. Cloudy, tasteless wine was sampled. The bible was smoked.

Up close Carl could see Hendrik's yellow toenails needed cutting, probably with a bolt cutter. The Dutchman sat, hands on belly, like the brass Buddha on his mantelpiece.

He liked the sound of his own voice, that was for sure. Carl had given the guy enough of a chance, but the conversation hadn't improved. Second hearings were all very well, but after two hours on journalism's failure of democracy, the trials of building an orphanage in Thailand, and plant nutrition, enough was enough. Carl wouldn't be popping in to see Hendrik any time
soon. Shame about that. Maybe Terry was a bumptious prick as well.

Maganda was good company though. What she was doing with an old goat who must have been at least twenty years older than her, you had to fucking ask yourself. Her and Terry could share a joke and, if he wasn't much mistaken, Carl had seen a knowing smile from Hendrik at that. Prick was probably dreaming up a threesome. There was something dodgy about the guy, with his laid-back bohemian air and self-aggrandising anecdotes. Something not right about the whole thing: sitting there laughing, having a fucking party.

Through a fifth glass of cloudy elderflower rocket fuel and a few spliffs of home-grown, Carl realised that Hendrik was talking to him, directly, about something important. It was hard to focus on the words at first; the logical train of thought was always a station ahead. But then he caught up with the conversation, jumped aboard, with a little help from Terry.

‘Hendrik's got issues with the emergency committee.'

Carl nodded, rubbed his face. ‘Issues,' he repeated, focusing on Hendrik's face, the glasses and grey goatee. ‘Issues with the committee.'

The big Dutchman nodded, sitting up straight with his hands on his knees. ‘People are being greedy,' he said.

‘What Hendrik and Maganda mean,' said Terry, smiling, ‘is, can you have a word with George Cutler about the whole . . . situation? He's chairman of the committee, although how he got that position isn't quite clear if you come to think about it. A little bit cloudy, like this pish, Hendrik.'

Hendrik passed another joint to Terry. ‘You'll drink it all the same.' He turned to Carl. ‘It is not good when people think I am dishonest.'

‘Absolutely,' said Carl, waving away the offer of a puff. ‘That's what you said. But can you be more specific, if you can be
specific about the . . .' He was getting edgy, and he felt a little nauseous. He forgot what he'd been talking about.

Hendrik cleared his throat. Maganda stopped giggling. ‘I will tell you.' He smoothed his grey goatee. ‘Yesterday I had a visit from the policeman, Gibbs. We grow lots of nice things in our polytunnels, you may know that.'

Carl tried to concentrate on the man's words. Policeman? Did he say policeman?

‘Anyway,' continued Hendrik. ‘Gibbs said he had to check that what we gave to the committee was what we produced.'

There was a shift in the air, a change of frequency. Carl didn't know what to say; his thoughts were confused, unnavigable.

Hendrik seemed agitated. ‘I am an honest person, Mr Shewan.'

Terry fixed his eyes on the Escher print hanging over the fireplace. ‘Come on, Hen, no one's saying you aren't.'

The Dutchman held up his hands. ‘Okay.' He tugged his beard again. ‘Ninety per cent goes to the committee. We have four goats, hens, tomatoes and lettuce and so on in the polytunnels – we get biofuel for the generators from Adam Cutler – and a few eggs we keep, not many.' He squinted at Carl, then leant forward. ‘We have been here for over twenty years, Mr Shewan. A lot of hard work we have put into this place – our home, you know? Now we are under suspicion. This is not the way it should be. Not here. Not now.'

Carl's mouth was dry. He drank some water. ‘I really don't know,' was all he could say. ‘I'll have to think about it.'

What was the guy talking about? Just stringing words together. A noise coming out of his bearded hole. What did he say he'd think about? Think about thinking about . . .

‘You weren't well for a long time, so maybe this is something you don't know about,' said Terry, sitting up straight on the soft, shapeless couch. ‘Adam Cutler and his guys have made the food rationing system work in their favour. Food is divided by age, but also by man-hours worked, by activity levels. Your friend designed
the system. See, it's Cutler and his crew who do all the work. No one else is getting a look-in. So, seven guys, plus their families and one or two others, are not exactly as hungry as the rest of the village.' He glanced at Hendrik. ‘Some of us don't think that's very fair.'

Fair. There was that word again. Where had he heard it before? Was it now, or yesterday? Carl felt dizzy. ‘That's right, that's fine,' he said. He stood up unsteadily, trying to breathe. ‘I need some fresh air.'

Hendrik laughed, slapping his knees.

Outside, the wind had dropped. Somewhere in the hills a stag bellowed, his cry carrying round the bay. You go for it, big man, thought Carl; you let the world know you mean business because your very fucking essence is bigger and stronger than anything else is. Not even the galaxy, constellated to infinity in the clear night sky, was a match for the living illusion of perfect projected power. Give it big licks, big man, and fill your boots while you can.

He felt better in the fresh air, in the breathless night. Only the glow from the oil-lamps in Hendrik's living room stained the blackness.

Inverlair was across the bay, invisible. There were no streetlights, no warm glowing windows of welcome. Without electricity or cars on the road the place might not even exist, out there, in the darkness. It would never be home. But where else was there? Even when it became safe to leave, where would he go? Howard had said Spain was clear of SCOPE. Fair enough. Spain. Maybe things were okay there. But how would he get across Europe? He'd keep Howard's car, not let anyone cannibalise it here, pick up fuel along the way; he'd take his chances.

Really?

He felt himself grimace in the darkness, the unreality of escape making him shiver. Get a grip.

‘You all right?' It was Terry.

‘Yeah,' shouted Carl. ‘Felt a bit woozy in there. I haven't smoked that much weed in quite a while.' He said no more, conscious that more was expected.

‘Hendrik lays it on a bit thick,' said Terry. ‘He can be a bit full of himself. If you can't be arsed walking back to the hotel, feel free to crash in the caravan. The couch folds out.'

That was a tough call. Creeping about the hotel like an intruder was great fun; getting hassled by George and Simone was a hoot.

Standing there looking into the night, Carl felt the stirrings of ordinary discontentment.

17

In the morning the wind picked up; Carl could feel Terry's caravan moving, even with a gable-end of brick to protect it. It had rained in the night, drumrolling on the caravan's flat metal roof.

His guts were churning. Dry mouth and pounding head. It was daylight, so he figured it would have to be at least 8 a.m. His watch was in the pocket of his jeans, and his jeans were on the opposite couch, and it was cold.

He pulled the sleeping bag around his ears, groaning, his bladder fit to burst. Well into November and it was freezing. Maybe he'd end up sleeping in his clothes for the duration of the winter. Pity he couldn't hibernate. If he lived in a caravan he might even not bother to wash. At least in Room 7 he could have a wash in the bath, even if the water was cold. That was important to him. Staying clean. His arse wouldn't be clean, though; a bad case of the squits during the night had seen to that. No bog roll either. Old newspaper had done the job instead.

He tried to close his eyes and go back to sleep, but his guts were still rumbling and he badly needed to piss. He shouldn't have told Terry about a SCOPE prototype that was trialled in Africa, driving villagers to murder each other when it went live. It was just more inexplicable butchery on the Dark Continent, with no suspicion falling on helpful development-minded Western telecomms companies.

Carl lay on the couch, gazing without focus at Terry's charcoal sketches of twisted gorse trunks and brooding headlands.

There were noises-off from the bedroom, which was more like a cupboard just big enough for a bed. Terry was up and about, belt buckle jangling, then a yawn. He came out of the bedroom, rubbing sleep from his eyes, tangle of straw-coloured hair sticking up and out and every way.

‘How's it going?' he said, his throat dry.

Carl wasn't sure. ‘I've felt better.'

‘You get the squits?'

‘Oh yeah . . .'

Terry smiled, drank some water. ‘I thought Hendrik had ironed that problem out, unless maybe he gave you a bottle of the old stuff by mistake.' He sat down on the sofa, moved a pile of clothes aside. ‘When you were out of it, when you were ill, there were a few cases of Delhi Belly. Hendrik didn't clean his fermenting gear properly.'

Rain came gusting against the caravan. Terry made sure the windows were closed properly. He tested the soil round his plants, gave a few of them a drink from a three-litre plastic bottle. Carl sat up in his sleeping bag, reached over for his fleece. Maybe Hendrik knew fine well he'd handed over the wrong bottle, containing the stuff that was shat out in the same state as it went in: liquid. You get the sense that he would enjoy that, giving someone the shits, laughing about it the next day.

Terry picked one of the potted cacti off the windowsill. It was squat and sprouted tufts of purple hair. ‘Pal of mine was in Mexico and he brought back two of these for me. Peyote. Over a few years two became four. They're hard to grow, so I don't use it very often. Fucking wild though. All that doors-of-perception stuff, surfing the archetypes. You hungry?'

On balance, Carl figured that eating would do him good. He nodded. ‘Some muesli and semi-skimmed will do nicely.'

‘Only unskimmed cows round here, I'm afraid. How about an omelette with an optional slice of mutton?'

‘Even better.'

‘Coming right up.'

Terry put his prized peyote plant back on the windowsill and went to a cupboard, took out a camping stove and a Tupperware dish, lit the stove, and scooped some lard out of the dish. ‘Alec John gave me this,' said Terry. ‘Sheep fat.' He broke three eggs and mixed them in the pan.

‘Another day in paradise,' muttered Carl.

From another plastic box, Terry took out four slices of fatty meat.

‘What did you do?' said Carl. ‘Before the redzone, I mean.'

‘You're seeing it,' said Terry. ‘I was here about a year – before.' He tore a rubbery cheese slice into pieces, dropped it into the egg, his thin face darkening. ‘I was in a bit of trouble in London, took myself off to Glasgow, but the trouble followed me up here. Then I found out my uncle had died and left me his place.' He tried to smile.

‘What kind of trouble?'

Terry cleared his throat. ‘The wrong sort of chemical habits with the wrong sort of people. Nothing new in that. Anyway, everybody's got to end up somewhere, and we can't all be in the same place, so here I am.'

Breakfast was served.

‘Unless you have a pressing engagement we can head down to my uncle's house,' said Terry through a mouthful of meat and egg. ‘There's something that might interest you.'

•

Down the lush seaward slope, a two-minute walk along the headland path, stood a solid-looking stone house. Across the bay Adam and the boys were setting off from the boatyard, back to cut more firewood.

From the outside the stone house looked in reasonable
condition; the date 1934 was carved into the stone lintel. Inside, it was more or less unfurnished, with bare floorboards and bare plasterboard walls, watertight apart from a leak in the loft, said Terry. It had two bedrooms. The front room was full of junk, and stacks of black plastic bin bags, each one tightly wrapped with Sellotape, lined the walls. The committee would have taken the clothes and the shoes, but there were books and magazines, knickknacks, photos, two TVs, a foldaway chess set, and a shitload of other stuff lying around.

‘Have a look at these,' said Terry, tearing open one of the black bin bags. He took out a newspaper, handed it to Carl.

He held it reverently in his hand. ‘Jesus.'

An old edition, yellow round the edges, dated almost nine years ago. Big pic on the front and
HEATWAVE KILLS HUNDREDS
along the top. Carl looked at the plastic bundles. He couldn't believe what he held in his hands. He lifted a few more, opened another bundle. The same, going back years.

Turning to page two in one paper he saw his own name under the heading
WHITE RUST FUNGUS CONFIRMED IN SPAIN
. He read the first paragraph: ‘A total ban on all exports from Spain was in place today as the European Emergency Authority confirmed an outbreak of the white rust fungus in wheat fields outside Malaga . . .'

‘Twenty years' worth of newspapers in here,' said Terry. ‘Right up till February of last year, three weeks before my uncle died. You could say he was a bit of a hoarder. Thought you might be interested.'

Terry went upstairs to empty the bucket that had filled with rainwater, leaving Carl to browse the bin-bag archive.

There were plenty of leaks in the pages of these newspapers. Insiders. Sources. Once, years before, the information flowed freely from numerous contacts. But then the stream dried to a trickle, a few drops still coming out. The insiders had too much to lose.