White Queen (29 page)

She was at a low ebb tonight. She remembered sweating in the hotel room in Karen, with the scared pig of an Englishman. It is true, she thought. I sent that girl to her death. Johnny’s right, there’s no way back to civilization from here. She was afraid
(afraid?)
that she’d pushed Johnny too hard the other night—deliberately. She’d meant to drive him away. Anything rather than drag him further into this business. She closed her eyes and there he was. The dignified young American, so self-possessed among her second class celebs: and shabby enough to satisfy Thoreau himself.
Beware of any enterprise that requires new clothes.

Well, he was gone and White Queen would have to think of something else.
Try again, fail again. Fail better.
That’s the whole story, she thought, wearily. Our best case. And wondered why on earth it seemed so important that the fake superbeings shouldn’t complete their takeover.

She opened a window. Took a few drops of onei, set the decoder to convert an antique tape of
Miami Vice,
set the sound filter to block out the noise of London, and the hifi to sample the rain. The air was soft and damp as night in Africa, stirring with natural music,
musique naturelle.
Trixie quietly went over to the bin, chucked up her dry owl-pellets and came back to the nest of cushions; settled her muzzle on Braemar’s knee with a contented sigh.

The Annie Mah dress with the glowworm skirts—

Braemar lay in a waking dream of idealized memory, pure epicurean pleasure.

“Get up.”

Johnny Guglioli stood at the open window. He was drenched to the skin, and he was pointing a hunting rifle at her.

“I’m going to kill you.”

She switched off the hifi. Johnny had no shirt under his jacket, his feet were bare in plastic sandals. Water streamed from his loose hair. He looked terrible: his mouth slack, all the lines of his face wiped away. The housekey was in her hand, power to do all sorts of things, but her mind wouldn’t work.

“You set me up!” he screamed. “You did it! You damned whore you’re going to die. Call off the dog!” The Doberman was trotting towards Johnny, tail swinging gently.

“Basket, Trix.”

Braemar stood carefully, heart thumping, the onei leaving her in a rush of icy chills.

“What’s going on, Johnny?”

He sobbed. He jabbed sideways with the rifle, a cheery Wemyss cat flew and shattered on the parquet. He cleared the rest of that table, swept the pictures above it from the wall, and stabbed and trampled them, using the rifle like a bayonet. She was wondering how far it was safe to preempt him, to humiliate herself ahead of his orders. She was wondering how long the rot had been spreading, if there was anything left of Johnny in that slack shell. Should she undress?

His wet hair flew in his face. He tossed it back, and smashed some crystal.

“You’re police bodyguard’s gone.”

“I know. They’re on strike—”

There was nothing else he could reach. He pointed the rifle at Braemar again, his hands perfectly steady. She looked down it, ideas spinning uselessly, with a dry mouth and loosening bowels: and suddenly became exasperated.

“Oh, who cares. I’m sixty three years old. I’m tired, and my complexion’s past praying for. Go ahead. Shoot me. Make my day.”

“Sixty three?
You said you were forty seven.”

“That was two seasons ago. Forty nine isn’t smart at all this year. Go on, Johnny. I’m far too much of a coward to kill myself, but I’d be crazy to turn down an opportunity like this.”

The rifle wavered.

“The alien broke into my room,” he whispered. “It raped me.”

“Raped—?”

He bared his teeth. “It—they’re hermaphrodites.”

She began to walk towards him. She walked ’til the muzzle of the rifle was touching her breastbone, took it from him, and carefully restored the safety catch. Johnny let her do it. He sat down on a swan-backed chaise-longue, expensive copy of a gloriously decadent regency original; dripping all over the watered silk.

“How do you tell? You use onei, you must know. How do you tell if you’re dreaming?”

“Try continuous memory. If you can string the course of the day together without waking yourself, then however weird things seem you are probably awake already.”

“I can’t do that. I can’t remember how I got here. It’s the QV, I’m going.” He began to sob, heels of his hands thrust into his eyesockets.

“I don’t think so,” said Braemar. It was true, she realized. She genuinely would rather be dead than watch Johnny succumb to the subtle poison his body might be carrying. Rather he killed her first. With profound relief, she knew that it had not happened. He was sane. She touched him: quickly drew back when he flinched away.

“Tell me?”

“I was feeling weird. I was having dreams about the aliens’ planet, watching tv round the clock, shouting at the tv; and I don’t know. Generally going crazy. Then I saw her in the street. Of course I didn’t take that seriously. Tonight she broke into my room. Clavel, she’d sneaked out of Uji on her own and got to London passing for human. She told me some ‘artisan’ made the passport: they can do a lot of things we’ve never guessed. I was completely off guard. She told me she was going to reveal all. What you’ve been saying. How they’re not superbeings, how they’ve tricked us. And then—”

Silence. He stared and stared, his eyes like bruises.

“You said ‘rape.’ What does that mean?”

“What I said.
What d’you fucking want, Brae?”

“No, I don’t want a blow by blow account—” She broke off, electrified: pity turned to iron in her voice. “But you’d better be ready. Other people will.”

Johnny looked around, maybe for the first time aware of his surroundings. He ran his hands through his hair. “What a mess.” He shuddered. “I’m sorry Brae.” He wiped his fingers on his jacket, looked at them, frowned and wiped them again. “They’re gone.”

“What?”

“The bugs. They were all over me.”

Braemar drew breath. “Clavel? What happened to Clavel?”

“Clavel was….” His eyes stared, seeing monsters. “They were all around me.”

He grinned, a gruesome rictus. “I don’t think I shot her. Better check the gun. Clavel left, after, and then I don’t know much what I did.” He made an enormous effort. “Could I have a shower?”

“Not yet.” She pulled on her house shoes, pulled him to his feet. “We’re going to the police.”

The police station was on the edge of the infill. Beyond it ordered streetlights died: a rat’s nest of strung bulbs and jam-packed lit windows twinkled. In front of it, searchlights played. The police seemed to be dealing with a major incident. The road was full of people in fluorescent rain gear, holding umbrellas over 360s; rushing around with loudhailers. Braemar stopped the car before she got too close. The confusion terrified her. So Johnny wasn’t alone tonight. It was the end then, the phony war was over. She’d almost prayed for this moment: but she felt sick. One of the rain-geared figures strode across her view, brandishing a plastic placard for the news screens across Europe.

Braemar laughed. “Of course, it’s the strike.”

She got out of the car. So did Johnny. When she looked around, he’d vanished. He was walking quickly back down the street. She had to run to catch up, her slippers spurting water.

“Johnny, where are you going? Come on, please, come on. You can’t protect a rapist. I know this is going to be vile but that’s just not tenable. One does not do that.”

He kept on walking.

“Sorry. Can’t help you. My mama didn’t bring me up to cross no picket lines.”

She grabbed his arm. He shook her off. She got in front of him, impassioned and righteous.

“Johnny,
you can’t walk away from this. You have been assaulted, physically and worse: treated with vicious contempt. Think, it could happen to others. Maybe less able to protect themselves; and maybe the rest are worse than Clavel, once they drop the pretense—”

He stopped, shoulders hunched against the rain. “You are insulting my intelligence, Brae.”

The rain fell between them and all around, striking the pavement in hissing crowds. Above them a hoarding had shorted out. It fizzled, and croaked an occasional loud blurred syllable, as if trying to call for help. A bevy of ring-necked parakeets huddled along the frame. They dived out into the wet at each burst of sound, sherbet green in the streetlights, screaming an immigrants’ lament for another city of trees and dust, where the rain was never so chill.

“Okay, forget the propaganda. What about revenge?”

Johnny sat down on the edge of the curb, fists balled between his knees. He looked back. The picketers and attendant newspersons had noticed nothing. Braemar sat beside him: he forced himself to look at her. He was thinking of the first time, in Africa. He had told himself that night that this was the best sex there could ever be in the world. When it starts off so desperate, so unstoppable it is indistinguishable from rape. And then you find she wanted it all the time….

“I cannot do it, Brae. I just cannot.”

He looked away. “I don’t know if the rape accusation would stand up. I wasn’t in control of myself. She—it, didn’t finish. I did. I was…. Do I have to explain?”

“No,” said Braemar, at last, acknowledging defeat. “You don’t have to explain. I know.”

She tucked the Mini Cooper up to the curb. It was still raining hard. They sat in the brief refuge of its lighted shell. “What d’you want to do now? Send for your mad scientist to take samples?”

Braemar shook her head.

“Oh, God, Brae. The little bug…lice things…”

“Don’t, Johnny.”

“It knows where I live. It was watching me for days. The others know too. I felt them: in her, in its mind—”

“Don’t give yourself the horrors. They’re aliens, remember. Biologically speaking, one of those cells on human flesh is a fish on a bicycle.” She took his hand, gripped it. “Listen, Johnny. The Aleutians have done no deliberate harm to any human but Sarah—and she, as far as they were concerned, was committing an act of war. They tampered with some machines, and there were casualties. By my reading, those deaths were unplanned. Okay, they’ve made some wild threats. Everybody does it. They are
not
hostile. You can still believe that. I believe it. She’s not going to come after you again. This was a ghastly mistake.”

Johnny looked at her in disbelief.

“Yes, okay, I know. It’s not my usual line. But I want you to be
clear
about this.” Braemar sighed. “Clavel’s in love with you, Johnny. Remember she called you ‘Daddy,’ back in Africa? They believe in reincarnation. A ‘Clavel,’ might be born in every generation. It’s their big romantic quest, to find another edition of your self: your ‘true’ parent or your ‘true’ child. I should have told you, but I didn’t know how you’d take it.”

“Thanks. That helps a lot.”

She couldn’t tell if he’d taken in a word, but his tone was bitter.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know how to say how much I wish it hadn’t happened…” She frowned. “I think you saved me from making a very stupid mistake, back there. A denouncement like that could have backfired badly. May I offer you a bed for the night?”

He didn’t answer. He was looking at the house.

“Is your housebox bust again, or did you leave all those lights on, on purpose?”

The doorman had become a pale mess of shapeless plastic, spreading down the wall. It must have started on its anti-intruder routines before it died, that’s why the lights were on. The front door opened at a touch. They retreated.

“My God,” whispered Johnny. “She
wasn’t
alone. They were close by, watching. I thought that part was a hallucination.”

“How many were there?”

“I don’t know. Four, five. They’d come looking for Clavel. I don’t know…. I don’t know if I saw them in my room, or if Clavel just knew they were near.” He stared at the house. “We call the police,” he decided. “And wait in the car.”

“They won’t come,” said Braemar. “And I have people in there.”

The silent hallway was empty. Trixie lay at the foot of the stairs. Braemar whimpered faintly, and dropped to her knees. But the antisense lifted its head and struggled groggily upright.

“Good dog,” whispered Brae. “No licking! Bad girl!”

Johnny took her by the shoulders, and put her and the dog aside. “They’re still here, I’m sure of it. I’m going to try and get my rifle. Stay back, but stay close.”

Up to the first floor and still not a sign. The drawing room door was open, the tv running its decor loop. The rifle was where they had left it.

“Got to check the children.”

She hurried to the stairs, the antisense silent beside her, Johnny behind. The aliens came out of the nursery. The landing was brilliantly lit, toys strewn about: the figures imposed on it seemed like
anime.
Their presence here, out in the human world, was so far from context they didn’t register as substantial. One of them was shouldering Kamla’s box-headed, inert body.