Descent (17 page)

‘Aye,’ I agreed, solemnly, ‘doon the spaceship yards of the Clyde.’

‘Well, that’s mair or less what they are,’ said Calum. ‘Plenty to choose fae and aw,’ he added, heading for another space company – this time a still-speculative asteroid mining venture – and repeating the process. This time, I didn’t bother picking up knick-knacks but instead scanned other nearby stalls. One that caught my eye had a banner on two thin poles diagonally across it. The banner read ‘Fabrications’, in a font and on a background that continuously varied, in yet another variation of the locally de rigueur assault on the eye.

Sitting under it, behind the table with another young woman, was Sophie. It took me a second glance to recognise her: she had her hair up and she was wearing a high-necked blouse under a fitted pinstripe jacket with a matching long skirt. When Calum had finished his pitch and got yet another encouraging response I nudged him and nodded. We walked over. The table was spread with what looked like fashion brochures, with artfully scattered pads looping through catwalk shows. Sophie was fiddling with a swatch of material that looked soft but held sharp creases wherever she folded it.

‘Hi, Sophie.’

‘Oh, hi, guys!’ She stood up, stepped out from behind the table, and gave us both quick air-kisses. I smelt her perfume, heard the tinkle of her earrings. ‘Good to see you, Calum, Ryan. Hunting for jobs?’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Looks like you’ve found one.’

‘Just an internship for the summer.’ She flashed a smile at the other woman. ‘High hopes, though.’

‘It’s kindae funny,’ Calum said, ‘seeing you looking so formal.’

‘Well, same to you! It’s part of my job here,’ said Sophie. She parked herself on the edge of the table and leaned back, arm out, striking a car-show eye-candy pose for a moment, then sat up straight. ‘Anyway, this isn’t formal. This is smart casual.’

‘What’s the difference?’ I asked.

‘Casual is with a petticoat. Smart casual is with lining or a slip.’ She tugged her skirt at the knee, raising the hem, to demonstrate. ‘Formal is with hoops.’

My gaze swung as helplessly as a compass needle to her ankle and then back up, to lock on her knowing smile.

‘Hoops?’ I said, baffled.

Sophie gestured downward and outward curves.

‘Oh yeah,’ said Calum, glancing at the displays. ‘The lampshade look.’

Sophie nodded. ‘That’s the one! It’s becoming a thing, isn’t it? And one that works great with our fabrics, as it happens – no actual hoops, no dragging or catching, no inconvenience. But that’s not all we do, it’s a tiny part of the possibilities. We have tons of new ideas, menswear and everything. Come and have a look.’

She flipped to pages and tabbed to shows with a very different focus from the catwalk’s formality and frivolity. Guys – and gals, to be fair – took sport, outdoor and leisure gear through its paces, demonstrating fabrics that stiffened on impact to ward off and absorb blows, that changed colour to camouflage faster than a chameleon, that water rolled off like sea off a surfacing submarine, that made the wearer almost invisible, that powered every handheld device short of an electric drill just from storing energy from motion and light, that you could wade waist-deep through a bog in and emerge with your boots shiny and your trousers looking freshly washed … Then there were garments of a more experimental cut and shape for everyday wear: jackets and shirts with jutting shoulders and high turned-out collars, jodhpur-style trousers, long flared coats, and in general a look that combined evident lightness with apparent bulk.

‘Can’t see myself wearing that,’ Calum said.

‘It’s all about maximising surface area,’ Sophie earnestly explained. ‘For the movement and sunlight, yeah? With sports and outdoor you don’t need so much, but day and evening, well, you see the problem. It’s not so bad with women’s, because you have skirts and frills and stuff to work with, but men’s suits and casual wear and so on, well …’ She sighed, then brightened. ‘Lots of interesting design ideas for these from the eighties, though.’

‘The eighties?’ I said. ‘As in, the
nineteen
-eighties? The decade that taste forgot? Honest, Sophie, ask your granny. Ask mine, if you like. She’ll tell you the only good thing about it was that the internet and phone cameras weren’t invented, well hardly anyway, so most of the awful photos are lying out of sight in drawers and shoeboxes.’

‘Good point,’ said Sophie, ostentatiously tapping out a note. ‘Must do a hard copy source search. Charity shops, museums, eBay. Also, ask my gran.’ She looked up, smiling, one hand playing with a dangling earring, the other on my elbow for a moment. ‘Thanks, Ryan. Maybe you could switch from philosophy to fashion, eh?’

‘Nae chance,’ I said. ‘And anyway, you put me right off philosophy.’

My voice sounded more accusing than I’d intended. Sophie withdrew her hand and cocked her head, frowning a little.

‘I did?’

I rubbed the back of my neck. ‘Last year, remember?’

‘Oh, yeah.’ She looked away, then back. ‘I didn’t mean to put you off.’

‘No probs,’ I said. ‘Honest, it was just a … not very good dream. Like, you burst a wee bubble, right? I’m doing English now and having a great time, and looking for a job or training in science journalism.’

‘Ah,’ said Sophie. ‘That sounds … up your street.’

‘Speaking of jobs …’ said Calum, shuffling his feet a bit.

‘Oh! Yes, of course, guys. And I’ve got to get on with mine.’

There were, in fact, one or two more people peering at the stall than Sophie’s colleague could deal with by the looks of it. Sophie sat down again behind the table and saw us off with a hasty wave.

‘What was all that about?’ Calum asked, when we were further down the aisle and out of earshot.

I pretended more interest than I felt in a model tidal turbine. ‘Uh … just a chat I had with Sophie last year. It was nothing she said, just that telling her about my ambitions I realised how vague and unrealistic they were and sort of focused a bit more after—’

‘I’m no talking about
last year
,’ said Calum. ‘I’m talking about the now.’

‘What?’ I said.

‘You didnae see it?’

‘See what?’

He stared at me, and shook his head. ‘Disnae matter.’ He puffed on an ornate little electronic pipe – he’d come a long way from his old fake pen, as had the habit, prohibitions battered down by Chinese waves of imports – and nodded towards the next row. ‘Come on, there’s a solar-sail company along there I want tae check out.’

We finished trawling the marquee and wandered around other stalls. Now and then we sat in on a discussion, in a tent or on the grass. Calum accumulated space company contacts and prospectuses; I did the same for tech magazines and news sites. About five we found ourselves back at the plaza in front of the Parliament.

‘Thirsty?’ Calum asked.

‘Parched.’

Calum scanned the refreshment stalls scattered around the plaza, weighed up queue length and beer quality, and optimised. We headed.

‘First’s on me,’ I said.

By the time I returned with two chilled bottles of Innis & Gunn, Calum had found seats and a table.

‘Cheers.’ We clinked bottles.

‘Ah, that’s good.’

‘Aye,’ said Calum. ‘Any plans for the evening?’

‘Not particularly,’ I said. ‘Maybe grab a bite somewhere, then take a wander over the Meadows and check out if there’s been any new creative developments exploring technological possibilities through agitprop skits, drum circles and the medium of interpretive dance.’

Calum chuckled. ‘That keen, eh? I’ve got a better idea. This family do I mentioned. It’s just up the road, in the Skandic. Starts about six.’

‘What kind of a do?’

‘It’s an after-wedding-reception bash, informal, maybe a ceilidh band and a buffet, kindae thing. It’s not exactly family, more like distant rellies. My da and ma are invited, and I’m included. Want to come along?’

‘Will I get in without an invitation?’

‘Dinnae wory about that. I know enough people going on the basis ae nothing stronger than hints on the family grapevine, third and fourth cousins and that, like, that even wi you alang it wouldnae exactly be gate-crashing if we were tae drop by, scavenge the buffet table, make free wi the free bar, and join in a dance or two. Plenty ae lassies, that’s for sure, some ae them unattached and on the pull.’

‘Young, naïve, half-pissed and all dolled up?’ I said.

‘Got it in one,’ said Calum, rubbing his hands and miming a leer.

‘Sounds like a plan.’

I relaxed, sprawling as much as the plastic bucket seat would allow, and idly surveyed the plaza. Crowds were still coming and going, in and out of the Parliament building. Good place for people-watching, I thought, if conversation should flag. My gaze slid past then clicked back to a face seen in profile: a man talking to another man, just under the big awning by the door. James Baxter, the man in black, though not in black now, but wearing an open-necked loose shirt over jeans.

‘Calum,’ I said, leaning forward and not looking away from my target, ‘don’t look round. Take out your phone, set it on some Not Looking, Honest app, and keep it on me. Oh, and mind my drink.’

‘Uh-huh,’ said Calum. ‘Whatever you say, boss.’

I got up and strolled over. It was an effort not to sprint, especially as Baxter was shaking hands and saying goodbye to the man he was talking to. I intercepted Baxter just as he turned away to step towards the entrance. It was definitely him, a recognition reinforced by the nametag hung from a chain around his neck.

‘Hello again, James,’ I said.

Once, making my careful way back from the buffet on a London train, I caught sight of a guy I knew from the SF Soc – not a close friend or anything, but someone I’d drunk and talked with dozens of times. He was sitting at a table reading a science-fiction magazine on his pad. I’d said hello, and he’d looked up with the same look of complete bafflement and non-recognition that Baxter was giving me now. A moment’s conversation had established that I’d made a mistake. Different name, different voice and accent, different guy entirely. So there are doppelgangers – completely unrelated people who look virtually identical. This was like that.

Baxter frowned, then stretched a smile. ‘Have we met?’

‘Yes, the last time just over a year ago, when you were claiming to be the Reverend James Baxter, whereas now …’ I peered closer at his nametag, and made a theatrical blink and recoil. ‘“Jim Baxter, MSP”. Well, well.’

He was still giving me a fixed, strained smile, very much the politician, and shaking his head.

‘I’m sorry, I really don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never been a minister, God knows! So to speak!’ He stuck out his hand. ‘But, seeing you’re here, let’s get acquainted. You are?’

I shook his hand, without enthusiasm. ‘Ryan Sinclair. You know me. You bought me a pint in the Jolly Judge last year when you were claiming to be the university’s Church of Scotland chaplain.’

He glanced round, and made a gesture like patting the head of an invisible ten-year-old.

‘No need to raise your voice, Ryan. Please. Honestly, I’ve never been a minister and never claimed to be. That’s a criminal offence, you know, impersonating a minister of religion.’ He put two fingers in his shirt pocket and fished out a card. ‘I’m a list MSP for Edinburgh West, for the Renewal Party. I came in with two others at the last election back in May. Before that, I worked in defence avionics – you’ll find all my details here, my platform, my CV, everything!’ His eyes creased, his smile became more genuine. ‘But no evangelical or pastoral experience, sorry.’

I took the card, turning it over as if I could read its contents.

‘Defence avionics?’ I mused aloud. ‘That’s interesting.’

‘Yes, it is actually!’ Baxter said. His voice and manner hadn’t changed a bit since he’d posed as a minister. For a moment the thought flashed that it’s possible, however unlikely, that there are separated identical twins who, by pure coincidence, have the same name. ‘I miss it sometimes, to tell you the truth.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’m afraid I must be off – I have a meeting in five minutes. Do make an appointment to see me any time, and sorry about the mix-up, however it was caused.’

‘I have to say I don’t believe you,’ I said.

He gave me a half-amused, half-irritated look. ‘Well, go ahead, check me out.’

‘Oh, I will,’ I said. ‘Just like I’ve done twice before.’

He shook his head. ‘Really?’

‘Yes, really,’ I said. ‘So who
are
you?’

With a snort of barely restrained annoyance, he brushed past me and hurried into the Parliament. I watched until the glass doors closed behind him, then walked back to the table.

‘Did you get that?’ I asked.

Calum put his phone down and flicked back and forth. ‘Aye, got it. Looked like you were having quite a barney. What was that all about?’

I told him, briefly, finishing the story – or stories – along with the beer.

‘Weird,’ said Calum. He fiddled with the screw-on stem of his electronic pipe. ‘You’re sure it’s the same guy?’

‘Of course I’m sure. Unless I have completely false memories.

‘Aye, well. Speaking ae memories. See’s that card.’

He tapped the card on his phone. Little stylised gears tumbled like snowflakes across the screen – transfers were that slow, back then. Calum handed the card back and began poking around. After a minute or so he passed me the phone and the card.

‘Knew I still had this somewhere,’ he said. ‘The card my da got fae
our
Man in Black.’

On the screen was a reproduction of a much more basic business/ID card, issued by the Environmental Health department of Strathclyde Regional Council. It clearly showed a hologram portrait of the man I’d just spoken to, with the name ‘James Baxter’ and a string of details and a flurry of logos underneath.

‘That’s the one that turned out to be fake?’ I said.

‘Aye, it did. Like you found when he was a minister.’

I stuck Baxter’s latest ID card in my pocket. ‘And this one too, no doubt. I’ll check it later.’

‘No, hang on, I can check it right now.’

Calum spread out his phone, thumbed up a search, whistled at the result, and slid it over.
Edinburgh Evening News
; BBC and STV; the Scottish Parliament’s site; the Renewal party news site; even the house magazine of British Avionic Systems: they all confirmed Baxter’s claim to be one of the new intake of MSPs, in a small new party too thinly supported to win a seat outright, but with enough votes across the country to have three candidates on its list duly elected under proportional representation. Until then, he’d been a bright young engineer, climbing the pay grades for the past ten years in BAS’s factory at Crewe Toll in Edinburgh. I closed my eyes and shook my head.