Castles Made of Sand (29 page)

Fiorinda walked in, barefoot and tousled, wearing an ancient blue cashmere sweater, the ravelled hem a couple of inches above her knees. Morning Fio, mm um. As she boiled a kettle and stretched for mugs the fine wool moved, beautifully revealing, over the slender, rounded body beneath—making you realise how very chaste she usually dresses. (Fiorinda in her party frock turns cartwheels on stage, all you get to see is more frills.) She left, giving them a sleepy smile. George drew a breath and quietly, slowly, exhaled.

‘He’d kill yer,’ said Bill, without looking up.

‘Not even in jest, Bill Trevor,’ said George sternly. ‘I’d rather top me’self than do anything to harm that little girl. Nah… I just feel like her dad, jealous of the boyfriend. Not,’ he added, hurriedly, ‘her particular dad, mind you.’

‘It’ll wear off,’ Peter consoled them. ‘She’s going to be with him all the time now. You’ll get used to it.’

George and Bill looked at each other. Yes. It’s true. Peter Stannen is an alien lifeform. ‘I hope I die first,’ said Bill.

Fiorinda had to get back to London. Sage walked her to Reading station, went to the gym and spent some time at the Boat People’s Welfare Office, embroiled in Town vs Counterculture vs Refugees issues. When he escaped he headed for the North Bank, once a parade of classy riverside residences, now a wilderness frequented only by the kids of the campsite. He needed to think.

When the three of them were first lovers they used to play a game: what does it take for the most perfect, brilliant sex in the universe?

One big cat, one little cat, one animal-tamer

One stud, one babe, one chameleon

Two musicians and an artist (not sure I liked that one)

One white boy, one coloured boy, one yellow girl

One Muslim, one Methodist (lapsed), one Pagan (VERY lapsed).

How about this one? Two cyborgs and a witch.

The anti-science tendency had never kicked up about Ax’s chip, the Zen Self quest; or Sage and Fiorinda’s Rivermead gene-mods. If they’d thought about it, they knew they’d get nowhere. The public, the voters, just didn’t feel negative on those issues… It’s not harming the sacred holy environment, is it? So what’s the problem? If someone managed to unmask Fiorinda as a witch,
that would be different
. He didn’t know what would happen, but it would be bad. Ax, at the least, would look as if he’d been lying to the country for years, denying the reality of so-called psychic powers. And what if someone outed her while Ax was away, and she didn’t have the protection of Mr Dictator’s personal prestige?

We have to have that conversation, the three of us. The one we never had after Spitall’s farm, soon as he comes home. I’ll talk to her, she’ll see reason…

Ax’s absence was a reality check. Sage and Fiorinda’s secret love affair, which should never have begun, was over: not a word, but they both knew it. They loved him, they would stick by him, end of story. But now he was free of that madness, the problem of her magic emerged in sharp, scary relief. The weird feats he’d seen her perform. That night in July at Tyller Pystri, the things she’d said, unguarded and in the grip of her nightmare. Things he should have said to Ax, the morning after… There’s no such thing as ‘magic’, Ax. All the New-Agey miracles of your reign, fake as the next bleeding Madonna, far as I’m aware. But I know a way, outside chance, that power of that kind could be
created
, it’s in the Zen Self science, I’ve known about it for years. Trust me, I’m serious. If I’m right about what’s happening we’re under attack, and if Fiorinda is lying about it, to protect us, that’s because she’s afraid there’s nothing we can do—

Failed to tell him any of that. Sidetracked, and there was never a better time.

The situation in Bucharest sounded exhilarating. There was ice and snow. Packs of feral dogs roamed the streets, likewise feral packs of humans. The official CCM of the Danube Countries was at war with its factions, the Gaia-wants-us-to-commit-suicide party was at war with everyone, and oh yeah, the suits were also involved. Mr Dictator said it was hectic, and he didn’t know if he would be home for Christmas. He sounded energised and focused: Ax restored, Ax in his element.

Well, he’ll come back, and we’ll sort the problem, the way we always do.

But
oh God
, if there was a way to make her mine that wasn’t so tainted. He’s not the same person, I could take her from him now, I know I could. If I could be sure we’d ever forgive ourselves—

He was lurking in a tumbledown summerhouse, looking out on the ruins of someone’s tended lawns; the river glimpsed through branches, dark and full under a frail pall of mist. Two dead leaves drifted, floated, like dancers through the dim air. He watched them, his mind filling up with blank stillness; with sadness. There was a tiny sound, a little sigh. A small girl had materialised beside him: sitting there with her pale brown head bent and fists thrust in the pockets of a homespun woollen frock.

‘What’ you up to, Silver?’

‘Oh, nothing. I’m just thinking.’

No peace for the Minister. He sighed, and caught one of the dancing leaves. It reminded him of Fiorinda: sunburst yellow is really her colour, not green—

‘Okay, catechism for you. What tree’s this from?’

‘Er…beech. I mean oak. What were you thinking about?’

‘None ’er your business. Field maple. Oak are the long crinkly ones, remember? Now tell me why they fall off.’

‘Because the trees are decide-uous and they decide leaves in winter isn’t cost effective.’

‘Fair enough. Describe me the mechanism.’

Silver glowered. ‘It’s done by horseshoes. Why do you know all this stuff, Sage? You’re not a herbalist. Who told you?’

‘I dunno. I think my mum must have told me, a long, long time ago.’

‘How do you know it’s still true?’

‘Good point.’

The child stared at him. ‘What did your mum look like? Was she nice to you?’

Something rapped against the crumbling woodwork, barely missing Silver’s skull. Pearl was astride a branch, bare legs and feet dangling, wonderfully camouflaged by dirt, grinning like a juvenile post-human gargoyle.

‘I stalked you! I stalked you!’

‘Fuck off!’ yelled Silver. ‘You little
creep
. I found him, he’s
mine
.’

‘Right,’ said Sage, giving them the skull mask, with menaces. ‘That’s it.
Go away
, both of you. Get lost.’

The little girls scooted, in fear and trembling. A couple more years, he thought, and that won’t work any more. The over-thirties will be killed and eaten. A chime in his ear.

‘Sage?’

‘Hi, Fee. What’s wrong?’ Not very loverlike, but Fiorinda
never
calls just to hear the sound of your voice—

‘Sage, the axe is gone. The Sweet Track Jade. I suddenly noticed. It’s gone.’

‘Huh? William must have moved it.’

William was their cleaning person in Brixton.

‘I’ve asked him, and he says no. It’s not here. It’s
gone
.’

Her voice trembled with dreadful import, Fiorinda of the nightmares, ‘Okay. Don’t cry, baby, I’ll come up. I bet I can find it.’

‘I won’t be in. I’m going to see Gran and Fergal… Could you meet me there?’

Most of the house was shut up. Boarded windows stared from the gloom, over the tall laurel hedge. He found his way to the door of the basement, where Fiorinda’s gran and Fergal lived, in a cosy rat’s nest; stuffed with furniture from the empty rooms above. She let him in, and winced away from his kiss, as if malicious eyes were watching. In the old lady’s bed-sitting room, squeezed full of mahogany, Fergal was cooking supper, cabbage and bacon and potatoes, on an ancient gas stove; refreshing himself with draughts from a pint glass of red wine. Gran sat in bed, wrapped in shawls, swigging home-made elderberry liqueur and flirting shamelessly with her keeper.

Sage kept up his share of banter through the meal, and the old lady glowed: she loved male company. Fiorinda traced kitchen knife marks on the ruined tabletop with her fingertip; hardly spoke and ate nothing. Her gran seemed unconcerned. Fergal kept casting wistful, worried glances at Sage; but he didn’t comment.

They left after the first rubber of whist. Fiorinda closed the garden gate, switched on her torch, and shuddered. ‘I hate this place more and more. The moment I step inside, I feel as if someone’s shoving concrete down my throat. I don’t know how Fergal stands it.’

‘He seems to get on with your gran okay.’

‘Oh, he’s wonderful. I should come and see them more often, but I
can’t
.’

They went back to Brixton: the Sweet Track Jade could not be found. They couldn’t remember when they’d last seen it. Neither of them had spent much time at the flat since Ax left. Sage tried to reassure her, but they were both unaccountably shaken. The Jade was a potent symbol, Ax’s most precious possession; after his beloved Les Paul (which of course had gone to Romania).

‘We can ask him where it is next time he calls.’

‘No we can’t,’ said Fiorinda. ‘No privacy.’

They couldn’t call Ax, he didn’t have a private number. He had to call them, and the calls from Romania came through to a landline phone in the Office at the San. They hadn’t been paying attention, they hadn’t realised how strange and lonely this was going to feel, because, because… They drank wine, smoked spliff, had incandescent sex: went to bed and had more. Later, Sage woke and found her sitting up, hands pressed to her forehead. Her skin, when he touched her, was cold and clammy with sweat.

‘Fiorinda?’

‘Oh God, shit. Shit, shit… I think I was my mother in that dream.’

She returned to herself. ‘It’s nothing, Sage. Just a stupid dream, caused by having to visit my gran. I don’t want to talk about it, let’s go back to sleep.’ She snuggled down, tugging him with her. ‘Mm, I love waking up in bed with you, you’re so big and warm. Is Ax asleep? I want to be in the middle.’

‘He’s in Bucharest, sweetheart.’

He knew she didn’t get back to sleep, and neither did he.

Constrained by the lack of privacy, they didn’t ask Ax about the Jade. It did not turn up, and suddenly they didn’t want to be together. Fiorinda stayed in London; Sage stayed in Reading. Working as Ax’s deputy, in his office downstairs at Brixton, Fiorinda studied briefing notes he’d left for her. He’d been very thorough. Contingency plans for everything. She looked around and chills went up her spine. This is like a dead person’s room. This room has been
cleared
.

The office hadn’t changed, Ax was always neat. The knowledge was in Fiorinda.

A week passed. On Saturday it was the Full Moon dance night at the Blue Lagoon; Fiorinda went down by train. The Staybehinds were settling into their fifth winter of principled squalor, unafraid. Things were getting tight but they wouldn’t starve, not yet. Fiorinda would help out from the drop-out hordes rations (date-expired cakes, apricot jam, tinned mackerel); and you can make alcohol out of practically anything. There’s plenty of calories in alcohol. It was a quiet night, no outsiders; only the staybehinds, Sage and the Heads and Fiorinda. She wore the red and gold ‘Elizabeth’ dress. They left early, around midnight. Fiorinda didn’t want to go back to the van, so they walked up to Rivermead Palace, to the official residence where she never resided. Hand in hand, harmonising softly
, oh
darling save the last dance for me…

The sky was overcast, the moon invisible. The scent of cold woodsmoke, the faint stench of the campground reminded Sage of Wharfedale, and a barmy army bender that he’d shared with Ax Preston, four years and a thousand lifetimes ago. At the foot of the grassy bank below the dead cars sculpture they stopped and he began to kiss her. She opened her coat; she unfastened the fascinating hooks and eyes in the front of the stiff bodice so his clumsy, urgent hands could find her breasts. She was thinking that the dull way she felt, not aroused at all, would have been okay for Ax. Ax didn’t mind if you were a bit out of tune for sex. But Sage never wanted anything but
bona fide
celestial music—

‘You’re thinking about Ax.’

‘Yes.’

They parted and sat on the ground, a few feet away from each other. Fiorinda was shaking. She desperately didn’t want this, but here it was.

‘Fee. Do you love me best? Do you love me more than you love him?’

‘I loved you first, only I didn’t know it. I love him with all my heart, but I’ve never felt about Ax the way I feel about you.’

‘Then come away with me. We can’t do this. This is impossible. We have to leave, jump ship, before he gets back. I can’t lie to Ax. I can’t bear it anymore.’

‘He’s not coming back, Sage. That’s why he took the Jade. I don’t know what he’s going to do, but he’s not coming back. Fucking Romania in November, fucking
Danube
dams
, was it likely? We accepted it, we said yes, yes, fine, fine, we paid no attention because
we wanted him to go.
We thought it would be a break from pretending, a nice little holiday. But he left because he knew we were cheating on him.’

‘
Cheating
on him? Huh? How do you—’

‘You know we were.’

‘He wouldn’t leave us like that, saying nothing. He wouldn’t just walk out—’

‘Yes he would. It’s exactly what Ax would do. Do the necessary thing, cost what it costs, and sort the details later. He decided to get out of our way.’

‘Oh, God. You’re right.’

‘I know I’m right.’

Sage gasped in agony, the recent past suddenly, horribly, irevocably present to him: Ax coming into the studio at Tyller Pystri that last morning, looking so alone, so lost. Oh God, and his father died two months ago. He made nothing of it, so neither did we. We ignored him. Clear and sharp, how callously they’d betrayed that beautiful guy,
who has given his life for us, time and again
. How they’d thought, we’ll have our secret life, and it will be okay because he’ll never know… As if Ax wouldn’t know that they had stopped loving him. He covered his face.

‘Oh
Ax
. Shit, I can hardly bear to look at you.’

Fiorinda looked at him, unflinching. ‘Yeah. You and me, we’re just fuck-buddies. It’s Ax you love, I knew that. You’d better get out of here. Go after him.’