Strip the Willow (4 page)

In the main thoroughfare, what had been once been the odd Victory Parade or Going Away to Iraq, what had once linked hearts and minds in a May Day march for the working class, or had wiggled a fishnet thigh in the annual Charities Procession for the relief of conscience, was now maturing,
morphing
was probably the word, towards a series of regular Spectacles.

The plan was this. Each of the dozen cantons was allocated a month. Some apparently random word or phrase, as though arriving by junk mail or fortune cookie, would set the canton
fretting
. If there must be Spectacle, thought Lucy, they should be good ones. Lightly pregnant with art, politics, science and history, they should embody a call to action. For example, the first one:
Calving Glaciers.

A large sheet of paper was procured, for the sake of argument white, and laid along the length of the Prep Hangar, which had been plonked in the vacant quad of Marischal College.

Tables with substances, tea, coffee, vodka, cocoa, were ranged along one long wall. Under the table, coke was available. For human consciousness, unjolted by chemicals, was deemed to be a waste of time, and on the boring side of banal.

Along the other long wall was a series of perspex cages,
deliberately
kept dark, then suddenly and singly illuminated by strobe lighting for about fifteen seconds, to reveal some icy
phantasmagoria
. Many and zany might be the notions hooked from the
unconscious
, frantic and furious the dreamings.

Music was thrust from speakers at the far end, just enough bars to infect the spirit, never enough to soothe. Alternate bursts from the pair of scherzos in Maxwell Davies’s
Antarctic Symphony
were favourite.

Scents, naturally, were not neglected, and were hurled into the hangar space by blower. They had consulted their Attenborough. Essence of emperor penguin sweat, extract of polar bear cub poo.

The temperature was the one thing that never, or very seldom and by very little, varied. The best temperature for creativity being 33° Fahrenheit below blood-heat, so that brain may cool but bits don’t freeze, every effort was made to maintain this. They used heat-pumps in dialogue with the tawdry, shifting residues of the outside world.

Notwithstanding such huge provision, the meticulous
consideration
of creative needs, and the astonishing range of boost, only a small proportion of incomers, and thus only a tiny proportion of eligible cantonians, took active part.

Ideas got smudged on the white paper with a brittle stick of
charcoal
. Polystyrene bergs, moulded by hot knives and heat guns, were the result. If such a tedious outcome occurred again, Lucy knew, LeopCorp would thrust the last vestige of community aside, and fill the gap with their own agenda.

Canton, can do!
was her underdespairing slogan.

Lucy, on the hospitality balcony, shuffled from foot to foot. Alison was beside her.

Guy Bord spoke into his lapel. She heard the words, Mr Marr, I believe we’re ready—

– I’m so glad you believe, Lucy whispered in his left ear.

– Shh, said Guy, for once, would you—

There was a pause.

It was the early days of Spectacle, thought Lucy. There would no doubt be better days, more vivid, more involving, days to come.

An early draft, thought Guy. When the technical side was up to speed, and all the contracts were in place, what he and Rookie would produce would be far fiercer.

A voice came over the loudspeaker system.

– In the name of LeopCorp, and of the City Council, I name this street
UberStreet.

White blossom in a colosseum, bubbles eddied in the air.

Bubbles alighted, the affected roared. Rice-cakes fell, as if, and frangible meringues. Then the strung charges of Semtex broke out bigger suggestive lumps to skirl at. Airy fridge-doors, bantam anvils, a slow white van. Tumbling like a car boot blessing, a street baptismal.

As pluffs and whuffs continued above, folk whacked each other with joky clubs, till they were in white bubbles, into white bubbles, really high.

– Ooh, said Alison. I fair fancy that.

– What? said Lucy.

– Bein in ower the thighs, said Alison. Floatin voters hae aa the fun.

A green bottle flew through the air, and there was blood. Other bottles flew, and there was quite a flow. People started swimming across the top of the bubbles to get to each other.

– Hmm, said Guy.

– Hmm? queried Alison.

– There go your floating voters. Thrashing around in the bloody nursery, trying to bump each other off.

– Guy— said Alison.

– Yes, Alison—?

– Get a life.

Lucy had had enough. She turned her back on proceedings, and left soon after. She thanked the staff in the ante-room and bid them
Dobranoc, Goodnight.
She didn’t see Bing Qing, who was in charge, and was in too much of a hurry to seek her out.

After an hour or two, the last of the bergs was clawed to atoms.

The Leopard, on behalf of LeopCorp, from his high perch, having first pressed the orange button to detonate concatenated Semtex, now pressed the black, and the invisible drifted belt that was UberStreet began to vibe eastward, down, then faintly uphill, towards his vantage.

Just below in the Castlegate was a carved, blackened, hollow
sandstone
crown, where former traitors were beheaded. Now it was topped by a white marble unicorn on a tall pedestal. You could have gone a long way round the city, no doubt, asking what a white unicorn on a tall pedestal actually stood for, or rather pranced for, horny beast. The whole kit and caboodle was called the Mercat Cross, namely, in modern abstract,
Intersection of the Market.
Rookie Marr had not yet intimated any need to rename that.

At the moment the rotating pavementette began its progress, the Mercat Cross, mounted on hidden hydraulic jacks, began to move upwards, mm by mm, so that a useful crevasse began to yawn.

This facility was titled, plain as you like, the Hole.

A million million bubbles came dancing along, to be siphoned off. Gradually the woven legend was revealed:
Mountain Heart,
Mountain
Heart, Mountain Heart.
But the solider débris of pleasure still had to be sorted. Not just the empty Stella bottles. Most citizens who weren’t rat-arsed, paralytic, smashed, totalled or out of it had the sense to attempt to flee down side streets. Others, prone or supine, vibrated along.

Down the Hole, masked Nigerian doctors and Malaysian nurses and Polish scene-shifters began to choose from the two issues of glove, red rubber and white latex.

Lucy got down to the Station taxi rank cursing Spectacle, cursing the damp, cursing herself mostly, then cursed again; there were no trains at this time of night, not even the Virgin Bullet. So no taxis. She turned back and there was one coming out of Carmelite, with its light on. She hailed it. She had beaten the crowd.

– Rubislaw Den, she said. South. What’s that smell?

– Need ye ask, said the driver.

She skrunshled tight to the door in her smart coat. There were white beads stuck by static to her ankles. She thought of the bloke on the Back Wynd steps, Mr I-Guess-Your-Name, Mr Disturbing. He hadn’t been there tonight. Just a thin brown nylon sleeping-bag, half-zipped, and a rumpled blanket. Perhaps he was caught up in Spectacle; perhaps he had sought a deeper darkness.

She left them to it, the lot of them. She switched off her phone.

Most of the injured from
Calving Glaciers
were quite unhappy. There were three broken arms, two collarbones, assorted broken toes, an out of kilter hip and suspected pelvis. Aggravated alcoholic
concussion
aplenty. There was an initial exchange of numbers in A&E at Foresterhill, between the compos mentis. If they hadn’t gone off the boil when they got home in the early hours, they would have rung round, formed a support group, and a concern group, set up a boycott of UberStreet and sued for compensation, depending on who was up for taking a lead.

They were still waiting.

Lucy chaired the debrief in the Council Chamber, surrounded by portraits of mainly men, sitting on gilt identical chairs. There was a Motion of No Confidence pending on the décor, from the genderistas.

Guy was doodling on a piece of paper, then scoring it out.

– Welcome, said Lucy. I’m glad we could all make it. What’s the initial reaction?

– Hmm, said Guy. As I think I said, far too womby, extremely samey. The thick end of not a lot.

Lucy gave him a look.
The thick end of not a lot.
A comment like that about summed LeopCorp up. If you could ever sum them.

Guy Bord was now Acting Director of UbSpec Total, the
public-private
partner of the City’s ReCreation and Social Engineering Department, whereas she, Lucy Legge, ReCSoc’s Chief Outreach Officer, was Chair of the Joint Working Group. UbSpec Total was a jaw of the Leisure Division of LeopCorp and was trying to swallow
without trace a dodgy firm of longish standing, Swink Stillwater, which had its sticky fingers in Mountain Heart and many local pies, when LeopCorp as a whole moved in.

If it wasn’t possible to follow all this, that was what was intended. What
public-private
meant, what
partner
meant, when the chips were down, was anybody’s guess.

At this stage, at all stages, LeopCorp’s wider plans were unknown.

– Samey? said Lucy.

– Samey, said Guy. Canton One didn’t really run with the idea. Polystyrene, polystyrene—

– The hose of polystrene balls was not so good, said Otto, tracking his boss’s lead.

– I didn’t see that, said Lucy.

– Leaving early doesn’t help, said Guy.

– There wis a burst hose suddenly sprayin, said Alison. A lassie breathed some in and it cloggit her lungs. I went doon til her, she wis gaggin. I tried tae phone ye. She gey near croakit.

– Guy? said Lucy.

– No, that was within parameters, said Guy. That’s why you do risk assessment. Without risk, Spectacle is dead. Correct, Otto?

– I had tae dae mooth-tae-mooth, said Alison, and I dinna even like women. Had tae turn masel intil a human hoover.

Guy gave her a hard look. The more she spoke in the Doric, the spikier she got.

– She okay? said Lucy.

– Otto got her to sign a disclaimer, said Guy. He chequed her out, two thousand.

– I wasn’t referring to money, said Lucy.

– She wis fine, said Alison. But I’m still spittin.

Guy was thinking of Luna, naturally.

– I must say I didn’t like any of the ending, said Lucy.

– You didn’t see it, said Guy.

After the spontaneity on Blissville’s stair he was still wondering.

– Because I didn’t like it, said Lucy. I knew about it. It was grim, degrading.

– Leave the endings to me, Lucy, said Guy.

He wondered if his mad fleeing had caused her pain. How could he get in touch, apologise?

– Have ye got ither endins? said Alison. I dinna want tae land up every full moon wi a moothfu o baas.

– Similar ending, better effects, said Guy. I think we can really feature the ending, bump up the balcony tickets at the LeopCorp end.

He could ask for a summit with the Leopard, have a fresh chance with Luna.

– This is a community Spectacle, said Lucy. I’m not buying into dearer tickets.

– We’ve had all these arguments, said Guy. Your Council won’t wear deficit. Nor will the muppets further south. UbSpec has to stand on its own two feet.

– And knock folk off theirs? said Lucy.

– Off what? said Guy. He must be off his head. Luna was only setting him up.

– Their feet, said Lucy. Tumbling them into a pit—

– In mediaeval times this was understood, said Guy. You Sixties people still cling to your lovey-dovey vision. It doesn’t put bums on seats.

– I don’t want to put bums anywhere, said Lucy.

– So what are you really saying? said Guy. You want cuddly
spectacle
but not Spectacle? You want a menagerie, but not real circus?

– It’s not a circus, it’s a long straight street, said Lucy.

– True, Alison said. And it’s nae aboot cuddlin a menagerie, we leave that tae ye, Guy. Ye havena a clue far we’re comin fae, in ReCSoc. We’ve aye been mair ootreach, the educational side o things.

Alison could be pretty staunch.

–
Outreach,
said Guy. What can I say?
The educational side of things
—

– Let’s take a break, said Lucy.

During the break Auto Otto, as he was known, Guy’s chief assistant, spent some time plying Alison with bourbon biscuits. Though an airburst of wet brown crumb from him weakened his case. Alison
retired to the Ladies and was late when they reconvened. Lucy waited for her, while Guy rolled and unrolled his set of minutes.

– Let’s move on, said Lucy.

– Indeed, said Guy.

– Canton Two is waiting for the word.

– Or phrase, said Guy.

– We’ve done contemporary for starters, said Lucy. I wonder if we shouldn’t delve into history now.

– The Civil War, said Alison, wis gey bad roond here. Nae mony folk ken that.

She and Lucy had researched it together.

– Perhaps because nobody gives a monkey’s, said Guy.

– Well they damn well should, said Lucy.

– Believe me, said Guy. Nobody gives a stuff for the Covenanters.

– Thae Royalists did— said Alison.

– Maybe this is old helmet now? wheedled Otto.

– The Battle of the Bridge of Dee, said Lucy, meant a lot, we know—

– To nobody, said Guy. Small battle, not many dead.

Otto opened his palms towards Alison, to console her. And to signal their probable defeat.

Few councillors were contributing, but that was standard; at least they were awake. You could pick up your allowance without being caught in awkward crossfire.

– During the Civil War there was raping in the streets for three days, said Lucy coolly. Unchecked rape. Thought that might appeal, Mr Bord?

– Raping is heavy, said Guy. The genderistas nodded. There are better ways, more consensual. He sensed them turn to look at him.

– Here’s the title for next month, said Guy, it just came to me.
Underwater Sex.

– Jesus— said Lucy.

– Beyond him, even, said Alison. In aa probability.

– If we must blow bubbles in the street, said Guy, let’s blow
them to better purpose. Just you watch,
Underwater Sex,
it will pull them in.

– Consumed by Spectacle, said Lucy.

– Way to go, said Guy.

– Unconscious with lust, said Lucy, lust for unconsciousness.

– Steady, said Guy.

It was becoming a ping-pong match, between the Situationist with ’68 stripes and Debord’s much later reject.

– Any other ideas? said Lucy. But after Guy’s last contribution, only a single species of imagery was surfable in the Chamber.

Silence.

– La lutte continue, said Lucy.

– Give it a rest, said Guy.

The meeting adjourned.

The genderistas rushed to an ante-room to take a line.

Lucy left the Town House, using the old plush lift with the
hand-operated
mesh doors. She offered to take Alison to the Art Gallery for coffee.

–
Underwater Sex,
said Lucy. I’m on the way out, it’s obvious. These are not our times.

– Na, said Alison. I’m there ahind ye. But I’ve got a date.

– Who with?

– Nae sayin.

– Fair enough. Tell me tomorrow.

– Aye, right, said Alison.

Alison headed off to see Gwen first, give her some last-minute coaching for the interview. Gwen was reluctant to emerge from her bedroom, while her mother was trying hard not to revisit it. With a bit of resolve they could get closer.

She spoke from the hall.

– Gwen, luve, I’ve an appointment for yir hair. Come ben an I’ll tell ye.

– Tell me through the door, said Gwen, it’s not important.

– Hey, said Alison. Ye canna go oot for interview like that. Nae bloody wey.

– Rosa says freedom means nothing unless it’s freedom for dissenters.

– It’s nae freedom we’re bletherin aboot, it’s a job.

– Rosa says—

– Rosa says sweet Fittie Airms about interviews. Wise up, quinikie, I’ve got tae ging oot in a minute. Yir appointment’s
three-forty
. Here’s fifty quid sae ye can get some decent claes.

– Fifty, said Gwen.

– I can mak it eichty, Gwen, but that’s ma limit.

– Eighty, said Gwen.

– I’ll leave it on the table. A hunner, that’s yir lot. I’m oot the nicht, mind?

No reply.

– That’s me, then, said Alison. See ye. An tidy that room o yirs, please, or the landlord’ll rip oor lease in flitters. Okay?

– I’m outta this dump anyway, said Gwen.

– Yeah, said her mother. Very Rosa. Bye.

The more effort she made, the further they seemed to grow apart.

Like the time they took off together, camping and walking, when Gwen was sixteen. And Gwen just sat at the top of Devil’s Point for hours, glowering up and down the Lairig Ghru, as the clouds swept lower. Come on, she’d said, time tae ging doon. Time for you to go down? Gwen had replied. Look, Gwen, she’d said, if there’s somethin— There’s nothing, that’s the whole point, isn’t it? Gwen had replied. There’s either something or nothing, you either go for it flat out or stay up here for ever. I dinna get ye, said her mother. I wish you hadn’t, said Gwen. Who’s my father anyway, is he dead or just fucked off? Alison turned away from her. Did you bore him to death? said Gwen. When she was able to turn back, Gwen was little more than an outline, in the grey heart of the cloud, three feet away.

On the way down, Gwen had sent chunks of scree skittering into the abyss with her boots.

Lucy walked slowly alongside the stilled pavementette. The odd polystyrene bubble was still flirting in and out of shop doorways, in the eddies and gusts. For the next two weeks the street would be open again, a pedestrian precinct. Then it would be closed off and kitted out with all the aqueous scaffolding of idle gratification.

She quickened her pace. Between O2 and Orange she started down the Back Wynd Steps.

She could see immediately it was him there, a way he had of hunching his blanket, like a chief-in-exile rather than the manky bauchle he seemed to be. Though when he spoke, he did seem more alert, attuned somehow.

– Hello again, he said. I recognise these lovely feet.

– But I was in heels last time.

– Can’t have everything. What’s my name, then?

– Don’t know, she said. Still can’t think. Possibly never knew it.

– But you know me?

– Seems that way. How do you exist like that?

She did keep one pace back from him.

– You exist. Your day’s been hard, he said. Fact?

– How do you know? said Lucy.

– Tell by the way you scuttle. Pressured, emptied, unbalanced.

– I try not to show it, Lucy said.

– Did you scuttle along with me ever?

– Wasn’t much of a one for scuttling.

Pause.

– What do you need for a meal tonight? she said.

– Company would be good.

– Here’s a five – a ten.

– Places that cost a ten wouldn’t let me in.

– In case I don’t see you again, here’s twenty.

– Is that the plan?

– No, it’s not the plan. I’ve got plans up to here, other people’s plans, sick of them.

– What do you do? he said.

– I’d rather not say.

– Are you fulfilling a life’s ambition?

– Somebody’s maybe, not particularly mine.

– Does it matter?

– I think I used to know the answer to that. Look, have to go.

– One of us always has to.

– What do you mean by that?

– One of us always has to go, it’s what I believe.

– Does that count as belief? said Lucy.

– Sit down.

– Can’t.

– Sit down, he said. It’s a city, isn’t it?

– That’s not the meaning, said Lucy.

– That’s what’s wrong, people don’t know the meaning. People don’t sit down together.

– I was at a meeting all morning, she said.

– Call that sitting? Sit down.

– On these filthy steps?

– You’re talking about my home.

She took a small step back, the better to survey him.

– You do this deliberately, don’t you? said Lucy.

– What?

– Useless beggar. It’s an act, it’s a got-up act that absolves you.

– What from? he said. Absolves me from what exactly?

– From making the shitty decisions the rest of us have to.

– If only you knew.

There was a sort of hovering in the debate, if it was debate.

So, wait, he said. Wait, who you really angry with—?

– It’s— No—

– I know, you need to go. See you next time. Mebbe I’ll have moved.

– You won’t, she said. You won’t have.

– Might have changed landings—

– What for?

– Gone up or down in the world.