Ruin Nation (16 page)

“With respect, Calamari,” says Calamine, less-than respectfully, “let's leave it and get the real dentist back in.”

“But that's just defeatist talk.”

“Jupiter's got the shakes today,” Calamine continues. “First day on the wagon. Probably seeing pink elephants. Bad time to let him near anything with major arteries.”

“Why? He looks like he’s used a mop before.”

“With respect, this was meant to be a purely recreational activity. It would be best if we kept it non-lethal.”

“Oh, to Hell with you, spoilsport!” And he throws down his instruments and stamps what’s probably a cloven hoof. “I thought this would be fun! Well,
damn it!
”

There’s a muttered exchange. I don’t know what’s said, but the fat man’s unceremoniously ejected into the waiting room – his mouth still stuffed with cotton wool and whatever else seemed necessary at the time – to mutter gas-addled nonsense at people so desperate for dental treatment they ignore him. Calamine may be playing the voice of reason in this charming little vignette, but he’s in no mood to be nice to yours truly. Calamari smiles mirthlessly, miles away in some dream world of violence and rough sex. Where’s his morals I wonder? But, given I’m experiencing the delirium tremens and not one hundred percent sure I’m even awake, well, you could accuse me of splitting hairs. Calamari seats himself in the dentist chair and swivels his body and pickled onion eyes toward me.

“I’ve been promoted,” he tells me, to Calamine’s obvious chagrin. “And this is my little celebration. We’re experimenting with the notion of Fear,” he explains – failing to explain anything. “Or, at least, we
were
. It seems someone here present doubts the validity of our endeavours. Someone who
wasn’t
promoted
because he
couldn’t be trusted to follow procedure
.” He glares at Calamine who shuffles grumpily. “But I’m not a bitter man,” he spits unconvincingly, “so I’ll let it slide this once. …
Just
this once.”

“Thank you, Sir,” says Calamine through barely-suppressed contempt.

Calamari clutches a sheath of papers in his claws. He flicks to an index card and holds it up to the vari-tint lenses of some uncharacteristically geeky half-moon reading glasses. I imagine what a fat, muscular owl would look like if it was plucked and you crayoned bulging veins all over it.

“So I guess you’ll be wondering what this is all... about. Well, I don’t think I’ve truly got the measure of you just yet, so let’s see what
you’re
all about first, shall we? Now, I’ve got your file here. Let’s see... Hugo
James
Jupiter. Pompous name for a peasant, isn’t it? Born June the blahdy blah, year two thousand and blah, blah, blah. Mother, deceased – death by… Death by… Well, that’s a Hell of a way to go isn’t it? Saw the whole thing did you? Bet that screwed you up?”

“Yes,” I answer. “It’s fair to say it did.”

“Father, deceased. Also insane. That figures. Grandfather, pyromaniac. Three convictions for fire-raising, including the burning down of a butcher’s shop. Now why would someone want to burn down a butcher’s shop, I wonder?”

“I was told he was some kind of militant vegetarian.”

“You mean, ‘militant vegetarian,
Sir!’
” he spits. I look to Calamine. He shrugs. I figure it’s better to play along.

“Militant vegetarian... Sir!” I say, the words rankling.

“You see, I doubt that,” he continues, “because, according to this piece of paper, he was apprehended carrying a toasting fork and a large bottle of tomato ketchup.”

“I have nothing to say to that... Sir.”

“Wearing a ‘Kiss The Cook!’ apron.”

“I didn't know that.”

“Age ten to sixteen – children's home. And then you were adopted by your Aunt, a
Madame Salome.
Now, I’ve heard of her.”

“Lots of people have, Sir.”

“Popular lady.”

“Again, I…”

“Have nothing to say, yes.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I have nothing to say.”

“But this school report does: ‘Young Mr Jupiter excels at Art, Biology and Arson.’ Seems the apple never falls far from the tree. Well, I hope you take after your mother’s side, Jupiter, or you’ll be tucked snug in a Laughing Jacket before you’re thirty. But, by the looks of this… it seems you’re halfway there already. Hey, Calamine! Are you sure this guy’s up to it?”

“Psychological assessments suggest he’s not mad. Just deluded and amoral. He’s also contradictory and prone to acts of dumb insolence.”

“Not too dumb, I see. You went to university.”

“I did, Sir.”

“And you studied... Hang on... I thought you were an army surgeon?”

“I was, Sir.”

“But you studied
Veterinary science
? Specialising in – what’s this? – ‘Pachyderms?’ What’s a pachyderm when it’s at home?”

“Elephants, Sir.”

“Why in Hell’s name would you want to specialise in elephants?”

“You have to specialise in something, Sir.”

“And does it help you in your everyday life?”

“Not yet, Sir, but there’s always hope, Sir.”

“And then you enlisted?”

“Not exactly.”

“Conscripted?”

“I was press-ganged, Sir. I got whacked on the back of the head with a bottle and woke up in a Tesco battalion  during the
Battle Of Newcastle. When they found out what I was, they sent me out patching up the war horses, the attack dogs and the carrier pigeons.”

“So how in Hell did you find yourself operating on soldiers?”

“We ran out of food, Sir. We ate all the animals. Well, I still had surgical experience so they gave me a couple of textbooks on human anatomy and set me to work on the squaddies.”

“So you're not a qualified doctor?”

“I am, Sir. Just not a
people
doctor. Which is why I can't get medical work in peacetime.”

“Ah!” Calamari exclaims. “I did wonder. I was thinking you'd been struck off. You know... wandering hands... that kind of thing.”

“No, Sir.”

“Speaking of which, you’re married aren’t you?”

“Yes, Sir. Just about.”

“But no children. Pansy are you?”

“
No
, Sir.”

“Sterile?”

“It’s a possibility, Sir. Most people are these days.”

“We can get that checked out,” says Calamine, sliding sarcasm beneath Calamari’s radar.

“Good. We need all the breeders we can get. Even peasants. Now it says here that you’re a Nazi sympathiser.”

“No, Sir!”

“Oh, I forgot. It’s not terribly politically correct these days, is it? You like to be called ‘fascists’.”

“No, Sir. I’m
not
a fascist.”

“But I was told
specifically
and I mean
specifically
that
you were
. You own several books on the Third Reich.”

“I own books on crocodiles but I’ve never chewed off an antelope’s face.”

“Jupiter!” Calamine barks. “‘Never chewed off an antelope’s face,
Sir
!’ is what I think you meant to say.”

Is he joking, I wonder, because I’m losing track here.

“Yes. Okay. Fine. Never chewed off an antelope’s face,
Sir
! Never laid an egg either. Not to my knowledge.”

“Well, that’s a shame because we were thinking about going in a Far Right direction and we wondered if you might be able to tell us how to go about it. …Hah! Only joking. That was a joke. But, seriously, what’s your problem with fascism?”

“I’m not big on genocide, Sir.”

“Oh, I see. Not got a foreskin, have we?”

“I…”

“Sir!” Calamine interrupts, “If his genitals are an issue, I’m sure we can get them checked, too.”

“Fine,” says Calamari.

“And, if his foreskin is a problem, we may be able to provide a replacement.”

“Yes, that's
fine!
” Calamari snaps. “Why do I get the feeling you’re not taking my seniority seriously?” 

Suitably admonished, Calamine laughs into his hand. Calamari turns to me again.

“What
are
your political beliefs, Jupiter? Do you even vote?”

“Yes, Sir. Always.”

“Really? I mean, you surprise me. Tell me… who do you vote for?”

“Sorry to say, Sir, everybody except your lot, Sir!”

“Well, at least you’re honest. …Because we
do
keep records and I hate liars.”

“But I will be voting for the government in future, Sir.”

“That’s appreciated, Jupiter. But I’ll let you into a little secret, shall I? In all those years you were voting for everyone except the government, did anyone except the government ever win?”

“No, Sir. They… No, they didn’t.”

“Well, actually, Jupiter, they probably
did
. It’s just we took all their ballot forms, shredded them and fed them to pigs. Perhaps, not
every
year. Sometimes the turnout was so low we’d win with just a pair of mad old lesbians. But
most
years, I’d say, our elections were as crooked as a crackwhore’s labia.”

I’m cautious when I ask: “But surely that’s corruption, Sir? The same as lying? And you said you hate liars? And you made a kind of hand gesture like a gun, to imply you shoot them.”

“And I do. I strap them across the barrels of field artillery and blow them into the sky. But electoral fraud is different. By
physically destroying
opposition votes, we ensure a
physically greater
percentage of our own. Now argue semantics all you want, but a greater number of votes is a win in anyone’s book. And that’s not dishonest. More a kind of
delayed action
truth. And it doesn’t matter if we bend a few facts to get there.”

Well, that’s an ‘interesting’ philosophy, I’m thinking to myself, when along comes the history lesson:

“After all, it was Cicero, in 54 BC, who said, ‘Unchanging consistency of standpoint has never been considered a virtue in great statesmen. It is our aim, not our language, which must always be the same’. Don’t you agree?”

“
Er…”

“And there’s a few more things you should know about this little democracy of ours.”

“Do you think this is prudent,” Calamine protests. “Only I…”

“Prudent my Aunt Fanny! He’s got this far, hasn’t he?”

“Yes, Sir but…”

“Yes-Sir-but-nothing, Calamine!” He takes a deep breath.

“Settle yourself in, Jupiter.” Calamine advise me. “Here comes the Gospel according to Saint Calamari.”

Calamari doesn't hear. He's addressing the invisible masses at some imaginary political rally:

“So perhaps it’s best if we start at the beginning: the systematic ruination of the country followed by The Great Separation, starvation and rioting. And how Mr Malmot, being an extremely senior military commander, assembles the shattered remnants of our armies and leads us against the Scots/Welsh coalition, tames the Gypsy warlords, subjugates Manchester, seals off the Cannibal Territories with the Longpig Blockade and establishes the Civilised Territories. You’d think we’d get some respect for that, wouldn’t you?”

Calamine yawns. Calamari turns purple.

“And what happens when we return?” he continues, positively frothing at the mouth. “The heroes?! The lads who went out there and put their lives on the line?! I’ll tell you, shall I?! We’re treated like scum. The liberal press despise us. People on the street, people we defended, spit on us and call us murderers. And we find the same wet mimsies who sold England down the river in the first place expecting to retake control!

“And peace is Hell. All peace brings is dissent and cries of ‘I want this and my human rights entitle me to that’ and ‘I’ve got curly hair so if you don’t give me a diamond-covered house you’re oppressing me!’. Every little
oik wants his share of utopia, but he’s damned if he’ll put the graft in to get it. And our beloved ministers are already plotting how to waste our limited resources to give it to them.”

“And so I killed them all,” interrupts a disembodied voice, a voice like bacteria multiplying in a wound. “Systematically. One by one, and in the most devilishly amusing ways. In fact, it’s become something of a hobby of mine – pruning the parliamentary rosebush. I believe I’m on my third.”

I’ve heard those tones before. I didn’t like them then and I certainly don’t like them now. I don’t like the black, backlit shadow that moves independently across the paper walls of our fake dental laboratory. I don’t like the knowledge that those self-same paper walls are all that separate us from the tangle of tree roots that somehow form the body of one Mr Malmot. I don’t like his long, grey fingernails gouging through them.