Provender Gleed (21 page)

Massimiliano Borgia de'Medici was duty-bound to intervene. Even as he did, however, he understood it was futile. Gleed and Kuczinski were on the warpath. Whatever he said, neither man was likely to back down.

'
Signori
, I beg you, let us sit down and think this through coolly. Prosper, you say he has kidnapped your son. Stanislaw, you say you have not. Either it is that one of you is lying, or one of you is mistaken. Now, as you are both men of honour --'

'Honour?' Prosper snapped. 'That
thing
over there wouldn't recognise honour if it came up and bit him on the neck.'

'Thing! He calls me a thing! On top of all the other abuse he has heaped on me this day.'

'Oh pipe down, Count Dracula. You can't have it both ways. Either you're a human being or you're one of the undead, and if it's undead than by definition you're a thing. Live with it. Or unlive with it, or whatever it is you do.'

Stanislawa Kuczinski was on her feet now. 'I cannot keep quiet any longer. I cannot sit here and say nothing while my brother's reputation and mine are - are
besmirched
by this person.'

'Signorina Kuczinski, I must ask you to resume your seat,' said Borgia de'Medici. There were growls of agreement from other quarters. 'The rules quite clearly state that --'

'To hell with the rules! The effrontery of Prosper Gleed knows no bounds. He has been breaking all sorts of rules. Moral rules. And not just today at this Congress. My brother and I are simply to accept all these insults from him without retaliating? No! How can we, when they come from a man who is a lifelong gambler, and a very bad one by all accounts. A notorious womaniser, too. A man who mocks the devotion of his loyal and trusting wife, to go around fucking any woman that moves. A man who cannot keep his
huj
in his pants!'

'With respect to Miss Kuczinski,' said Prosper, 'I can think of one woman who I would definitely keep my
huj
in my pants for. Assuming in the first place she was interested in any man other than the one she spent nine months in the womb with.'

'
Psia krew! Kurwa maæ! Spier dalej!
'

You didn't have to be fluent in Polish to know that the words pouring from Stanislawa Kuczinski's mouth were not exactly a hallowing paean of praise. But in case the tone in which she said them and the look of sheer venom on her face were not enough, she followed them up with an action that put the matter entirely beyond doubt. Snatching up her half-drunk goblet of blood, she drew back her arm to throw it.

'Stasha! No!' cried her brother.

But too late. The goblet hurtled across the room. It missed Prosper, shattering against the edge of the table instead, but the result was almost as good as if it had been dead on-target. Blood sprayed everywhere. Some droplets hit Fortune in the face, and the Family heads to either side of the Gleeds, Desmond Maketsi and John-Paul Savage III, didn't escape a spattering. It was Prosper, though, who caught the lion's share. His shirtfront was covered in crimson. His face was a ghastly red-stippled mask. But even as the blood began to dribble down his forehead and cheeks in runnels, he was smiling. Taking a silk handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket, he began dabbing himself dry. Meanwhile, there was aghast silence in the Chamber. Around each of the concentric tables, jaws hung open.

'Well now,' said Prosper, when he had cleaned the worst off. 'First blood to you, Kuczinskis. It seems you've shown your true colours. Expect a response. Expect it swiftly. Expect it to be total and utter and overwhelming. You started this. Now you're going to pay for it. Dearly.'

27

'Does he hit you?'

Is was taken aback. Provender hadn't said a word since she entered the bathroom and started giving him his lunch. He seemed to have sunk into a mood of sullen resentment. Then, between mouthfuls of tinned tomato soup, this.

'Him out there,' Provender said. 'Your accomplice.'

'I know who you meant. No. God, no. He doesn't hit me.'

'He seems the type.'

'Da--' She checked herself. She had nearly said Damien's name. 'He has a temper. He's a very passionate person. What he feels, he feels strongly. But he's not violent. He never has been to me. For one thing, he wouldn't dare. If he'd so much as laid a finger on me, he'd have been walking funny for a week.'

'He'd.'

'Eh?'

'You said, "If he'd so much as laid a finger on me". Past tense.'

'So?'

'So that implies not present tense. You and he aren't ... you know. Any more.'

Is busied herself with tipping another spoonful of soup between Provender's lips. 'We shouldn't be talking like this.'

'I know. He doesn't like it. Gets shirty about it. Was he this jealous when you
were
going out?'

Yes
, Is thought.
Very much so
. Damien couldn't bear her even speaking to another man. Whenever she came in after a shift at St Fiacre's, he would quiz her about the patients she had tended to, with the emphasis on the male ones. What had she said to them? They to her? It reached the point where she would have to give every male patient she mentioned a qualifying tag, such as 'He's only sixteen years old' or 'He's in cardio, can barely raise an arm', so that Damien would know the person in question wasn't a potential rival. And on social occasions...! The hospital Christmas party, for instance. Damien had stuck next to her all evening, glowering at every man who approached her and scaring off most of the less intrepid ones. These were her friends, work colleagues, doctors and fellow nurses she'd known for years, and they were reluctant to come and chat because of the boyfriend-slash-bodyguard hovering at her shoulder.

Jealous? Oh yes, you could safely say that was among Damien's less appealing character traits.

'I'll take your lack of answer as a yes,' Provender said.

'He's not a bad person,' Is offered.

'He kidnapped me forcibly from my own home and he's holding me here against my will, and he's not a bad person? Forgive me if I give a little snort of incredulity.'

'He's doing it for a reason.'

'What reason?'

'I can't say. But it's all in a good cause.'

'Oh well. Marvellous. That makes it all right then.'

'He's altruistic.'

'If by that you mean he hates the Families, then yes he is. What about you, though? Do you hate the Families?'

'I ... I used to think I did.'

'And now?'

'I'm not sure. I hate the way people worship you, but that's not the same thing. Maybe you should discourage them from doing that. But then why would you want to? It serves you well. You're the paragons, the ideal we're all supposed to aspire to. Wealth, power, a strong sense of kinship, rooted in heritage. As long as that's how people see you, you'll have their trust and keep your position.'

'But nowadays everyone knows we're human and fallible. We used to have mystique, but then came all the magazines and the TV programmes. They love to show us up. Warts and all.'

'And yet somehow that just makes the public love you even more. Probably because they feel they can identify with you. You have problems like they do. And yet still: wealth, power, kinship... It's the best of both worlds. You can slip up and yet you can still do no wrong.'

'Lucky us.'

'You
are
lucky, Provender. Really, you have no idea how lucky you are.'

'Remind me of that again, the next time I have to ask you to help me take a dump.'

Is fed him the last morsel of soup. 'This isn't for ever. This'll be over eventually.'

'When?'

'Honestly, I have no idea. But it will be over.'

'Is?'

'Yes?'

'This may sound like an odd question...'

'Try me.'

'Would you believe me if I said
I
hated the Families?'

She laughed, albeit softly, in case Damien overheard. 'No.'

'Why not?'

'Why would you? I could believe it, I suppose, if you were a surly adolescent and at that stage of your life where you just hated everything. Usually surly adolescents direct most of their rage against their own family. It's the most convenient target. But you should be past all that. You're a grown man.'

'Try telling my sisters that. But actually, you misunderstood. I said the Families. Meaning the lot of them, not just my own. The whole institution.'

'Then I really wouldn't believe you, no.'

'What if I could prove it?'

'How?'

'Would it make you feel differently about me?'

'You answer my question first. How?'

Is crossed the main room to the kitchen nook. Damien was slumped in front of the television, idly dialling between channels using the wired-in remote control. A cigarette smouldered between the first two fingers of his other hand. She had chastised him mildly about taking up smoking again. He had pretty much ignored her, although he had mumbled something about giving up for good after all this was over.

She deposited Provender's soup bowl in the sink with a clank and ran some water into it. Then, after a pause, she said, 'Damien.'

'Yup?'

'You know your copy of
The Meritocrats
?'

'Yeah. What about it? Oh, hold on.' Damien sat up, twisting round in his chair. 'You want to give it another go?'

He looked delighted, almost pathetically so. The strayed sheep Is, showing signs that she might be interested in returning to the fold.

Is felt vaguely ashamed of herself. 'I thought I might try.'

'It's hard work, I know,' Damien said, 'but my God, it's worth it. You just have to persevere. Everything that's wrong about the Families - it's in that book.' He started to climb out of the chair. 'I'll go fetch it.'

'No, no, it's all right. I know where it is.'

'Help yourself then.' Damien settled back. 'Enjoy. That Anonymous - he certainly nailed it. I'd love to meet him someday. Shake him by the hand. What a guy.'

Is headed for the bedroom, thinking that if Provender was telling the truth, Anonymous was the last person Damien would have wanted to meet.

And she couldn't see it, to begin with.
Read the first four paragraphs
, Provender had said.
Study them carefully
. She sat on Damien's bed with the tattily-bound book open in front of her and she scanned through the first four paragraphs of Chapter One and she simply couldn't see what Provender was getting at. The clue to the novel's true authorship. The subtle little giveaway woven into the text.

She was, of course, familiar with the opening passage of
The Meritocrats
from her previous unsuccessful assaults on the book:

Providence saw to it that Guy Godwin was born and brought up in a house at the confluence of three types of transportation. Road ran alongside the house. Overhead a railway viaduct arched. Very close to the end of the garden, a canal flowed. Every minute of every day, almost, Guy could look out of a window and see voyagers go by. Never did he not think of the world beyond his neighbourhood. Down on the canal, stately barges passed carrying rivermen and cargo to elsewhere. Electric trains thrummed on high, freighted with commuters. Rumbling traffic outside his front door ferried drivers and passengers to innumerable unknown destinations.

Guy Godwin, you would say, was fated to become a traveller himself. Late in life, looking back, he would perceive that it had been his destiny. Ever since birth there had been a restlessness in him. Ever since birth he had been conscious that journeying was man's natural state of being. Definitely, the urge to move outward and onward was inherent in all humans, and in him more than most.

When he was of an age to leave home, he did. Rolling up his belongings in a single small backpack, he began his wanderings on foot. Out into the world he went, to find what it had to offer. There could be no turning back. Even as he closed his parents' front door behind him, he knew this.

The very first person he encountered on his travels was the tramp Jack Holloway. Holloway was to become Guy's boon companion during his adventures. It could be said that without Holloway Guy would not have seen and experienced half the things he did. Sancho Panza to Guy's Don Quixote, Holloway was guide, governor, guardian and goad all rolled into one.

Reading the lines now, and rereading them, she recognised nothing other than the qualities she habitually divined and derided in the novel: the lugubriousness of the prose and the shallowness with which the two central characters were sketched. Perhaps in the parts of the book she had never got to, Guy Godwin and Jack Holloway were better fleshed out and became more believable, but she doubted it. Holloway, in particular, she found a hopelessly far-fetched figure, an idea of a tramp dreamed up by someone who had never actually met a tramp. Is knew tramps. They turned up in Accident and Emergency all the time. Not one of them was anything like Holloway. Holloway wasn't mad or methylated or both. He didn't reek of piss. He didn't mutter constantly and profanely. He wasn't prone to dropping his trousers and aggressively masturbating. He was an untarnished angel-of-the-road, there to steer the hero through his exploration of the book's fictional Family-less world, offering tips and sage observations along the way.

Is was close to resenting Provender for making her re-immerse herself in
The Meritocrats
. It really was - and she was surer than ever about this now - a bad book.

Then she saw it. On perhaps her seventh perusal of the four paragraphs, the answer suddenly blossomed. There it was, plain as day. She was stunned by the overtness, the sheer nerve of it.

It must be a hoax
, she thought.
Somebody having a laugh
.

But it wasn't. It was as clear and unambiguous a statement of copyright as could be imagined.

The first letter of each sentence.

Each paragraph denoting a separate word.