Authors: Gwyneth Jones
‘Wha’s it say?’
‘It says ALMS FOR BELISARIUS.’
Sage shook his head. ‘No wiser.’
‘Roman general, sixth century CE, best man the late empire ever had. He retook Rome for Justinian, fell foul of some court intrigue, had his eyes put out and ended up begging in the shop doorways of Byzantium. It means, um, the most noble deeds don’t always get rewarded, the greatest heroes can fall upon hard times.’
‘Right,’ said Sage.
‘She’s interpreting another culture’s refs. It’s a thoughtful compliment.’
Like hell. Oh, I’m not forgiven, whatever it is that I did.
‘I wonder what you’re going to get.’
‘She knows what I want,’ said Ax.
They fell silent as the cab crossed Westminster Bridge, full of thoughts that didn’t bear discussion, because a taxi can so easily be planted on you. But mostly they thought about Fiorinda. Soon the thread of her pregnancy would be broken, and it seemed all wrong. They were about to lose a guiding light, a faithful friend who’d been with them since before the invasion.
‘She’ll want the Babes and Allie with her,’ said Sage. ‘It’ll be natural if we feel slightly left out.’
‘Don’t
say
that.’
Weak Become Heroes
The Fox Force Five had a disastrous rehearsal, compounded by fiendish behaviour on the part of Charm Dudley, front-woman of the Charm Dudley Band, and followed by a doomed post-mortem in the back of Allie’s blue van. Fiorinda tried to convince Allie that it was nothing, Charm’s just a shite, and anyway what you do with something like that is that you
forget
it. Fuck-ups really do not matter… Their fashionista had taken some coaxing but she’d loved being on stage, actual guitar round her neck, and the crowds had been immensely supportive, thrilled to have
Allie Marlowe
up there. No, that was all illusion. The whole thing had been misery, Allie hating herself, the Babes and Fiorinda
lying
to her, she was a laughing stock—
I’m banking them
, Charm, thought Fiorinda; although she also wanted to strangle Allie. One fine day, when I am not pregnant anymore, and the North East is no longer so scary, I shall personally come up to Lambton Worm HQ, invade your stage and fucking kick your head in
. And you will not enjoy it
. Her head was boiling. In the old days, when the Charm Dudley band had been called DARK, with a teen-diva called Fiorinda as their singer, physical exchange of views were not unknown, it would feel good if Charm was here to be thumped right now—.
‘What about Justin?’ whimpered Allie, mopping her eyes.
Justin was the tactless sound guy. Dora rolled her eyes. ‘Allie, don’t stress. He probably fancies you, he was trying to get your attention.’
‘Thanks for the thought. No. I’m sorry, I’m quitting. Could you please find somewhere else to sit around? I have to clean up.’
Needless to say, Allie’s mobile home was exquisitely clean and tidy. No trace of dirt or mess was allowed to enter. Min the kitten, who was tolerated for Ax’s sake, was hiding from the upset in a bunk. Allie tugged him out.
‘Min can come back later. I’ll babysit him for the show.’
‘You can’t DO THIS!’ Fiorinda exploded. ‘We’ve got a gig
tonight
, a proper, important gig! You can’t QUIT! Where are we to get a bassist?’
‘Ask Charm,’ suggested Allie. ‘I’m sure she’ll help out.’
Felice tried getting physical. “C’mon girl, you’ll be okay once you’re up there.” The senior Powerbabe’s tall curves could often intimidate a person into cheering up, but the hug was rebuffed. ‘Look, it’s fine. You have to be five, you’re the Fox Force Five, that’s why you had to drag me in—’
‘Hey!’ cried Chez. ‘Knock that
off
!. Don’t you remember when we thought of this? In the Insanitude, in the siege,
not knowing if we’d live through another day
? We’re the Fox Force
because there are five of us
.’
‘We’re the Force because we’ve been through hell and high water together,’ explained Dora, ruefully. ‘What if I open some wine?’
Spliff would have been more calming, but Allie wouldn’t let anyone smoke in here. ‘It’s in the floor safe, corkscrew in the side pocket. Oh, Dora, not mugs, there are wine glasses. Harry will play and he can wear my jacket.’
Harry Child was the Charm Dudley bassist.
‘He’ll be useless. We are
tight
, we have
soul
—’ protested Chez.
Allie shook her head, black ringlets in non-Allie disarray, clutching her Fox Force bomber jacket, the sequined appliqué stitched by her own hands. In a moment she was going to get onto
the Reich is all I’ve got
—
Fiorinda snapped. ‘Okay,
listen
. You want the truth? You’re not great, but you look good, you keep time and you usually sing more or less in tune. What’s wrong with you? Plenty of talent-free female stars have made stinking fortunes on less—’
What the hell am I doing? Why did my voice come out like that? Shit, is it possible I escalated this? Did I pick a fight, start the trouble? ‘Sorry.’ She pressed the heels of her hands to her forehead. ‘I’m sorry, Allie. I didn’t meant it. I’m really irritable. Don’t know what’s wrong with me.’
Her friends glanced at each other. ‘Don’t bite my head off,’ said Allie, in a changed voice. ‘Please don’t explode, Fio, but could it be that you’re thirty-seven weeks pregnant, and running yourself ragged?’
‘Thirty-six weeks.’
Someone thumped on the back doors. Fiorinda jumped up. She could still jump. Walk on my hands if I had to, I’m fine, it’s just that people are so annoying—
It was Charm, accompanied by a strange woman with chestnut hair in braids, wearing a suit of fringed deerskin like an Indian brave. Charm herself preferred the timeless look. She’d ditched the mangy dreads, but her badge-spattered man’s jacket, torn jeans and sloppy sweater could have been the same as she’d been wearing in Dissolution Summer. The sight of her, aggressively
non
babe
, sneering at everything Fiorinda had become, brought the boiling-head effect straight back—
Charm raised her hands, palms open. ‘Before you start, this is Birch.’
‘Whatever it is,’ snarled Fiorinda, ‘we don’t want any.’
‘She’s a midwife.’
‘I don’t need a midwife. I’m not
stupid.
I have my operation booked, I had a scan two weeks ago, the whitecoats said everything was fine. Go away.’
‘Often the ultrasound scanners in public hospitals are in poor repair,’ said the midwife, ‘or obsolete models. Or the so-called doctors don’t know how to read what they see. Most private hospitals are no better.’
Fiorinda had felt slightly uneasy about that scan herself. Her silence was taken for consent. ‘Aw reet princess,’ said Charm. ‘Force yorsel te be rational.’
The Fox Force gathered round, attempting to help Fiorinda to lie down. ‘Fuck’s sake—’ snapped their young leader. ‘Gimme some space.’
The midwife’s hands felt kind and sure, her voice was smoky Yorkshire. ‘She’s strong and healthy. She’s a big baby and your birth canal is small.’
‘’S okay, I’m having a Caesar.’
‘Hm.’ Birch sat back on her heels. ‘This baby was not conceived at Rainbow Bridge… But we pray that she brings peace. My community sees the invasion as you do, Fiorinda. A hard blessing, a fertile disturbance; something that must be.’
Just the kind of bedside manner I need. ‘Then you shouldn’t dress like a Countercultural,’ she said, too tired to be tactful. ‘You’ll get yourself shot.’
‘What about her dates?’ demanded Charm, poking her spiky head officiously over Birch’s shoulder. ‘
She
says three more weeks. I say she’s ready to pop.’
‘I can talk, Charm. Thanks.’
‘Three weeks? Oh no, this child’s coming very soon. It could be anytime.’
‘You’re entitled to your opinion,’ said Fiorinda, sitting up. ‘Me, I’m going to have my baby in London, it’s all settled. Thanks so much, Birch, that was lovely. Now excuse us both of you, we have girly grooming activities to do.’
Charm and the midwife left. ‘Did someone say wine?’ asked Fiorinda. ‘What about a strengthening glass for a pregnant lady with a problem temper?’
‘Oh, God,’ said Allie, ‘d’you remember the Ribena tequila sunrises? I’m sorry if I’ve been a pain. Okay, I’ll do it, just tonight; if you really want me.’
The Force instantly assured her, in sincere relief, that she was indispensable, that she was their star, the one the people came to see—
Of course the baby wasn’t conceived at Rainbow Bridge. Wish I could get hold of whoever started that daft story. The underground success of their Arena performance was disturbing, but what can you do? Something shifted in Fiorinda’s head, like fabric tearing. Someone was smiling at her, from over there in the corner.
She knew what he’d come for. A moment that tasted like aeons: but when she took a quick glance around, she could tell nobody had noticed. Thank God Sage wasn’t here. She saw the straightening comb, charging on the brazier, and grabbed it.
‘Hey, Foxes, what if I straighten my hair? That might be cool.’
They all squawked, wouldn’t take responsibility for a sleek Fiorinda. What would Ax do to us, if he gets back tonight? Horror, laughter; the midwife’s pronouncement, which only Fiorinda had really heard, was handily lost.
An hour before the doors opened she escaped for a breath of air. The evening was quiet and chill, the moorland still the exhausted blonde of winter; or peat-brown where bracken and heather had been harvested. In the delicate bell of the sky one star shone beside the gravid moon. The Transmission Mast, sacred in legend, wasn’t the actual mast where Ax and Sage had met at the turning point of the battle, it was a replacement, but never mind. At the Yap Moss memorial—a granite plinth with long lists of names, and an anchor symbolising Hope—she met a shabby, bare-headed bloke with missing teeth, who told her he had not fought here, but he remembered coming out to see the dead.
‘Your boyfriends were back for the burying detail, Fiorinda.’
‘Oh, really? I didn’t know that.’
‘Aw, yes. We came out, because we’re ign’rant you know, to see the spectascle of the dead bodies, an’ it was
’orrible
. Sage was there—eh, he were a massive lad in those days—and Mr Preston, digging alongside the barmy squaddies, laying down the dead with their own hands. They’d had a mechanical digger for the trenches. And they were all buried, in two graves, either if they’d been left here or else brought back from the hospitals, separately but together, Islam and Christian.’
‘You’re a Muslim?’
‘Aye,’ said the ancient mariner type, surprised. ‘How d’you know?’
Only Muslims called the heathen majority ‘Christian’.
‘Just guessing.’
‘Any road, it may sound gruesome but it were a big day in my life.’
She left him there, and went to find the vehicle fleet supremo. Roger was on his back, ministering to a hybrid Bluebird bus. The vans hardly ever broke down, but maintenance was constant. They had to machine their own parts, these days. He rolled out, a veteran Reich crew chief, with a grey ponytail and receding temples, wiping his hand on a rag that had once been a yellow-flash security bib, and answered her question cheerfully.
“About finished. We’ll need every drop to fire the stage jennies. We get a liquid delivery day after tomorrow, sounds like good stuff. Other than that, it’s horse power, Shanks’ pony or the bus stop.’
They never had enough fuel. They tried hard not to sponge off the Chinese, especially not up here. General Yen Dawei (aka David Yen) was hardline and not to be encouraged. He’d have had them performing under armed guard, to protect them from Islamist Terrorists, if he’d had his way. They lived from hand to mouth, liable to be shipwrecked by unforeseen demands. Today they’d had to fetch a piano from thirty miles away, and Yap Moss Barn’s turbine was bust.
Fiorinda looked up at the Barn: a stalwart, graceful, edifice, fat white bird with folded wings. Stained glass glowed, spendthrift in the dusk. Some things just aren’t meant to change, a rock concert is
intrinsically
wanton extravagance.
‘What’s up, Fio? You need to drive somewhere?’
‘Just keeping track.’
She thought of the smiling monster: she thought of calling the tiger and the wolf. But she hated talking on the phone, and the Chinese would be listening. She decided not to bother, and did not realise that this was a sign of her growing panic.
The public had rallied in force to all the Yorkshire gigs. Yap Moss was something else again, a huge night, maybe a thousand people. The Fox Force Five played a damned good set. The Babes blew their horns like women possessed, Allie kept tight hold of her three chords, and her slight but tuneful voice was beautifully managed by the repentant Justin. Fiorinda sat at the piano on lead vocals, glad she didn’t have to stand up. At the back, AMID squaddies, here ‘on their own initiative’ bodypopped and pogoed in well-pressed uniform. In the front row Big George Merrick was swinging Marlon around, like a little kid; not having much effect on the teenager’s dismal mood. Her heart filled up with love for this life, for these comrades; for their past. But tonight she needed Ax and Sage, because nobody else must know about the monster who had come for her baby—
Why
aren’t they here? Don’t they realise I
need
them?
The Adjuvants and Cherry Dawkins sat up talking late, in Chip and Verlaine’s yurt. They were a platonic threesome, keepers of the secret flame. Their hobby horrified the Sensible Tendency (Allie, Rob and Felice and Dora), but was now okay to talk about the Zen. As long as you stuck to the philosophy aspect. That’s the Chinese for you. Only show that you submit, use the approved words, and you can get away with murder. They smoked local weed and spoke of the visitation phenomenon. You know your spiritual exercise is getting somewhere when you hit this
flood
of joy. Objective, measurable joy, readable in the brains of everyone who happens to be in the room—
Weird science hadn’t been on Cherry’s radar in the Reich years. Her repertoire had been the Babes’ pink Cadillac and a flirty sax. The fantastic feeling of swanning around with Dora and Felice. But she wanted it now. She wanted to go under the scanner, a step into the dark, stripped of everything: measuring her unknown self—