The O.D. (4 page)

“I met someone who used to work with my grandfather. It made me realize how little I know about him.”

“I never knew mine, either. Life’s full of holes, love.” She was staring into her water again.

They ate their soup in silence. Then, Jenny smiled, reached over and took Pilot’s hands in hers. He wallowed in that same sultry look she would throw him from down between his legs, gazing up with her mouth full. Option Three – taking her with him in August – was now a strong contender.

“Lonnie,” she said, “My exhibition opens in August and I have eight unfinished paintings in my studio. I haven’t put paint to canvas since our first date. I’m sorry, love, but this just isn’t working.”

Before his appointment at the Abbey Hotel, Pilot went back to Morrab Library to finish filling out his passport application. He’d had plenty of time after his short lunch with Jenny to have his passport photos taken. He asked the librarian to witness his signature, sealed the envelope, then went back to the post office to mail it. While waiting in the queue, he thought about what Jenny had said. Her words had taken him by surprise, and he should have asked her she meant by them.
This
just
isn’t
working
could mean one of four things: One, it wasn’t working sexuall
y−
impossible; Two, it wasn’t working romantically; Three, once she finished her paintings it could work agai
n−
maybe; or, Four, she was dumping him. He had been ready to take their relationship to another level, that much he recognized, but to have been preemptively sacked by the woman cut him deeply. His life seemed to be slipping out of his control on all fronts and he didn’t like the feeling.

“Is Mr. Vaalon available,” he asked the hotel receptionist at 2.30 on the dot.

“I’m here, Lonnie,” the tall American said, emerging from the lounge. “Let’s go for a drive while the sun’s shining.”

Pilot took him to the Tremenheere Sculpture Garden. Their stroll through the Woodland Area was Vaalon’s cue for the starting point of their afternoon session. “Trees are crucial, Lonnie. You’ll need plenty, because your land will be barren. You’ll be taking several thousand saplings, suckers and cuttings covering a variety of fast growing trees. You’ll need them as windbreaks against the equinoctial gales, which will start within a few months of your arrival.”

“How do you plant a tree on bare rock?” Pilot asked.

“In the Flotilla file, you’ll note that the four heaviest barges, positioned at each corner of the configuration for stability, will be carrying nothing but topsoil and compos
t−
several thousand tons of it. Over 75% will be used for tree-planting. The rest will be needed for cultivation. You’ll be carrying provisions to last for a year and a bit, and that will have to suffice until your first harvest. Three hundred tons of topsoil should be more than enough to get your grasses and winter crops in. You’ll need more later for your spring planting. There’s a man in Cork, Liam O’Penny, with access to all the earth you need should you run short. O’Penny is no businessman and should be treated fairly by us. Whatever price he mentions, double it.

“As for water, there’s ten thousand gallons divided between three of your barges, so even if only one gets through, you’ll have adequate water to meet your immediate needs. It won’t take that long to build your cisterns and there will be plenty of rain to fill them, believe me.”

“Will we be taking animals?”

“It’ll be a long time before you have enough grass to support livestock, but there’s a rare breed of sheep from Orkney, the North Ronaldsay, that lives almost entirely on seaweed. Six of these hearty ungulates will be joining you after your landing, and there will be plenty of seaweed washing ashore to feed them. Their milk tastes like spinach juice, but you’ll get used to it.”

They found a bench in the Swampy Bog and sat down.

At
that
very
same
moment
,
in
similar
surroundings
three
miles
south
of
Rumangabo
in
the
Democratic
Republic
of
the
Congo
,
a
young
mother
barely
into
her
teens
rocked
rhythmically
in
her
hiding
place
,
her
dead
child
clutched
to
her
breast
.
The
voices
were
getting
closer
,
the
pain
in
her
abdomen
,
sharper
.
Removing
one
hand
from
her
son’s
body
,
she
explored
her
own
wound
with
her
fingers
,
trying
to
stop
the
bleeding
.
The
hole
in
the
side
of
her
son’s
skull
had
hardly
bled
at
all
.
She
had
heard
the
sound
of
gunshots
before
and
they
had
always
led
to
deaths
in
the
family
.
Then
,
a
sudden
flash
of
sunlight
from
the
blade
of
a
machete
caught
her
eye
as
it
thrashed
at
the
undergrowth
in
the
distance
.
The
excited
chattering
stopped
.
She
froze
.
Her
laboured
breaths
were
the
loudest
noise
around
.
Painful
seconds
passed
.

The
bullet
reached
her
ear
before
the
sound
of
the
shot
that
fired
it
–
if
she
had
been
alive
to
hear
it
.
With
a
single
300
-
grain
projectile
in
her
brain
,
the
last
Western
Lowland
Gorilla
remaining
in
the
wild
was
dead
.

“I’m not that worried about being able to survive on the rock in the physical sense,” Pilot said, “but how are we going to be able to lay claim to it politically and legally?”

“That’s the most important question of all, Lonnie. It has to be a fait accompli in the first hour. At the exact moment you’re making your landfall, representations will be made by our advocates in Westminster, Dublin, Paris, Madrid, Lisbon and, most importantly, the United Nations. Their intercessions should leave no legal doubts as to your just and proper claim to sovereignty over the new land. Without solid diplomatic moorings in the world you’ll just sit exposed, isolated and vulnerable to the outside. You’ll run the risk of being treated as pirates, renegades or accidental tourists instead of an independent, legally bona fide member state of the world community. As I mentioned to you yesterday, you’ll be playing by the world’s rules to begin with. And that means following accepted procedures and protocols to ensure you’re rooted from the first hour. To accomplish that credibly you need advocates on the outside. You can read about them in the file by that name.

“Another thing. All 86 of you will renounce your respective citizenships and burn your passports before sailing so that you’re technically stateless on landing.”

Pilot picked up an alien-looking seed pod and twiddled with it while constructing his next question. “What’s to stop us from being overrun and removed from the island?”

“If your land has something the others wan
t−
oil, minerals, territor
y−
then it’ll be in their interests to take it. Just look at what my country did to the Native Americans when gold was discovered on the land we’d
allowed
them to keep. We just tore up the treaty, moved in and started digging. In your situation, the positive thing about being vulnerable is that people will hate to see you get hurt. Unscrupulous parties might try to harm you, but world opinion won’t let them get away with it. The fact that you’ll be forever underdogs is your strongest defense, stronger even than international law.”

Vaalon shifted position on the bench, eager for another bathroom break. “Research and preparation can never be said to be 100% complete, but I’ve unearthed nothing so far to suggest that our plans aren’t feasible, both in the physical and the political sense. I’ve put links to a number of IGP studies on the laptop and I advise you to read them all. We also have computer models at the Institute that I can show you in London. No-one can say what short or long term changes might occur as a result of the upheaval, or even how long you’ll be above water. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

The two men ambled to the visitors centre to relieve themselves and have tea in the café.

“Any questions so far?” Vaalon asked.

“The initial goal is to get established and become self-sufficient,” Pilot said. “I understand that. But then what? You said there’d be a second phase.”

Vaalon adopted an apologetic air. “My work here is almost finished,” he said. “After landing, you and your cohorts will take over the reins and plan Phase Two during Phase One. There will be many variables, and any plans will have to be molded around the shapes they make, without forgetting what the object of the game is.”

“I’ve got a strong feeling that we both agree on what that object is,” Pilot said.

“I wouldn’t have asked you to take the position if we didn’t, Lonnie. I have every confidence in you. Your ends will justify your means, provided the ends themselves are justified.” Vaalon took a last sip and removed a tea leaf from the tip of his tongue. “I’m going back to the hotel for a nap. Come by at seven if you can. I’m looking forward to sampling some genuine Cornish street food.”

Pilot scratched his head. “Do you like saveloys?”

The houses in the backstreets of Penzance exhibited all the qualities of a person in a coma. At close quarters they appeared stone dead, but deep within, behind their locked doors and curtained windows, a strange life pulsed imperceptibly on. A life of pinging microwaves, reality TV, heavy metal on illegal file-sharing, the next dose of calcium and iron supplement or the next heroin fix.

The only visible sign of life this sultry May evening was at the local pie shop several doors down from Pilot’s aunts’ seashell emporium. Formerly a fish and chip shop, the too-late moratorium on commercial fishing had forced its owner to turn to ‘meat’ pies a vegetarian could eat without guilt. Outside, gangs of alienated youths stood gobbling oily chips and throwing empty soft drink cans at one another. Pieces of paper impregnated with suet and gravy blew down the street like tumbleweeds through a ghost town.

In the doorway between
The
Pen
Sans
Seashell
Emporium
and
Morwenna’s
Tattoo
Parlour
, Lonnie Pilot and Forrest Vaalon sat eating their saveloys, the computer case acting as a makeshift table between them. When they’d finished, Vaalon took out the laptop and switched it on.

“Do you mind if we don’t use that tonight?” Pilot asked. “I have a headache.” Vaalon waited for the laptop to spring to life, then put it back into hibernation. The slamming of a door at the back of the building was followed a moment later by the coughing of an engine. “That’ll be Sally and Hilda,” Pilot said. “My great-aunts. This is their shop. They have a seashell stall at the St. Neot Flower Festival starting tomorrow. They were supposed to set off this afternoon, and they’re both night-blind, so I may never see them again. Come on in, I’ve got a key.” Pilot unlocked the door, switched on the lights and ushered his guest inside. “When did you say you were leaving Cornwall, Forrest?”