Tomas (21 page)

The sleeper faces the window, oblivious to the storm. He eventually turns on to his other side. King Rat keeps vigil. The sleeper turns back towards the window, then twists over again. At last he lies on his back, his head cradled in a curved arm. Noiselessly, King Rat reaches for the phial. His victim shifts and smacks his lips. He is about to turn back on to his side but then he adjusts his head on the pillow instead. King Rat senses that the moment is close and unfurls his tail like a waking snake. Just as it arches over his head, it happens. The sleeper opens his mouth.

In a flash the phial is uncorked and a single globule of black liquid is dropped on to the tail. It catches the red of King Rat's eyes, glistening as it travels down its highway of doom. King Rat expertly manoeuvres the deadly passenger to an inch above his victim's lips. With an invisible flick, he delivers the droplet to the back of his throat.

Dawn breaks in a huge sky, washed clean by the storm. The Croisette glistens after the deluge. The waiters barely bother to dry out tables and chairs, knowing that the sun will do it for them. Breakfast smells fill the air. Another perfect Mediterranean day.

The Great Bear arrives in Cannes at first light, carried on King Rat's galleon. This is only the second time that he has left his lair in decades, drawn out to parade his kill. On his journey he ruminates on the turn of the wheel. All the planning, time and cost of creating a great army, when
the decapitation of one man was all that mattered. He can even withstand the loss of the Cocksacks. A new supply of their venomous load is already being prepared by his ally the Iranian Hawk. All that remains is for him to make his appearance on Shit TV. The cameras await. After that, the poison will be released. The timing makes no difference. So much better to soften the world with news of the fake Messiah's death and then deliver his annihilating balm.

The Great Bear makes his way up to inspect the body, dispensing with his guard. This is a moment he wishes to savour alone. The bedroom door is ajar and through the crack he glimpses the fake Messiah's corpse lying beneath a sheet on the bed. Next to him a computer screen sits open on a bedside table. He had no idea that he was composing his final words.

The mighty beast pauses in the doorway. The memory of decades of pain and frustration flashes through his mind: the Cold War defeat; the years of hibernation; the start of the fight back; the rise of the fake Messiah; the battle for Shit TV; the destruction of the Cocksack army. And now this. The fake Messiah dead, his broadcast platform ready and a new supply of world-controlling venom arriving soon. Slowly, he pads towards the bed.

He stands over the corpse, his giant paw gripping the hem of the sheet. This is it. His enemy is defeated, his destiny fulfilled; fortune's wheel turns no longer; it is fixed eternally in proclamation of the new Russian power. The rule of the Great Bear.

As he pulls back the sheet, he's shocked by a stabbing pain in his thigh. The surprise of the truth dart is nothing
compared to what is beneath the sheet. Pierre lies lifeless before him. As Tomas gestures to his guards to manacle the prisoner and lead him to the cameras, the Great Bear's order – ‘Kill him whose words hurt me most' – spoken in anger and haste, comes back to his mind.

The root of all evil
…

The Shit TV dais is on the beachfront facing the hotel. The deep blue sea forms a contrasting backdrop to the blood red of the Russian flag flying in the breeze behind the speaker's podium. All the cameras and paraphernalia required for a global broadcast are ready. Shit TV, promised a spectacle by King Rat, one that'll change the world, now awaits the star of the show.

The West is confused by the destruction of the Cock-sacks. Was it an accident? A joke? A precursor to today's programme? As for Sicily's flattening of the reserve army, what incredible magic was that? Whatever the answer, these unprecedented events have sent the world into a frenzy of intrigue and speculation. All work has stopped. Governments didn't even bother to declare a holiday; the planet has taken one anyway. Now five billion people, the biggest audience of all time, wait to hear the answer.

The Great Bear is conducted to the dais by none other than the new Messiah. ‘What's this?' thinks Shit TV's programme director. ‘The new Messiah serving the Great Bear? This must be part of the show.' He gives the countdown for the broadcast to begin. Silence descends across the world. The excitement is palpable, like lightning in
the air. The biggest broadcast of all time, on the largest network in world history, live from Cannes.

Tomas steps up to the podium. He surveys the bank of whirring cameras for a full thirty seconds. Only when the tension is at breaking point does he lean into the microphone to speak.

‘Citizens of the world,' he says. ‘We have a first in broadcasting history today. Breaking decades of silence, the Great Bear will speak live on this network. This is an incredible event; and I have the honour of being his interviewer.'

The Great Bear comes into shot.

‘Great Bear,' Tomas says. ‘The world is holding its breath. There are many unanswered questions.' He pauses, momentarily uncertain that the truth drug will work. ‘What was the purpose of your plan?'

The Great Bear grimaces and struggles in his restraints, hidden from the audience by a fur camouflage. But the serum of the truth dart is coursing through his veins, its power too strong to resist.

‘To subvert the West,' he replies in a staccato outburst. ‘We sent oligarchs with yachts and jetted in prostitutes to incite jealousy and avarice. We bought football teams and extolled the virtues of the “ballers” nihilistic lifestyle. We corrupted bankers – not a difficult task – and other servicers of the rich and turned them into our servants. We silenced our enemies at home and watched the West turn a blind eye in its weakness and moral apathy. We perverted values. Already much has been achieved.'

‘We know this,' Tomas replies. ‘But what was the
purpose of the Cocksacks?'

‘Can't you guess? I'm surprised that you ask. What is the world's most pernicious evil? What corrupts nearly everything and tempts even the good man? For what does a woman forget herself and fall into sin? What is the Devil's currency? What corruption is more sickening than a sewer, more putrid than rotting meat?'

The programme director is uneasy with this line of questioning but continues nevertheless. He orders the cameras to pan in on the Great Bear. His scared face with snarling jaw, mottled fur and black eyes fills every television screen in the world. He pauses, struggling against the truth serum. A look of pain and fury contorts his face. He fights hard, but can't resist, even though the answer's now obvious.

‘Money,' he gasps, ‘the root of all evil. That was the Cocksack's load. Streams, rivers, oceans of it.'

The global audience exhales a collective gasp. Of course, money. But why this apocalyptic description?

‘And the effect of spreading it across the West?' Tomas asks.

‘Anarchy, of course,' replies the Great Bear. ‘People jumping, crying, screaming and screeching for this manna. And then pushing, punching, clawing and fighting. Finally, killing. The strong overpowering the weak. The man with a handful of notes ambushed by the gang hoovering up the street; the old lady smashed in the face for her single bill.'

‘Then what?'

‘A deluge of death and destruction; marauding gangs more intoxicated by money than any drink or drug. All
perspective lost, normality shattered. Citizens attacked, houses ransacked, cities in chaos. Do you think the armed forces and civic authorities would help? With money raining on them too, they'd be the worst offenders. Global disaster. Hell on earth. Evil annihilating good. Nothing sacred. Nobody safe. A money blast more lethal than radiation, enveloping the planet with its contaminating seed.'

‘But … What about your Empire?'

‘Simple,' the Great Bear replies. ‘Empires arise from ashes, don't they? What do I want, a world in perfect working order? And who's easier to control, the good and decent or the evil and venal? Once a man is corrupted, he's a slave to himself. It's not difficult to make him slave to another.'

Tomas reflects on the malign brilliance of the Great Bear's plan. Wars are fought with weapons – but why use them? Why not money? Rain it down and the enemy will annihilate itself. As he imagines clouds of notes billowing in the air, the Great Bear's apocalyptic vision becomes a reality in his mind.

Shit TV's programme director is also agitated. ‘Where's this leading?' he thinks. ‘Is this really the promised show? Should I pull the broadcast?'

Tomas is quick with his next question. ‘What about the amount of money needed?' he asks. ‘How could the supply possibly endure?'

‘The pipeline to our friend and neighbour the Iranian Hawk,' the Great Bear replies. ‘He gave us oil in return for technology and our support for his madness in the world. Also … ' The Great Bear battles against the serum. Today
he's defeated, but if he can just conceal this detail, maybe one day, decades hence, the wheel will turn and he'll have his revenge.

Tomas wonders how the Iranian pipeline alone could produce the billions needed for the Great Bear's plan. But he dismisses the thought and is about to ask another question when he remembers Pierre's article about the pipeline extension – a secret Pierre never managed to expose.

‘Where does the pipeline end?' Tomas asks.

The Great Bear inhales deeply. He clenches his teeth and pulls a hideous grimace, forcing his mouth to lock. He begins to shake his head from side to side, looking demented. The programme director almost cuts the feed.

‘Where does the pipeline end?' Tomas repeats.

‘In Iraq, of course,' the Great Bear spits out at lightning speed. ‘Just over the border from Iran, in the biggest oilfields in the world. Why do you think we've fomented trouble in the region for decades, feeding the flames of Western policy and encouraging Iran to ever greater extremes? Obviously, it was to distract attention from our activities.'

‘How is this possible?' Tomas asks stupefied.

‘Very easily,' the Great Bear replies, ‘it's a lot less difficult than flying to the moon. A pipeline is just a subterranean tunnel dug with machines. It is also impossible to detect: satellites can't see underground. Oil is abundant in the area, with deep reserves stretching across borders. We've acquired billions of barrels while you've been busy chasing shadows. And what's the worst that can happen? You find out and ask for it back.'

Tomas is amazed. Of all man's thefts of land, people, power and riches in history, this is the most simple and devious. Technologically easy and impossible to detect, taking advantage of a unique combination of circumstances. That the scheme went so far and lasted so long was testimony to the madness of the world.

The idea of dementia triggers a final question in Tomas's mind. ‘What is Shit TV's role?' he asks.

Instantly the programme director moves to cut the satellite signal, but the Alien locks the network's satellites in time and space. No interference is possible. Five billion people hear his answer.

‘What do morons eating live bugs in the jungle create? Other morons. And fools in a house airing their infantile opinions? More fools. Masochists being abused by foul-mouthed chefs and smooth-tongued judges? Yet more masochists. A world of morons, fools and masochists. Shit TV is the invisible cancer, more lethal than venom, more corrosive than acid. It turns minds into mush. Its daily dose makes the world sicker and weaker and, but for you, powerless in my hands.'

In commemoration of Shit TV's final broadcast, the Alien rotates its satellites until they become a silver soup that sparkles in space.

A dead man's story
…

As the Great Bear makes his first and final appearance on Shit TV, the Prefect of Police arrives at the murder scene. He undertakes a perfunctory examination of the room,
while awaiting the arrival of the forensic experts, and notices the journalist's computer on the bedside table. He presses a key. Pierre's letter to his editor about ‘truth' is displayed, the story to which it refers attached. He moves the cursor to read the story. Then a glint catches his eye. Through a half-opened door, he notices a wonderland of mirrors: the floor-to-ceiling arrangement found in expensive bathrooms. A story to change the world or an opportunity to adjust his cap in this paradise of reflective surfaces? The choice is easy. He is just completing his millinery toilette when Judge Reynard arrives. For some time he's been concerned about Pierre's investigations; on hearing of his murder, he wanted to be the first to look around.

The judge takes in the scene with the expert eye of an evidence-gatherer. He's seen it all before. Within minutes, he has read Pierre's letter.

‘Monsieur le Préfet,' says Judge Reynard, ‘I shall require this computer for examination.'

‘Bien sûr, Monsieur le Juge,' replies the prefect, raising his cap.

Judge Reynard sits in a comfortable chair in the salon of Tomas's apartment. Pierre's computer is on his lap. He presses the ‘on' button and it whirs into life. What is this story that will change the world? Did he discover the secret of the pipeline before his death? Is this his valedictory piece? In his heart, the judge knows it isn't. He muses for a moment on the thread that separates success from failure, victory from defeat. The Great Bear had this story within
his grasp. His simple mistake was to go to Pierre's room unguarded, wishing, no doubt, to savour his moment of triumph alone. If it hadn't been for this small hubristic act, he would now be reading the story to the world live on Shit TV, the new Messiah his prisoner in chains.

Reynard finds Pierre's letter and the story attachment beneath. Would Pierre have sent the article in the morning? People often feel different in the cold light of day. Pierre's urge to reveal the ‘truth', so enhancing to his reputation and riches, might have faltered on reflection that the truth isn't always best. The judge presses a key and Pierre's final piece appears on screen. Reynard sits back in his armchair and starts to read: