Tobacco-Stained Mountain Goat, page 12
“And when you’re on the losing team.”
“Exactly. Worse yet, I’m vilified for playing against the Aussies, like I’m some sort of traitor.”
“So what can you do? Retire again.”
“I can’t.” Ant stared at me. “I think you understand the score better than anybody else I know. They won’t let me just walk away.”
“Ah.”
“Right. Ah.”
“No choice, huh?”
“No bloody choice.”
“So how d’you keep going?”
“The love of the game.”
“Full on.”
“Damn right. You know, I did something I shouldn’t have done this morning.”
“Yeah? What?”
“I skipped batting practice.”
“So?”
He leaned forward. “Look around us, Floyd. I mean look at every single face in this bar. D’you recognize any of them?—Neither do I. But that doesn’t mean they’re not here to listen in and pick up a loose word between mates. Taking notes. Reporting.”
“On little mics we can’t see?”
“Yep. And videos.”
“Miniature ones?”
“Maybe.”
“Who, exactly?”
“Maybe they’re your blokes. Or maybe they’re CPs.”
“CPs?”
“CPs.”
“Meaning—?”
“The Cricketing Police.”
“The Cricketing Police.” I nodded slightly. “Ah.”
“Don’t mock me, Floyd. You’d be surprised.”
“I would.”
“You’d be very surprised.”
“Right. Because of the Cricketing Police.”
“Exactly.” Ant sat back. He looked goddamned triumphant.
“You’ve got to be fucking well kidding me.”
“No. No, I’m not.”
“Cricketing Police? That’s the best you’ve got to pull my leg with?”
“Floyd, I’m not making the Cricketing Police up. CPs is what we call them. The game’s too important these days. They keep us under wraps. I shouldn’t be saying anything to you right now. I’m risking a lot. It’s a cricketing offence. I could go down for this.” He slid his glass in circles on a wet spot on the table.
“They have regulations about what you can say outside of games?”
“Always have. They have an image to protect and us players are the faces of that image. But it’s—tighter now. Stringent. Fascist.”
“And they’ve got a cricketing brig, or something?”
“Seriously, is this really so hard to believe? You of all people know that people have been known to just—up and disappear.”
“So you say. And now—to tactfully change the subject—how’s Anna?”
“She left me three months ago.”
“Shite. Not so tactful at all. I’m sorry, laddie.”
“Don’t worry about it, mate.”
“But I thought you two were like glue.”
“Fuck that. She left me for another cricketer.”
“You’re joking?”
“Do I look like I am? You know who she dumped me for? Do you know?”
“Hey, course I don’t. I’m the one who thought you were still together.”
“Well, she bloody dumped me for Ray Massey.”
“Who the hell is that?”
“This dickhead on the Aussie team, the new all-rounder. He’s a real bronze trophy-boy. I’m just the has-been with the axe to grind in charge of the ‘other’ team. No comparison. Hell, there was this cartoon in the paper the other day, where they had a caricature of me with a top hat on my head and this pointy moustache like a cartoon villain.”
“Dick Dastardly?”
“Who? My point is that I’m a mockery. A fucking punchline.”
“Anna didn’t seem to mind before.” Damn, I let that one get away from me—it was a bit too harsh.
“That was while I was still the fading hero who’d retired with full honours and a gig as a commentator. She never understood why I trashed that job to take up leadership of the World XI. She didn’t care that it was never my choice. Fuck her for that. I’ve moved on.”
“Obviously.”
“And fuck you too, mate. I don’t need to take bullshit from you as well.”
“Fair enough.” He was getting as cross as a frog in a sock and it was time—again—to diffuse the situation. What was it with my friends today? I gently punched his shoulder.
“Whatever.”
“You’ll get over it. Move on.”
“Is that the best advice you can give me? Move on?”
“I’m a bit dried-up right now. Sorry.”
“Yeah, well—”
“Is it safe to come back yet?” Colman deposited three fresh jugs of beer on the table.
“Halle-fuckin’-lujah,” Ant said.
“Yep.”
After a couple more rounds, we decided to head for the exit. We stumbled down the stairs and out the door, but didn’t get three steps before we were illuminated by spotlights. I shielded my eyes and pushed aside Colman’s balloon just in time to glimpse a bunch of silhouettes racing towards us. I braced myself.
“Anthony Hope?”
“Yeah?” My comrade went pale. They’re all wearing white military-style uniforms, white leg pads, and white helmets that resemble the kind you’d wear to play cricket—even down to the plasti-glass visors. The men encircle Ant and two of them lock arms with his.
“You’re busted, mate. You’ve been black-carded.”
“Why?”
“You’re AWOL.”
“AWOL? AWOL from what—?” Colman looked mystified.
“AWOL from batting practice, old timer. Now clear off—and take that stupid balloon with you.”
I feel something lightly tap my hip—it’s a cricket bat that one of the men is carrying—and I hone in on their dark green armbands that read, in a big bold white font, CP.
Shit.
Wolram E. Deaps silently observed all this from his billboard, his pink complexion turned a sinister hue by the glare of the spotlights. Someone had roughly painted goat’s horns on top of his head during the time we were inside The Ruritania.
idIocy
Deflated, the two of us decided to cool off at Kemidov’s. I hadn’t ever seen Colman look this rattled.
“Do you think he’ll be alright?” he asked me.
“You didn’t seem to care before.”
“That was before he was taken away by—who were those bloody people, anyway?”
“The CPs.”
“CPs?”
“The Cricketing Police.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t worry, he’ll be fine. How serious could it be? He only skipped out on batting practice.”
“Bah.”
When we arrived, Kemidov’s was way more crowded than The Ruritania had been, or ever likely would be. Ziggy was behind the bar. We sat down in front of him and Colman tethered his balloon to the railing. I placed my plastic bag up on the counter and removed my lonesome shoe.
“So that’s the big mystery—I prefer to drink out of a slipper, myself.”
“Tonight, I’d drink out of anything.”
Ziggy wandered over and glanced at the footwear.
“You wouldn’t by any chance have its partner, would you?”
“What do I look like—a cobbler?”
“And a fine question that is,” said Colman.
“What can I get you boys to drink?”
“The shoe, Ziggy—have you seen my other shoe? I think I might’ve left it here the other night.”
“Wait. The other night—is it a left or right shoe?”
“Left!”
“Bzzt. Wrong answer.”
“Damn.” I jumped right into that one.
“Nice balloon. You boys been to a birthday bash or something?”
“Or something. Alright, I’ll have a Polmos Polish Pure Spirit—but none of that home-brew shit you use to fuel up the unsuspecting. Colman?”
“I’ll have the same.” Ziggy scowled then waltzed off. Colman glanced at me. “What’s the deal with the shoe, anyway?”
“It’s personal.”
“Alrighty, say no more.” When Ziggy returned, we downed the drinks in one hit.
“Next up, triple-vodka shots with a squirt of lime juice.”
“On the tab?”
“Uh-huh. Sorry it’s getting kind’a hefty.” I smiled in spite of everything. Ziggy remained blissfully unaware just how close he’d come to losing out on that debt.
“Whatever. You’re the boss. Just finish settling up sometime.”
“Finish?”
“Yeah, didn’t think you were in any shape to remember. Don’t worry, I keep track.” Then he was serving another thirsty customer.
“That kid’s a real straight arrow, isn’t he?”
“Mighty fine bartender, too.”
“Indeed.”
“Ah well. I’ve gotta go outside and have a cigarette.”
Colman glared at me. “You know I have no rules—except that. The habit will kill you, kid. And it stinks.”
“Yeah, yeah—I know. Order me another while I’m gone, will you?” I finished my drink and affectionately patted his shoulder.
“What do you think I am—incompetent?”
I pushed through a bunch of counterfeit-looking twenty-somethings and took the stairs three at a time. It’d been too long between gaspers and I was dying for a drag. Outside it was pissing down rain—so what else was new?
I lit up a cigarette and sheltered in a doorway, away from the crowd of people milling past on the street. An ancient double-decker London bus sliced past. Where the devil had they dug that up from?
“You look real flat, man.” I side-glanced at the frail who’d positioned herself on the doorstep directly to my left. She looked young, early teens maybe, with a dented bowler hat a size too small capping dyed blue hair that hung down past her waist in a tangled and ragged mess.
Beneath the hat and the hair she had a vaguely pretty face. That’s saying something, given it looked like she hadn’t slept or bathed in days and she seemed to be completely out of it. She wore exceptionally long false eyelashes on her left eye, which I know sounds like it must have been in homage to Malcolm McDowell in A Clockwork Orange, but from the looks of her it could have just been that the lashes on her right eye had gone amiss—like my left shoe the other night.
“You better get outta here, sunshine, before the police find you in this state.”
“Chill, man.” Her words were slurred. “What’s your name?”
“Sanders. George Sanders.”
“Well, Georgie, I got a treat right here you might like.”
“Yeah? What?” I was thinking chemicals, maybe Amphitryon—it was the pharmaceutical-of-choice out on the street these days—but even I had reservations about buying shit from a minor.
“It’s a real kick-starter, y’know? Heavy heavy heavy heavy shit.” She emphasized that word ‘heavy’ like she was stuck on repeat.
“Yeah, and I bet it’ll steer me to heaven and back, and so on. I know the score—you don’t need to perpetrate the hard sell. What’ve you got? Uppers?”
“I’m not talking pills, man, they’re fucked. This is way way way way better.” This time ‘way’ got channeled through the echo effect. She trailed off into silence.
“Go on, skipper.”
“Huh?”
“Forget about it. What’re you hawking?”
“I’ve got the best idIs you’re gonna find. I kid you not. Real real deal.”
I stared at her in silence as she stuttered through her spiel. Shit. She was trying to offload idIocy on me. The pastime was perfectly named—modded IdInteract discs without any safety guards, a type of game software not dissimiliar from the Test, but unregulated and far more dangerous. People had ended up vegetables dabbling with these things in pursuit of virtual thrills. I’d been forced to go through the Test, but these people risk the deep fry voluntarily.
“You’re fucking kidding me.” I tossed my unfinished gasper out onto the road.
“No, Georgie! No fucking way! What’s your fancy? Combat? Martial arts? Extreme sports? S&M? You name it, I got it, or I reckon I can get it within an hour. I got a whole load of discs here with me now that’ll mess mess mess with your mind. You interested or what, man?”
“Or what.”
“C’mon, Georgie—try one! It’ll be on the house.”
“You’re tooting the wrong ringer, dollface.”
“C’mon!”
“Get outta here. Beat it, droogie.”
“You were a shit-lot nicer the other night.”
“What’d you say?”
“I said you were a lot nicer the other night, man, when you needed the pills, y’know? Way way way way way nicer. Now you’re too good, huh? Still, if you need pills again, I can get more’a the same.”
“You wouldn’t have come across a shoe the other night, would you? A left shoe. Brown leather.”
“Why?”
“I seem to have misplaced mine.” She laughed out loud and it wasn’t pretty. She sneered up at me, curtsied, and took off down the street.
IdInteract was serious shit, addictive even when not modded, and idI Arcades littered the city. They were always crowded with perma-queues that spilled out onto the pavement and forced pedestrians into the traffic-jammed road just to pry their way past. Your typical arcade was as bright as all hell, adorned with propaganda and tons of flashing red, purple, blue, green, and white neons. The colours and accompanying glare were too much to gawk at for long and they usually blared music that outdid the rumble of traffic.
I just didn’t get it. If I wasn’t required to do the Test, I’d never touch any of the stuff, legal or not. Then again, I knew at least one Seeker who loved the Test, so I’m sure others spent their fair share of time at the idInteract arcades. I’d bet some of the junkies, like the girl with the blue hair for starters, would probably dig the Test even more than they did their idIocy.
It wasn’t entirely their fault. IdI—the legal variety—was sold and advertised as harmless entertainment that even grandma could enjoy. Maybe Branch would get around to releasing its own homogenized version of the Test to the public—with proper safety locks and cheat-mode built in, of course. They could call it Dev-Kill, or Diabolical Dev Destructor, or something equally tactful. Kill Your Best Friend and Lover, more like it.
I was about to return to Colman (and to my drink), when I spotted the blue-haired girl across the road, surrounded by four pre-adolescent boys. I could see her gesticulating wildly with a disc in her hand. I flicked away my cigarette, checked the traffic, and crossed the street. I stepped right up behind the girl. She turned to look up at me, but took her fine time registering my presence.
“What d’you want want, Georgie, huh?”
“Let’s talk, sweetheart. Scatter boys.” I grabbed her arm and tugged her over with me away from them before pushing her hard against the wall. There were people around, but it was doubtful that any passerby would go out on a limb and interfere. These are the times we live in.
“You’re a fucking shit-arse mother-fucking cunt!” the girl spat, yet her anger seemed somehow diffused and distant. She’d probably fried most of her brain-cells.
“Look, if you want to mess with that shit you’re hocking, it’s your biz. But those are kids there.”
“So?”
“So, that shifts everything from your problem to our problem.”
“You’re no fucking cop, shit-face.”
“That’s true. But in a way, I’m much worse. And I can still arrest you if I want to—savvy? So give me the bag with the discs. Now.”
“Fuck you!” She tried to pull away from me, but I pushed her back against the wall then yanked the bag right off her shoulder.
“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“Give it fucking back, you fucking prick!” Instead, I tossed its contents out onto the road. The first vehicle missed it. The next one didn’t. The girl howled with rage and she flailed her fists at my chest. She wasn’t particularly strong.
“Sorry, kid, just doing my job.”
“Arsehole-fucker-turd.” The girl sunk to her haunches against a wall. “What’d I ever do to you, man, what? Except help you out the other day. And you’ve screwed me over over over.” She played overwrought pretty well.
“Cut the waterworks. Next time you could easily get yourself Relocated and tossed into a Hospital. And if you wanna do that, that’s fine. Just don’t take down a bunch of other kids with you.”
“Jerk-off.”
“That’s me. Now blow. Get outta here. Go home and live.” I stepped aside as she darted past me through the pedestrians. I had no idea why I was grandstanding, or why I even bothered to get involved. I doubted I’d make any difference. She’d be back selling as soon as she could get her mitts on more.
I struggled to light another cigarette, but it was pointless in the rain. It was time to get back to Colman. I’d just stepped off the curb when something brushed up against me from behind. I felt a searing pain in my lower back and my legs gave out, landing me in the gutter.
the jig is up
The dream is working its magic again. This time, though, the edges of my vision are bent at odd angles and bleed off into metallic-coloured nothingness. Maybe it’s because I’m halfway dead.
There’s a slow pan past the fading old road sign that reads Bush Street. It shifts back and forth between new and old, legible and ruined, colour and sepia. Trees along the street go through their cycles furiously, blooming, shedding foliage, then blooming again. And then there’s the rain, torrential on the decaying concrete and metal and plastic all about, but that never changes.
There’s water dripping through the canvas awning above me, and I’m hiding in the doorway, sans cat. I’m out on Activities in Abbotsford, remember, and I’d just spotted my quarry last time around. At least the core of the dream is consistent, even if some of the details aren’t.
So, as I mentioned before, I stay where I am in the dark alcove. My hand is beneath my coat, gripping the handle of the shooter pressed against my ribs. I step out just after the subject passes. The best way to go from here is to grab them from behind, cuff them, and shuffle ’em off to the nearest cop shop. It feels like there’s a mirror-ball spinning somewhere inside my brain.
