Stark (23 page)

108: HOUSE OF CARDS

A
nd so the house of cards came tumbling down. That fragile global structure behind which we all shelter. A castle, built on shifting sands from little more than faith, hope and greed, came tumbling down with a crash that shook the world. A mighty crash indeed, considering that the castle was not made of anything of any substance. In fact, it was a castle that existed only in the minds of men. Constructed from nothing more solid than the financial pages in newspapers and the blips on a million computer screens. It was not a castle built from iron, or steel, nor cotton, oil or food. It did not fall because there was no more coal left or because all the cows and sheep had died. There was no physical reason for its collapse, because it was made of nothing at all. You couldn’t touch it, smell it or climb it, but without its shelter, despite the appalling heat of the southern summer and the mildest ever winter in the north, the world turned suddenly cold.

109: GOBBLEDEGOOK

N
obody really understood what was happening. Why should they, the global money industry is so phenomenally complex that it is doubtful whether anyone really follows it. When they do the financial bit on the television news it’s normally at the end, just before the little jokesy item about a panda who can’t get a hard on. The reason for this is probably because, as far as the average viewer is concerned, both items appear to be about equally relevant to them.

Nobody who lives in the real world, the world where things are made, and money is earned, has anything but the vaguest understanding of the utter gobbledegook they spout just before the panda gets his thirty seconds of fame. In fact it would probably make no less sense if they combined the items together…

‘And now financial and zoological news. In New York, on the 100 point share market index, the panda’s penis fell by six points to a record low, the Dow Jones rallied late in the day to raise some interest from Poo Poo, the gorgeous two-year-old lady panda who’s causing all the excitement.’

Maybe the reason that the financial ‘news’ is delivered in such a deliberately incomprehensible manner is that what they are talking about is, in any real sense, meaningless. We are being brought an urgent daily update, a blow-by-blow account of something that exists only because people choose to believe in it. Entirely theoretical wealth.

At the beginning of the day a factory full of jars of jam might be worth a thousand pounds. At the end of the day; a day of ‘good trading’; a day of ‘rallies’ and ‘confidence’, we might be told that the same factory is worth two thousand pounds.

What has happened? Only a few hours have passed. The factory has not changed. There is no more jam in it than there was. There has been no time for the new slogan ‘Let him dip his finger into something fruity, Mum’ to take effect. The slimmers’ version still tastes bloody awful. Nothing has happened and yet the factory is ‘worth’ twice as much. Where has the extra cash come from? Nowhere, that’s where. It doesn’t exist. It is entirely theoretical and if people choose to dispute the theory, if they all choose at once to say ‘but that’s impossible. All right then, give me the cash…‘, the money would instantly disappear, like the puff of smoke it is.

This, of course, is how crashes occur.

The crash that Professor Durf set in motion was a whopper. People weren’t even bothering to look at the paper before they jumped out of the window. They were plummeting like hailstones. In New York City it rained investors — the only things selling were concrete umbrellas. Financial news leapt up to be top story of the day. The panda with no stiffy got left on his own at the end of the programme.

More swiftly than ever before the repercussions spread. The dole queues began to lengthen as the factory gates began to close. The last pureed city gent had scarcely been scraped up when the first suicides due to mortgage foreclosure were reported.

110: STRATEGIC DECISIONS

T
he morning after his visit to The Shelter CD’s breakfast was even more cursory than usual. He’d run out of Wheaties so there was no need to wash up a plate. The papers were full of nothing but financial news so it wasn’t worth lingering with a second coffee. CD liked a bit of popularism in his morning read and it was weeks since there had been a real good article about Joan Collins still having great tits despite being about seventy-five. Anyway, CD was in a hurry. He was anxious to tell Rachel and the others about what he had discovered. Mustn’t hang about, he thought, could be very very important information he said to himself. But actually the main thing was he wanted them to know how clever he had been.

111: PLANNING MEETING

I
t seems to me,’ said Walter, in his usual manner, i.e. as if he were about to explain the meaning of the universe, and what’s more, he was going to be right. ‘It seems to me, that we have to go and have a look. I mean we have a definite duty to try to dig what goes down, right? And, apart from anything else, right, it would be a trip. We could maybe take in some desert, cook up some lizard or something. It would be a vibe.’

As far as Rachel was concerned, Walter was not making too great a case for the journey. For a start, when it came to cooking up some lizard or something, she would definitely take something.

‘It’s hundreds and hundreds of miles, Walter. Your Aboriginal friends have sold up anyway, what’s the point? Whatever Moorcock wants it for, he’s got it now. There’s nothing we can do about it.’

CD was extremely brought down by Rachel’s negative attitude. He considered that he had pulled off a pretty crucial piece of intelligence gathering. He realized now that a full-on sauce session with her whispering, ‘my hero’ in his ear and ‘do it to me again, big boy’ had perhaps been a touch over optimistic, but she might at least have said well done.

‘You know, Rachel, you don’t find things out without taking long shots. I mean, if anything is going on, they aren’t exactly going to take an advert out in the paper,’ he said, trying not to sound hurt but hoping that she would realize that he was.

‘Well don’t sulk about it, Colin,’ she snapped, which was not the reaction he had been trying to provoke. Sometimes CD seriously wondered whether he was losing his touch.

‘All I am saying is that it’s a very long way to go in order to find out something we know already,’ Rachel continued.

‘Which is?’ asked Walter.

‘Well, that some bloody appalling thing is being done to another bit of land by a bunch of rich shits. I mean, it’s obvious that whatever it is they’re up to, it will be awful. But what are we supposed to do about it? Mount a picket in the desert? I mean, of course Colin’s right, it’s significant that Tyron is involved…’

‘That is a mean combination, baby,’ interrupted Walter. And even his phenomenally mellow tones could not reconcile Rachel to being called ‘baby’ especially when she was feeling defensive.

‘Please don’t call me ‘baby’, Walter. I’m not going to discuss it any more if you call me baby.’

‘Cool. No problem,’ said Walter, effecting an aura of almost religious tolerance that made Rachel want to strangle him. ‘Except, like, you know, it’s only a word, but cool. If you don’t like ‘baby’ I have no hang up with that. I mean, really, no hang up at all. In fact, it’s great. I’ll just call you like, you know, something else, because —’ Rachel was about to give up but luckily Zimm had just returned to earth and was momentarily and uncharacteristically lucid.

‘Hey, Walter, man, we were discussing the desert trip.’

‘I know that, Zimm, but it’s important that Rachel should feel relaxed about the language parameters we’re employing here,’ Walter replied.

‘Well great but, you know, I think we should discuss the desert now, OK?’

‘OK, Zimm, that’s what we’ll do.’

‘Good.’

‘I was just about to say to Rachel,’ Walter resumed, ‘that what CD had got here is kind of interesting, you know? I mean, Tyron and Moorcock together could fuck up the whole of Australia. They are very bad shit. But you know, like, if it was just another planetary rape, with full legal cover and state government backing, why the secrecy man? You know, why not just do what they normally do, you know. Like boast about it. Why don’t they just shout ‘hey man, we’re fucking up the world for its own good, so fuck you’. I mean, they don’t normally, like hide their light under a bushel, you know? Like, when they’re going to give the world cancer, they want to get the credit, dig?’

‘Yeah,’ agreed Zimmerman. ‘But this time. This time CD had to get down on the whole spy infiltration, James Bond bit.’

‘Well, I’m glad somebody noticed,’ interjected CD.

Zimmerman ignored him.

‘Whatever they’re hiding, I guess it’s bad shit.’

‘OK, OK,’ said Rachel, ‘maybe we should check it out. But your truck’s off the road, right guys? Colin can’t drive, which leaves my 1964 FC Holden volunteering for a five hundred mile drive. So before I sentence it to death I’m going to at least have one more try at confronting them to find out what they’re up to.’

‘Man, if he’s hiding something all he has to do is bullshit you, I mean, these guys bullshit for a hobby. They like being investigated because they get to do some more bullshitting.’

‘Yeah, well maybe he won’t bother with me. After all, who am I? Nothing for him to worry about. Maybe he’ll just say, ‘Oh yeah, I’m grinding up asbestos and throwing it in the wind, but I have government permission lady, so fuck you.’ In which case, we can protest about it here in Perth without totalling my car to find out.’

‘You know, Rachel,’ said Walter, ‘I hope you’re not turning into a possession head, that would be a bummer.’

Rachel managed to keep her temper, just. People who get through life dependent on other people’s possessions are always the first to lecture you on how little possessions count. Walter was, in many ways, a lovely fellow, but he was also the sort who would finish off the last of your milk and when you complained, say ‘oh come on man, it was only milk.’

Rachel decided to stick to the job in hand. ‘I’ll ask Moorcock rather than Tyron. At least we’ve met him. Better the devil you know…‘ And on such tiny decisions does the thread of life hang. Had she decided to go and see Tyron, he would, of course, have had her killed.

112: FLIRTING WITH DEATH

S
ly recognized Rachel immediately. It had been three weeks since their encounter at Facefulls. Three very busy weeks indeed for Sly. Like all members of the Consortium, he had played a large part in the terrible crash that Professor Durf had precipitated. First selling as quickly as he possibly could; then beginning to make the purchases that the group had designated as his responsibility. It had been a frantic time.

Besides this, Tyron was now beginning to report that the trickle of equipment and hardware that he was having to handle, looked like it was shortly to become a flood. On-site storage, even installation, was going to become an issue in a very short time and Sly had only just got rid of the last of the previous inhabitants. One vaguely satisfying thing was that, even in the short time since the crash, the money he had promised the Aboriginals had risen in value by over 20 per cent. Hard cash was appreciating fast as more and more people who had been rich on paper discovered that they didn’t have a cent. Sly did not have a conscience as such but he didn’t mind that old bastard Mr Colboon and his mates putting one over on the red-necks.

However, despite all these immediate considerations and the monumental size of the task in front of him, Sly recognized Rachel immediately. It was an inexplicable thing, but when Sly had been informed that a young woman was in reception without an appointment and wishing to discuss Bullens Creek, instead of feeling a little nervous, perhaps even scared, he had felt a twinge of excitement.

And there she was, and Sly knew that he was pleased to see her.

This was, of course, ridiculous. The last thing on earth he wanted at that moment was anyone taking any interest whatsoever in Bullens Creek. But none the less, he couldn’t help it. He was pleased to see her. He walked round his desk and stood leaning against the front. ‘So what’s the story then, Miss…?’ he said, trying to be commanding and sexy.

‘Kelly, my name is Rachel Kelly, Mr Moorcock. I represent EcoAction. We are a group of environmentally concerned activists,’ she replied, trying to be brusque and efficient, and maybe just a little bit sexy. After all, it never hurts to put out a bit.

‘Environmental? I thought you were a Nazi hunter.’

‘We’d like to know something of your intentions regarding the land that you have bought around Bullens Creek.’

‘I’ll tell you if you have dinner with me,’ Sly surprised himself. He knew he was a smooth operator but even he had not expected that he would have the cool to try making a pass whilst being questioned about Bullens Creek. After all, Bullens Creek was a life and death project. Everything in the world was riding on it. On the other hand, Sly could not believe that this girl was onto anything. After all, it was understandable that environmentalists would be interested in any land purchases that he had made. Sly could not deny that now and then he had been personally responsible for fucking up some pretty large sections of Australia.

He thought all this in the time that it took Rachel to decide to say, ‘Dinner? Love to. I’ll call you next time I’m one hour away from death by starvation,’ which she considered was a pretty good line. Rachel did not like being patronized or taken for granted, especially by someone whom, she was disgusted to discover, she found rather saucy.

‘Great, that’s all I need, a radical fem’ greeny,’ replied Sly.

‘If your definition of a feminist is someone who doesn’t go to dinner with creeps, there’s a lot of us around.’ They were both enjoying the conversation. ‘Go on, let me buy you dinner,’ said Sly, trying a touch of innocent sincerity. Rachel reminded herself that she was talking to Silvester Moorcock, one of the world’s great vandals.

‘No. Are you going to tell me what you’re doing out in the desert or not? And I think I should warn you, we’re a pretty sizeable organization. We have the funds and personnel to find out what we need to know.’

‘Which is why last time you turned up with two burnt out hippies and a small bloke who wears his sunglasses indoors.’

Poor Rachel felt embarrassed for her friends, which is something that would weaken anyone’s position in a power juggling conversation like this one. But she rallied strongly.

‘Don’t judge a book by its cover, Mr Moorcock. For instance, I’ve read that you’re a powerful, self-assured, dominant man. I wouldn’t have thought you were the sort who couldn’t talk to a girl without getting a hard on…’

Sly looked! He didn’t have one — but he looked! Just a twitch before checking himself, but it was enough; enough to make him look insecure; enough to make him look foolish. It was an extremely unfair gambit and Rachel knew it. A shocking thing to say, but then Rachel could be a shocking girl. Sly was angry, who wouldn’t be. He tried to muster some cold dignity.

‘All right, young lady. Thank you very much for the cabaret, I am an extremely busy man, and don’t have a lot of time to talk to foul-mouthed green freaks who —’

‘Oh? You wanted to take me to dinner a minute ago.’

Sly was entirely unused to this. He knew hundreds of girls of Rachel’s age, none of them cheeked him like she did. The difference of course was that all the other girls worked for him. Sly remembered why she had come to see him in the first place. He did not at all like the idea of a girl this intelligent, and with that much bottle, taking an interest in Bullens Creek. He decided to put masculine pride aside for a moment, and concentrate on allaying her suspicions.

‘Before you go. You expressed an interest in Bullens Creek.’ Sly spoke calmly as if they had just been exchanging comments about the weather, rather than exchanging insults.

‘Well, my plans will shortly be made public, but I see no reason why I shouldn’t share them with you first…’

Producing some carefully prepared mock plans and brochures, the same ones he had fobbed the planning people off with, he explained to Rachel the concept of the Oasis leisure complex. ‘The central hotel will be entirely underground, and will be called ‘The Ark’. This is because it will be a complete escape from the world. A place to recharge your batteries; a place for a new beginning.’

It all looked very convincing.

‘Why all the secrecy then, for a hotel?’

‘My dear, this isn’t just a hotel,’ said Sly, recovering his easy charm. ‘This whole project is conceptually unique, a top security, totally safe, no hassle wind-down for the mega-rich. You can’t call it just a hotel. That’s like calling Elvis just a singer…I’m putting hundreds of millions into this scheme, you don’t think I’m going to tell the world about it until I’m ready, do you?’

‘You’re telling me.’

‘Rather that than have you demanding enquiries and sitting about with placards, getting the place a bad name before it starts.’

Rachel wondered. The brochures were all very glossy, maybe…But then she remembered the Nazi attack; the obvious fact that it was a dumb place to build a hotel…Ocker Tyron’s involvement.

‘So this is just your little baby, is it?’ she asked, fondling the brochures casually.

‘Just mine. My risk, my profit.’

‘No one else involved then? Nobody sharing the risks?’

Sly felt a slight chill, what was she getting at? She couldn’t know anything, what could she possibly know? She was so young and poo looking. Christ he couldn’t be scared of her. It was a perfectly reasonable question for an environmentalist to ask. His uranium interests, after all, were as part of a consortium.

‘No, just me, I take my own risks love. It’s the way I got rich.’

And Rachel knew he was lying. Even without the things that CD had found out, she would have known. Now they would have to go to the desert after all.

After Rachel had gone Sly sat thinking about her for a long time. He soon stopped worrying about her. He was certain that she couldn’t possibly suspect anything. And if she did, how would she find out more, and who would she tell? He reminded himself that he was acting on behalf of an organization that represented a significant proportion of all the available wealth in the world, and she was a penniless greeny. But, insignificant or not, he couldn’t get her out of his mind. She was so…well, so pretty, and so tough as well, and clever.

Sly’s mind went back to the night of the dinner in Singapore when he had wandered about looking at that which was soon to be history. Suddenly he desperately wanted to tell the strange girl who had just left, all the terrible things that he knew. He longed to share the burden of the present with her; maybe even share the hope of a future. He didn’t know her, but then he didn’t really know any girl, not real ones, not ones he could love. Should he tell her? Should he make her love him by offering her a future? Sly pulled himself together. All this was just idle fantasy, time to worry about companions later, the job had to be done first. Besides, she was a green activist for God’s sake. The last person on earth Sly was going to share his huge and terrible secret with was a green activist…

The phone rang. It was Tyron. Great, thought Sly, sexual frustration and humiliation, followed by a chat with a fat, arrogant bastard. What a perfect day.

‘Hello, Silvester. Are we on a secure line?’ His tone was strangely conciliatory.

‘We are now,’ said Sly, flipping his scramble switch. ‘What do you want?’

If Tyron noticed Sly’s unfriendliness, he chose to ignore it, it was, after all, par for the course.

‘Listen, Silvester, about the land you bought for us. Now you know at the time I was a little concerned that you might have problems?’

‘I recall it very clearly,’ said Sly, with open hostility.

‘Well, I said nothing at the time, thought you might take it the wrong way, but I decided to uhm…help you, you know, just as a mate.’

‘No, I don’t know. What the fuck are you talking about, Tyron,’ Sly barked, all the tension built up in the conversation with Rachel, beginning to come out.

‘Look, I didn’t realize those Abs would give in so quickly, so on the night that they decided to sell up —’

Sly interrupted him furiously.

‘You organized a fucking program! You stupid bastard, you stuck a bunch of Neanderthals into the frame. Nazis for Christ sake! Couldn’t you have used the mafia or something!!’

‘Listen!’ Tyron shouted back, he knew he was in the wrong, but you could take contrition only so far. ‘I did it with them because there’s no way it could ever get back to me. Everyone knows that lot are mad. If I’d used anybody else the law would have wanted a motive, but with them bashing blacks is a reason in itself!! You didn’t seem to be getting any results, time is essential. Anyway, it hasn’t rebounded has it? We got the land, the Nazi’s in the slammer, and no one’s any the wiser are they?’

‘So why are you telling me?’ said Sly, leaping on the obvious point.

Tyron’s tone softened again slightly. ‘Listen, I used that pig ignorant half-brother of mine. Everyone knows he’s a law unto himself, so I thought even if the Nazi spills, no one will put it on me. Why should they? What motive do I have?’

‘Get on with it.’

‘Well it seems some reporter’s been probing him and the silly bastard’s admitted that he hinted that he was working as my liaison. Now it doesn’t mean anything,’ Tyron added quickly, ‘after all, it’s your land, nothing to do with me. All I wanted to know was whether anyone had been asking you questions about the deal, and that night in particular.’

Sly thought for a moment. He thought of the girl who had just left his office. He thought about the confidence with which Tyron had promised to deal with the business of the London journalist. He had never heard from her again.

‘No,’ he replied, ‘no one’s been asking me any questions.’