We Float Upon a Painted Sea (18 page)

Bull watched the hooded vandals move further down the street. They were joined by another youth who had just set a skip on fire. One of them put a rock through the window of an electric car. They ran when they heard gunshots somewhere off in the distance but towards the sound rather than away from it. Bull could see the flashing blue lights of a police drone hovering above the streets of Salford. It appeared to be struggling to remain balanced, and then it completely lost control. The malfunctioning drone plummeted from the sky and crashed into a row of derelict terraced houses, sending a ball of flame into the sky. 

Chapter 13: Professor Burke’s Story

It was early morning when Professor Burke’s TEV left the elevated automated highway and arrived in the centre of Edinburgh. He left the vehicle at the underground station car park and later, walked the empty streets. The city was somnolent and shrouded by a haar from the North Sea, and the only sign of human activity was an Asian family fussing over a burst plastic bag containing defrosting seafood. He stared at them for a while and then walked towards Leith docks, avoiding the pavement cracks as he went and hoping to find a café to pass some time before his meeting with Lúthien. In Leith Walk he came across a kiosk. He spent some time flicking through a selection of global broadsheets on an old newspaper carousel. The owner of the kiosk watched him, slumped forward on his counter, his flabby breasts resting on a pile of cooking magazines, like two puffed up muffins. Finally, the Professor selected several international newspapers and purchased them using the credit card the Elves had given him. The Professor bade the kiosk owner good morning and then shuffled down the pavement towards Leith Docks.

The café bars and shops on Leith Walk were either shut or boarded up and there was a lingering odour of sewage coming from the storm drains. As the Professor walked he read fragments of graffiti, much of it directed at immigrants. He passed a preacher who demanded in a loud voice,

“Will you accept the Lords of the New Church as your infinite authority on earth and the Bible as the infallible word of God?” The preacher followed him, brandishing his Bible until the Professor stumbled and then retreated down a side street. He looked up to see a neon sign and before him stood a grubby looking bar called the Splurge Bucket. The preacher shouted at him, his voice booming, “The
End Times
are upon us.” The Professor retreated into the bar and managed to find an available stool without drawing too much attention. He looked around and then examined his newspapers for any mention of his story, but was distracted on noticing the approaching bartender from the corner of his eye.

He prepared for the monotony of exchanging pleasantries and ordering a beverage. He had entered a bar only once in his life, and only out of a need to seek shelter from the rain. On that occasion he felt obliged to buy a coffee. He looked down the bar. There didn’t appear to be a coffee machine. His olfactory senses were not overcome by the rich aromas of roasted coffee beans, but rather the malodorous stench of stale beer, sweat and desiccated urine. He was unaccustomed to drinking this early in the morning but he was convinced that asking to buy anything other than an alcoholic beverage would only bring unwanted interest. He surveyed the array of wine bottles behind the bar, hoping to locate a recognisable brand.

The bartender stood over him, waiting for a response to his offer of assistance. Feeling under pressure, he ordered a Bombay Sapphire gin. This was his favourite spirit. He imagined a scene at home, relaxing at his desk, listening to his Grafonola gramophone and savouring the subtle mix of juniper berries, spices and citrus fruits. The bartender laughed, presenting his set of silver studs on his tongue. With an outstretched arm he introduced his collection of cheap liquor stacked behind the bar.

“We seem to be all out of the Bombay Sapphire today sir,” he said with strong, earthy suggestions of sarcasm.

Professor Burke apologised. He pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose and said,

“Of course, how silly of me, just neat whisky then please. Any brand will do.” The bartender smiled. He placed a coaster on the stainless steel plated bar and filled a glass with liquor. The Professor considered the ambiguity of the unlabelled bottle. The initial results of his nasal assessment made his face wince. He considered the day ending in glycol induced blindness. He had heard tales of Poitín being distilled high up in the Highlands, and sold to unscrupulous licensee owners after the Government doubled taxes on alcohol. He raised the glass to the light and checked its clarity. Satisfied, he held the drink to his pursed lips. His face squirmed, like a child being forced to take medicine. His cautious sipping noises began to catch the attention of some nearby drinkers who drew him awkward glances. Finally, he knocked the liquor back in one quick motion. An old bearded man wearing a
Hibernian
baseball cap, sitting at the end of the bar, offered him a crooked smile and an encouraging thumbs-up sign.

The alcohol caught the back of his throat and he began to rasp. The bartender returned and offered him a bewildering look. Professor Burke punched his chest as if to act as an expectorant against his spasmodic fit and then, in an unconvincing wheezing voice, the Professor ordered another glass of whisky.

“You’re not from round these parts I take it?” enquired the bartender. Professor Burke looked startled at the sudden inquisitiveness of the question. Instinctively, he remained silent. He began to scratch his goatee beard. He could feel beads of sweat congregate on his forehead, ready to burst and run the length of his face. The bartender continued to smile but his demeanour was progressively warming. He sensed the Professor’s uneasiness and not wanting to add to his discomfort, he said,                                                                                           “I just mean we don’t get many customers in here as civil as you. These days, I’m lucky if I even get a grunt for a pleasantry. Most don’t even leave a tip. You’re different. You don’t often get folk in here who say please and thank you. Then again, most of them remember to take off their hat.” The Professor put two hands on his head and realised that he was still wearing his Tilley hat.

The alcohol was exerting its influence on him. He relaxed and considered that the bartender was simply making conversation to pass the time of day. “Oh yes. How silly of me. I’m extremely sorry.” He removed his hat and put it into his leather satchel.

“You’re alright pal,” said the bartender, “I like your look. There’s not a lot of folk who feel confident enough to dress the way you do, not these days anyway, but as I said, you’re not from around this area. Are you an explorer or something?” Professor Burke blushed and looked down at his khaki shorts, thick woollen socks and hill walking boots, instantly regretting his choice of attire.

The Professor returned to his newspapers and looked for his story. He was troubled to find that most of the broadsheets were running special editions on their front pages dedicated to an inspired lecture by the Dalai Lama. He addressed the leaders of the world’s largest industrialised nations on the subject of global warming. His speech condemned mankind’s materialistic obsessions and compared its relationship with
mother earth
to an unappreciative and immature grown man who still lives with his parents - someone who seldom helps with the bills, eats out of the fridge without ever replacing any of the food, throws dirty laundry wherever convenient, starts destructive fights and trashes the house with hedonistic parties.

He picked up the
Guardian
and reviewed each page. He contemplated the notion that the world’s media was distracted by the Dalai Lama’s visit to the 2036
Earth 8
Summit. A photograph showed him with his finger extended, pointing accusingly at eight of the world’s most powerful leaders.
The Washington Post
ran an article detailing how much carbon was used to fly the Dalai Lama to the summit. He downloaded some news feeds to his Shackle and searched
The Morning Star.
Professor Burke continued his newspaper search. With every new page, his face became more etched with disappointment.

Fumbling in his corduroy jacket pocket he found his handkerchief. He wiped his forehead and neck before ordering some more of the cheap whisky. He was sure that his recent actions had set the wheels in motion and that the world would be waking up to the dramatic unravelling of his story. His newspaper search was turning out to be fruitless. The Professor gazed in amazement at the photographs of worldwide suffering: flooding, droughts, cyclones, world food shortages and victims of terrorist attacks. The
Japan Times
concentrated on the riots engulfing the country.
La Repubblica
concentrated on the street riots in Naples being brought to an end by flooding. The Italian Government had been unable to complete their flood defences on time and the newspaper’s editor suggested that the sea had done a better job than the police water cannon.

He cleaned his spectacles with his handkerchief, downed his whisky and then noticed a television hanging behind the bar. There appeared to be a news report underway outside the Freedom Tower Conference Centre in New York. Professor Burke strained to hear the report from the news presenter over the background noise which was drowning her out. He caught the attention of the bartender who was busy explaining the concept behind one of his tattoos to a customer.  “Excuse me, would you mind turning the volume up on the television set, please?”  The bartender, although irritated by the interruption, was warming to Professor Burke and his good manners. He hadn’t been spoken to so graciously for a long time. The Professor’s courtesy had made him feel special for a brief but flirting moment.

“Sure thing ma man,” he replied, smiling but with a coy expression.  “I’ve been meaning to upgrade to one of those fancy 3D projection sets but as you can see there’s not much money being generated in a dump like this.” The old man with a
Hibernian
baseball cap looked up from his table and slurred, “Hey man, do you mind, this place is practically my home.” The barman shouted back,

“I’ll be charging you rent soon enough you old fud.” The Professor said, “It’s fine, really. I’ve never taken to holographic projection technology myself. I find the parallax disconcerting.” The bartender looked blankly into the professor’s face for a brief moment and then said, “Another whisky pal?” 

The voice on the television became more audible. Other drinkers raised their heads from the bar and surrounding tables, and began to take notice. The old man at the end of the bar shouted out,

“Oh, hang on, I like her, she's gorgeous!” The news presenter continued. “…who picks up the tab for global warming is the question on everyone's lips. Well, here in this building, the Freedom Tower, a symbol of capitalism, a giant edifice designed like a glass prism, beaming a solar glory of back scattering light towards the eastern horizon, some say, acting as a sign of defiance to those who sought to destroy democracy, the answer to this question is being answered. Worldwide, over nine billion people are holding their breath in anticipation of the ratification of the
Manhattan Declaration
. I have hear with me a spokesman for the Green Movement, Dr Ma Xun. What are you expecting from the
Earth 8
Summit, Dr Ma Xun?” The Doctor coughed nervously and said,

“Well this isn’t the first time the leaders of the world have gathered:
Kyoto, Copenhagen, Paris, Lima, Berlin, Wellington
, just to name but a few and now
Manhattan.
The world’s industrialised countries have once more been brought to the precipice of a global environmental cataclysm and forced to look down into the abyss. Environmentalists have long stated that the writing was on the wall, even years ago when we weren't a collective voice. Then, the world’s governments took the easy route, made the easy choices and the citizens of the planet are still holding their breath, wondering where it all went wrong and what happened to all those promises. Did they turn out to be empty promises? I think they were and I'm expecting more of the same.”

“Fuckin drama queen,” hissed the old bearded man. A woman sitting in a booth by the window shouted, “Why don’t you tell the poor folk in Limerick, Yorkshire, Somerset or Belfast they are drama queens? Poor bastards who aren’t fortunate enough to live behind a flood barrier like you, ya daft old fud!” The old man shouted back,

“Why don’t you suck…!

“Right!” shouted the barman, holding up his hand, “any more of your pish and you're out the door, am I clear? She’s right, you are a daft old fud.” The barman turned to the Professor and said, “Sorry about that pal. They’re not all like him in here. Take big Janusz over there, he’s a scientist.” Janusz tuned his head on hearing his name mentioned. He said, “Somehow I don’t think a domestic science teacher qualifies as a scientist, but thanks anyway.” The barman grimaced and said,

“Throw a dog a bone here. All I’m saying is, ah forget it, I give up.”

The Professor went back to watching the television. Dr Ma Xun was answering another question. “The world has put its faith in trying to defy nature, like constructing colossal flood defences to hide behind when it would have been better tackling the Siberian and Canadian permafrost through a reduction in carbon emissions. The permafrost has began melting for the first time in eleven thousand years, billions of tonnes of methane is being realised into the earth’s atmosphere. We have reached the tipping point, the earth’s fate will be sealed if we don't act. It may even be too late. I'm afraid we have been failed.”