Castles Made of Sand (15 page)

‘Good car to drive,’ mused Sage. ‘After a war.’

‘Very poky ride—’

‘Cheap to run an’ all. Couple of pints of snakebite and a handful of Bombay Mix, she’ll go all night.’

‘Lovely interior.’

‘Mm, and great road holding—’

‘You noticed that too?’

‘Hohum,’ said Fiorinda, pulling her hair across her face in two thick hanks of damp tangled curls. ‘Fiorinda remains problematic role model for liberated young women of England.’

‘Ah, no!’ They grabbed her, swept her onto the bonnet again and fell to their knees, pressing the cold, rosy soles of her feet to their faces, kissing away the gravel and rainwater and dogshit. ‘Fiorinda, angel, empress, we’re stupid drunks, we thought it was funny, we didn’t mean—’

‘Idiots. Let me down.’

So they lifted her down and cuddled her close between them: a little sad now, a little crestfallen. Sage leaned over and kissed Ax: rubbed his cheek against Fiorinda’s hair and heaved a sigh. ‘Ah, well. Me and my ruined fortunes.’

‘Yeah. Me and my falling-apart band. Ouch, ouch, ouch.’

‘He doesn’t mean any harm.’

‘Just not the soul of tact, our Fergal. It’s not his fault we’re caught in this trap.’

‘As long as we can get pissed and fuck in a car park, in the pouring rain,’ said Fiorinda, ‘I reckon we have not lost the game of life.’

‘I love you, Fee, because you are so wise.’

Sage went indoors to rescue Fiorinda’s bag and sandals from becoming the objects of a Cargo Cult. They headed for home on the all-night Underground, the carriage almost empty and weirdly bright, Fiorinda curled up on Sage’s knees, falling asleep. ‘I wonder what he’s really here for,’ she mumbled. ‘Fergal.’ Sage and Ax exchanged a wry glance.

‘I expect we’ll find out soon enough,’ said Ax.

Building Management found Fergal Kearney a room at the Insanitude, which he seemed pleased to accept. He came to the maisonette in Matthew Arnold Mansions, Brixton Hill, by appointment; on a grey summer evening two days later. Mr Preston himself came down to let him in. Fergal followed the Dictator upstairs, and stood looking around. He saw a big room, simply furnished: a gas stove in an old-fashioned fireplace, a few pictures on the walls, a couple of good North African rugs. Tall windows at the back stood open to a brick terrace on which stood pots of glossy greenery. You might call the style minimalist, but there was nothing precious about it. Just travelling light.

Here, on a stand on a bookcase, is the five thousand year old stone axe, the Sweet Track Jade, the one they gave him when he was inaugurated. Here’s a pair of car numberplates, AX1, which someone must also have given him. Mr Preston is way too arrogant for vanity plates, so they end up an ironic ornament. Here’s an immersion cell, in a flat screen: Sage Pender’s best work, Jaysus that’s a pretty thing, and better not look at it too long for it will suck you in. Here’s a framed piece of Arabic lettering, looks antique. The Irishman frowned. Ah, now, the Islamic question… The smell of cooking drifted pleasantly from further into the flat (Mr Preston’s an excellent cook, that’s also part of the legend). An open door gave a glimpse of a wide, low bed. A tortoiseshell cat crouched, glaring at the stranger, on one of the couches by the stove: poised as if not sure which way to run. He was trying to read the runes. How do they live together, these two beautiful, powerful men? How do things shake down between them: Mr Ax Preston, with the air of command on him that you could cut with a knife, and Sage, who surely to God (joking apart) is no feller’s bitch—?

He already knew, from the way he’d been greeted, to expect a little distance. Mr Preston at home is not going to be the same person as Ax, relaxed and half-drunk at the Insanitude. There was nothing in sight that suggested Fiorinda, and this caused him concern. Why does she leave no mark?

Ax had returned to the current jigsaw, seeing that his visitor was preoccupied, and sat by it on the floor, calmly sorting pieces.

‘You’re alone here?’said Fergal, at last.

‘Yeah. Sage and Fiorinda will be back soon. So, what did you want to talk to me about, or can it wait?’

‘Yez don’t keep any staff?’

‘Fuck, no,’ said Ax. ‘I spend my life managing people. I come home I want to switch off. We have a cleaner three times a week, because if we didn’t, with the best will in the world, the place would get disgusting. Other than that we do our own chores. Dunno what anyone sees in domestic servants, it’s a crap idea.’

‘That’s not exactly what I meant.’

Ax grinned. ‘You mean where are the armed guards?’

‘Ax Preston is a very brave man,’ said Fergal, somewhat sternly. ‘That’s part of the legend, an’ I don’t doubt it’s the truth. But there’s Fiorinda to think of. Fockin’ Jaysus God, what if you two great lads was to come back here one day an’ find her raped an’ murdered? Would ye not be better with just a few of yer barmy army fellers around?’

Brixton is my village, thought Ax. I run SW2 as my private fief. You don’t see the guards because I don’t need them: I own the neighbourhood. But Fergal probably didn’t catch the fascist junta issue of
Weal
… And one day, yeah, maybe this life will become too dangerous. It’ll be time to get out, and take my friends with me. Hope I don’t miss the moment. He smiled. ‘The day we need to be protected from our people is the day we quit.’

‘Fine words. But suppose you find out it’s time to quit half an hour too late?’

Ax shrugged. ‘Insh’allah. Please, make yourself at home. Sit down.’

The Irishman came over and peered at the jigsaw, a National Trust classic, featuring many different varieties of British sheep. Fiorinda had found it in a Help The Aged shop.

‘You like sheep?’

‘Very keen.’

‘Hm.’ Fergal dropped the shoulder pack he was carrying and sat down. His complexion had a dull, magenta cast today: he moved with the deliberation of an old man, or a painfully sober drunk. ‘How d’yer Islamic backers feel, about you and yer man—’ He nodded significantly towards the bedroom door. ‘Do they not find that a wee bit hard to take?’

‘Jaysus fockin’ God, Fergal. Don’t be afraid to ask an awkward question.’

‘I’m just trying to get a clear picture.’

‘I think they might find the video hard to take,’ said Ax, ‘so we’ll probably hold back on that, until we’re really strapped for cash.’

‘Fockin’ wind-up merchants. Fock it. I knew that was a big leg pull.’

‘Sure you did… Fergal, I converted to Islam to end the separatist war in Yorkshire.’ Ax picked out a fragment of shaggy-brown big sheep. No, it’s a piece of rock. ‘The mullahs knew what they were getting. Some of the Faithful are appalled that I perform on stage with a stringed instrument… But they’ll live with it, because I’m their warrior prince. I don’t pretend to be conventionally devout, I behave with reasonable decorum in public, and it works. The leaders of English Islam are in this for the long haul. They see themselves heading for a golden age, England an enlightened, multi-ethnic Caliphate. I’m a move on the board, a step on the way. They’re not homophobic, they even believe in civil rights for women, and they don’t give a toss for my dissolute lifestyle, if I serve their purpose.’

All true. It was also true that Ax’s conversion had been genuine, but he didn’t see why he had to discuss that.

‘Right so. There’s no Islamic problem. Ye know, I’ve never known a woman to really
enjoy
a ménage à trois. They put up with it if they have to, but they’re naturally monogamous. Are ye sure she’s happy?’

’Fergal.’ Mr Preston was beginning to lose patience. ‘I find it hard to believe that the Irish government sent you over here to investigate my sex life.’

‘Fock. I’m not working for the government.’

‘So who are you working for? The Dublin chapter of the CIA?’

Footsteps on the stairs. The cat, who had partly settled, roused again and stared at the door. Sage came in, Fiorinda close behind him. ‘Hi, Fergal,’ said Sage. ‘Sorry, Ax, we should have called. I had to haul Fiorinda out of the DETR.’

‘Environment, Transport and the Regions,’ said Ax to Fergal, politely. ‘The government department we mostly have to deal with. It’s okay, the stew’s taken no harm. I’ll put the couscous on to steam now.’

‘I’ll do it,’ said Fiorinda, quickly.

People who have a lot of pain and suppressed anger in them are often ‘tactless’: Ax had noticed this. As much as they want to please you, as much as they know they’re self-destructing, the totally unnecessary, needling comments will come tripping out. Fergal Kearney, poor devil, was well known for his terrible habit of saying the wrong thing. But there was something different going on this time. Even at the San the other night, Ax’d felt that Fergal was a man with a plan.

The Irishman ate sparingly, fortified himself with several glasses of red wine and continued to probe the weak spots, crudely but thoroughly. He was sounding them out, like a political refugee indeed: testing the ground.

He tried hard to make up to Fiorinda for his
faux pas
the other night, but she wasn’t having any. She hardly spoke, and disappeared to the kitchen at the slightest excuse. At last Fiorinda loaded the dishwasher (a very
green
dishwasher, but Ax refused to live without one), while the men moved to the couches by the stove, with a new bottle of wine. Giving Fergal Kearney spirits would be outright murder, but you had to accept that he needed his drug, in some form; beyond the point of no return.

‘So,’ said Ax, ‘did we pass? Now can you tell us who you’re working for?’

‘I told yer,’ said Fergal, ‘I’m working fer the Rock and Roll Reich, if yez’ll have me.’ He gave them his sweet, broken grin. ‘Be easy, I’m not planning to make a move on yer girlfriend. But I’ve fallen for her, that’s the truth, an’ I’ve parted company with the Playboys—don’t know if you heard. Me life’s near at an end. Why should I not follow the gleam? I’ve nothen’ better to do.’

He drank, and set the glass down. ‘You know, it’s a funny thing. The first time a doctor gave me a death sentence, I was terrible upset. I’d lie awake nights, grieving. Now it’s on me, and I can’t be focked to worry about it.’

This was chilling. Fergal was maybe ten, at most fifteen years older than they were themselves: and he was dying. They didn’t doubt it. Last summer he’d still seemed indestructible, now the marks of the last straight were unmistakable.

‘Okay,’ said Ax, after a moment. ‘That’s half the story. And the rest?’

‘Aye, the rest.’ The Irishman looked at Ax uneasily. ‘The tale is that you have no interest in conventional politics, Mr Preston. Fer your purposes you only need the culture, the lifestyle choices. Control the mob, and let the mob control the bastards in the suits. I hear ye have an army of yer own, and the polis eating out of your hand an’ all… An’ that’s all well and good, in
your
hands. Becuz you’re using this classic game plan (will I mention the Hitler word?) fer peace, and the preservation of all that’s good in the modern world. But there’s other people besides yourself that’s seeing this fockin’ cascade of disasters as a golden opportunity to change the rules—’

He broke off, and waited for Fiorinda to cross the room. Give the Irishman his due, he might be tactless but he knew that Fiorinda wasn’t just around to look decorative. She curled on the end of Ax and Sage’s couch (like the cat, ready to make herself scarce at a moment’s notice). Fergal nodded to himself, and looked hard at his glass, but did not touch it. Now it’s coming.

‘Mr Dictator, ye’ve got a problem.’

‘I have several,’ said Ax. ‘Could you be more specific?’

‘How well d’you know yer Prime Minister? Mr David Sale?’

Shit.

‘We have a working relationship,’ said Ax, sedately.

Fergal nodded, still with the air of someone weighing his words very carefully, hesitating over every step. ‘But yez don’t know him personally?’

‘I wouldn’t say he’s a personal friend. No.’

‘Did ye know he’s a smack addict?’

Sage grinned. ‘Yeah. He’s a vegetarian an’ all. We try to be broadminded.’

‘It’s not funny, Sage,’ said Fergal, reproachfully.

‘Addiction’s a big word,’ said Ax. ‘I know David’s using heroin a little; so do others. Personally, I don’t like it: but it’s not a guilty secret.’

‘Aye, well. What if I was to tell yez he was getting into something worse?’

Fergal reached for his bag, took out an envelope and drew from it several seven-by-ten monochrome prints. He laid them on the coffee table between the couches. A succession of images: groups of seemingly naked human figures, cavorting in a dark background. Closer shots of a white shape, a horse, on its knees, black blood gouting from its belly, and the most eager of the worshippers pressed around the killing. Some heads were circled and highlighted.

Ax picked up the prints, one after another. One of the enhanced headshots, full face, and profile, was clearly recognisable as the English Prime Minister.

‘What is this about?’

‘This is about the Celtics,’ said Fergal grimly. ‘The folks that used to call themselves “Ancient Britons”. There’s a lot of this caper goes on in Ireland now. The soft end of it, the pilgrimages to the High Places, the feasts and the bonfires: an’ even the Catholic hierarchy, fer what their fockin’ opinion’s worth, says it’s fine and dandy. Something we never really should have left behind. Maybe so An’ maybe ye’re going to tell me the English Cabinet is welcome to enjoy a Pagan ritual, along with a needle-full of Mother Comfort now and then. But however that may be, according to my information, yer Mr Sale has progressed to the harder stuff. Harder even than you see him here.’

‘What d’you mean by that?’

‘Magic.’

‘Real magic?’ said Sage, taking up the pictures and frowning at them.

‘I don’t know what yez understands by the term,’ said Fergal. ‘The blood-sacrifice would be real. An’ effective, in that it brings us closer to what they want, which is the Dark Ages. How real do yez want it?’

Pagan sacrifice was one the problems that kept Ax awake at nights. The Celtics insisted they had a right to practise their religion, and it was difficult for him to deny that right, while avoiding an open split—although the
cruelty
of the killings stuck in his throat. He had to leave it to the campground councils, he had to leave it to the hippies themselves to condemn the bloodthirsty extremists.