HARM (18 page)

In yet another scene, again there was a celebration of some kind. Dogs joined with the humans, frisking with them, enveloping the scene with ribbons of bright symbols in many fascinating shapes—“Oh, it must be their sort of music!” Bellamia exclaimed—when some giants appeared. The giants were not clearly seen, so that their forms were distorted; but all who watched realized who these monsters were. The monsters advanced in a furious wave, killing every living being indiscriminately. Only a few of the dogs, running for safety, managed to escape the slaughter.

“How cruel!” Fremant exclaimed.

“Yes, we have much to answer for,” said Tolsteem, and he switched off the machine.

Safelkty turned on his heels and left.

O
LD
T
OLSTEEM AND HIS COLLEAGUES
began an eager discussion of what they had seen. “One can completely understand how an insect might evolve over generations into full consciousness. The fact that it somewhat resembles a terrestrial dog is neither here nor there. The brain waves we have registered are uncommonly like those we see in the human brain,” said one old fellow.

“Having no lungs per se, these giant insects couldn’t speak,” another said in response. “So they developed a mode of visual signal response.”

“Yes, very elegant in many aspects,” another agreed.

“A necessary response to the environment,” said the youth who had operated the machine. “Their mix of superimposed frequences seldom varies from between about twenty to forty hertz.”

“Can we say, then, that the dog-beings acquired full consciousness?” asked Tolsteem. “That would imply that various regions of their brains interconnect, always alert for the—the, er, continuous conference command we call consciousness. Even terrestrial insects had the rudiments of such systems, we understand.

“All told, this entails a staggering overturning of our previous ignorant convictions.” He chuckled. “One quite sees why our beloved leader marched out in a huff…

“It will be interesting to dissect this creature’s brain.”

He gestured to the dog still strapped into the machine, and now looking bedraggled.

Fremant called out in alarm. “You must let him go, return him to the wild! You have just proved that he is our equal in intellect—and he’s the last of his race. You must let him go free!”

“Oh, we can’t do that,” said Tolsteem, with a demure smile. “He’s much too precious to us. We are scientific people, my friend.”

W
HEN
F
REMANT AND
B
ELLAMIA LEFT,
to return to their hotel room, Bellamia clutched his arm.

“Don’t fret. It had to happen. Had to. We killed ’em all off. What does one more matter? Don’t be upset. Let’s get something to eat.”

“You realize, don’t you, that a whole little universe has been destroyed through man’s cruelty?”

She made
tut-tutt
ing noises. “Men are like that, my dear. It’s useless to fret. Useless. I’ll find you something nice to eat.”

Fremant emitted a wild laugh. “Jupers!—And women are like
that
!” But he went along with her.

He recognized the good sense in what she said. Yet it did not touch him.

He had to accept his limited capacities. Those stronger than he had controlled him. He knew from personal experience the mental powers of the dog-people; why had he allowed this individual to be caged? Why had he brought it unquestioningly to Stygia City, only to let it be experimented on? He hated himself for doing it.

He thought he had only been doing “the right thing.” Instead he had denied what was good and true in his nature. It was this understanding that kept him awake in his bed that night.

Toss and turn as he might, he could not escape the pain of a profound truth: that under the stresses of normal life, he who had once been—or had regarded himself as—an upright and honest young fellow, had allowed falsehood in. Falsehood had taken over, as dry rot takes over an old house, to its ultimate decay.

Despite himself, he began thinking of Doris, the sweetly trusting woman he had married. With what disdain he had treated her; and all the while that disdain had been a projection of his own disdain for himself. He had been so eager to demonstrate to the Western world that he was not a…not a Muslim. So he had betrayed himself, adopting Western manners, marrying a Western wife, even writing a Western-style novel.

He sat up in startlement in the dark, seeing light. Those throwaway lines in his novel, about the British prime minister being assassinated—his torturers were right, in essence. They reflected his true secret hatred for what he had become, for suppressing his true nature under the pressure of “doing the right thing.”

Fatigue freed him at last from his thoughts.

NINE

S
OMEONE WAS SHAKING HIS SHOULDER
and saying, gently, “Wake up.”

“I wasn’t asleep,” he said.

“You’re free to go now. Your name has been cleared.”

Yet nothing was clear. He moved in a mist. His jailers seemed cordial. One helped him on with his jacket. The woman he had encountered before put the document of clearance in front of him. He signed without thinking.

“There’s a good boy,” she said, making off with the document with her broad-beamed, complacent walk.

He had made no reference to the death of his wife. He was led along a familiar corridor. There a man in an apron was pasting posters to the corridor wall. One poster said
WAKE UP! GOD DOES NOT EXIST.
The poster currently being stuck up read
ONLY FOOLS AND TURDS BELIEVE THAT ALLAH WAS NOT A FOOL AND A TURD.

At a small kiosk at the end of the corridor his trifling possessions were restored to him, including his biometric ID card.

“Good luck, sir!” said the man behind the counter. “Have a nice day.”

Another guard led him through coded doors to a guarded outer door. As a man was unlocking it, Paul asked him, “What country are we in?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” said the guard with a chuckle. He opened the door a foot or two and pushed the released prisoner out of prison. The door slammed behind him.

The rush of a small breeze, the blood in his head, the unsteadiness of his legs, the terror of something unstated…

He was dazed by daylight, overcome by the freshness of the air, the pure feel of it in his lungs. He sat down abruptly on the step.

On his side of the road stood imposing terraced houses. On the opposite side of the road were iron railings, painted black. Beyond them was what looked like a park, with people playing a friendly game of cricket. He could hear the familiar sound of bat against ball.

There was a side street with a road sign, white on black, announcing that this was Canterbury Walk. He knew beyond doubt he was in London.

The relief was considerable. “London,” he whispered to himself. It was a city he had once loved, where he imagined he felt at home…

He looked up at the building in which he had been imprisoned. Its impressively ornate façade had been wounded by neglect. Part of a stone balcony had fallen away. Other stone had crumbled. Windows, the eyes of the building, had been boarded up.

A modest brass plate attached to one of the pillars by the side of the prison doors caught his eye. He shuffled over to look at it. The plate read, in elegant lettering,
HOSTILE ACTIVITIES RESEARCH MINISTRY.

Again he sank down on the steps, trying to reflect on how disastrously the state of the world had declined in so few years, but coherent thought was beyond him.

Although he could hear police sirens distantly, the road was quiet. Few cars passed. He was content to slump there on the step, unable to consider his next move, just breathing the fresh air.

A car arrived from the left and drew up at the curb. A young man of about Paul’s age and of good appearance jumped out and ran to him.

“Sorry I’m so delayed, Ali!” he said as he clutched Paul’s hand. “Salaam Aleikum! The street is blocked at the far end by the cops. There have been more explosions from the extremists. Some women killed, I heard. How are you, are you okay? Can you walk?”

Ali—Paul!—was deeply confused. Had he not left the prison previously?—When, unlikely as it might seem, the janitor woman with the rimless glasses had kissed him good-bye? Had he not been previously met?

And now, again—were his personae breaking down, and with them his whole complex personality?

“Where’s Bellamia?” he managed to ask.

“You’re free of that place now. Got to get you home fast. The city’s in chaos.”

Paul allowed himself to be helped to his feet. He recognized the man as a friend but could not recall his name.

“How long have I been away?” he asked faintly, but the friend was talking, going on about how difficult the bombings had made life for the Muslim community. He could not tell which he hated most, the British or the extremists. As he laughed unhappily, spit flew from his mouth.

“Let’s get away from here,” he said, bundling Paul into the back of his car, which Paul recognized as an ancient Volvo wagon, although he still could not recall the name of his rescuer.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

The rescuer did not answer, too involved in executing a U-turn and then accelerating in the direction from which he had come. They drove within sight of Paddington Station, where the building had suffered a major explosion. A fire was blazing furiously, despite the attentions of firefighters. Fire engines, police cars, and ambulances crowded the roads nearby. Helicopters roared overhead.

A mob of people, roped off, stood on the nearby pavement. Almost silent, they stared at the conflagration. Paramedics were carrying bodies away. The nearby Bishop’s Bridge Road was closed.

The Volvo was stopped. The police were courteous enough, but grim, no-nonsense. They scrutinized ID cards and questioned both men, making them get out of the car to be searched. They were allowed to go on their way.

“Sorry to hold you up, sir,” one said politely.

“Bloody liar,” the driver said under his breath as he put his foot down.

They drove through the mazes of West Kilburn to Kensal Town. Paul became dizzied by the speed of the car and the changes of direction. He closed his eyes and allowed his mind to wander. His head ached overpoweringly.

When he opened his eyes, they had stopped on Southern Drive, outside a pleasant-looking suburban house with a glossy-leafed laurel in its tiny strip of front garden. His friend helped him from the car.

“Where are we?”

“You’re home, you idiot! Doris is waiting for you.”

“Doris?”

As is frequently the case with those who attend the sick, the friend did not bother to answer but hurried him to the front door. Resting Paul against the low porch railing, he rang the bell. A head protruded from an upper window.

“Oh, Palab, it’s you, safe back!”—spoken with relief. “I’ll come down.”

In a minute, the sound of bolts being withdrawn and the door opening. There stood Doris—a somewhat altered Doris, fatter and with strands of silver in her hair, but still Doris. A Doris with dark patches under her eyes.

“Paul, my darlin’! It’s you! Heaven be praised!” Doris had converted to the Islamic faith to please her husband, but she retained some of her Irish turns of phrase.

Paul fell into her arms, hugging and kissing her in feeble fashion.

“Holy Mother—how you stink, love!” she exclaimed. “Come along in. What on earth have they been doing to you?”

So the sadists in the prison had lied to him, saying she was dead, just in order to make his existence that much more miserable…

“Allah knows what we’ve been through. It’s a terrible time to be alive and kicking. If you knew what they put me through, Paul dear…It was humiliating. I’ve not recovered. I’m as nervous as a raspberry jelly and all. I doubt I’ll ever recover. Come in and sit your poor self down, and I’ll get you a nice cup of tea. Do you want to have a lie-down?”

He was taken into the overfurnished back room. From the window he saw the roof of a train trundling slowly by on the main line.

The friend addressed as Palab agreed with Doris. “It was shameful. We’re all afraid of arrest. The cops are so damned racist—they long to get hold of you.” Turning to Paul, he continued: “And I’m sure you remember that nice harmless Socrani family who used to live down the road? The government has now forcibly deported them to Iraq, just because he got in with a forged passport.”

“Socrani was a Kurd,” Doris reminded him.

“It’s true, he was a bloody Kurd. Still, I liked him.”

“How long have I been away, Doris?” Paul asked faintly.

“I tell you, Ali,” said Palab, overriding the question, “things are bad for all of us. You need a doctor, I can see that. We all need psychotherapists…”

“You need a bath, that’s what,” said Doris, hands on hips. “I’ve had a lot of treatment. Not that it’s done me much good. And I keep on putting on the weight. It’s all these comfort foods, as they call them, but I can’t knock it off. Cherry cake, Madeira cake dunked in cream—you name it. It seems I need it. Better that than the booze…I’m off the booze now, love. Still and all, thanks to Allah you’re back safe and sound! Just rest yourself for a moment and I’ll bring you a nice cup of tea and a jammy dodger. You like jammy dodgers, don’t you?”

“We buy the packets cheap from Mrs. Singh,” Palab explained. “Her husband drives a bus and it seems he can get them cheap from the back of the supermarket. We don’t do badly as far as food’s concerned, I’ll say that. Everyone round here helps each other. There’s a pair of cops patrol here regularly now. You’ll see them. They’re not bad blokes as these things go. One of them’s a black man, name of Kelvin. He’s pretty sympathetic.”

“Could I have a drink of water, do you think?” Paul asked. “It’s the shock of everything, of being free, of finding you alive and well, Doris…”

“Alive, but not well,” she said firmly. “Settle down there on that sofa and sleep it off. I’ll bring you another cushion.”

He sighed. He could not believe he was free. He closed his eyes.

T
HE WATER WAS RUNNING OVER HIS FACE.
He let it run. He would willingly drown as long as that cool water kept on running. It ran from his forehead down over both of his closed eyes, alongside his nose, over his lips, and down the line of his jaw into his shirt.

“You’re awake, sweetie. I know it. Open eyes…” Not Doris’s voice. A huskier voice, equally beloved. “Bellamia!” he exclaimed. As he opened his eyes, she ceased pouring water and kissed him on his wet lips.

“You had a shock, sweetie! Get up and walk around.” She put a hand under his arm and helped him up.

Fremant laughed shakily. “Certainly did have a shock. We all had a shock. You realize we humans have destroyed a whole culture. The battle of the cultures…Is that nothing?”

Bellamia sighed deeply. “Jupers, why do I ever love you? Battle of the cultures, indeed! Cheer up, will you?”

“Islamic and Christian.”

“You’re talking rubbish.”

“Oh, Bellamia, how I love your blind good sense!”

“Blind good nothing, man!” But suddenly somehow she was not there with him. Her voice came from far away, and there were other voices.

He held her at arm’s length, regarding her, smiling.

“Listen,” she said, “you want to do something, Free? Go and speak to crowds in the square. Speak in the square! You can tell people about this big big guilt, eh?”

He thought he just might do as she suggested.

Another Dimoff was coming. The two of them huddled in their small room together, sleeping much of the time. In his waking periods, Fremant devised a placard and reflected on what he would say when he addressed the crowds.

When daylight returned, he set off for the main square. Bellamia came with him. This time, it was her turn to express doubt and confusion.

“I ought not have made you do this. We’ll get ourselves killed.”

They went to what was called, under the new dispensation, Square One, a place through which many pedestrians passed, going to work at this early hour.

On his placard was written
HUMAN RASE—GILTY
?

Fremant called to all the passersby, asking them if they were aware of the crime that had been committed in their name—that is, the genocide of the Dogovers.

A thin, haggard woman clutching a small child of indeterminate sex stopped to listen a moment.

“Awright,” she said, “maybe we did kill ’em all off, but we had to. Anyway, it’s all over now, so what’s the use of making a fuss about it? Best to forget all about it.”

Another woman, following, shouted, “Get outta here! We don’t wanna hear it!”

A young burly man with bare, muscular arms, said, “You stupid bastard, it was kill or be killed.”

Many people had similar remarks to make.

Only one man, lame and walking with a stick, said, “You’re right, my friend. Us humans, we’re a rotten lot. But why put yourself in danger by saying so?”

Bellamia clung to Fremant’s arm. “He’s right, sweet. There’s nothing to be gained by trying to preach here. My mistake. Let’s go!”

But at that moment, Tolsteem, led by a small boy, came into view. He stopped and surveyed the placard.

“That’s not the way to spell
guilty,
young man.”

“No one else has complained.”

“That does not prove your spelling to be correct. You may be the only one to think we Stygians are guilty of genocide. I myself don’t, though that’s not to say you are incorrect in making your protest.”

“So you will support me?” asked Fremant eagerly.

Tolsteem shook his head, making his shaggy locks tremble. “You think the grass is green? The color is just a quantum side effect. Subtle interactions between atoms of chlorophyll in the grass create light of a certain wavelength. Our clever little brains transform this wavelength into ‘greenness.’”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Everything! What you think you perceive as guilt, the rest of us see as survival.”

“But we
are
guilty.”

“Forget it, my boy! We have to. It’s only the strongest who survive. That’s the way the system of existence works.”

The boy by his side showed signs of restlessness. “Can’t we go home, Grampa?”

As they stood there arguing, four strong young men—among them Tunderkin, who had been a guard in Astaroth’s day, immediately recognizable by the scar on his left cheek—came marching rapidly along, armed with staves. Each of the men wore a badge on his dark tunic.

“You’re not allowed here!” one shouted as he approached.

“You’re causing a disturbance,” shouted his twin.

“I bid you good day,” said Tolsteem, hastily quitting the scene, the small boy trotting at his side, looking back anxiously.

“I am allowed to be here!” said Fremant. “It’s a serious question I’m asking.”

“It’s a lot of bluggeration,” the man responded, wielding his stick. “And you better blugger off!”