Authors: John Aberdein
– Ha.
– Your name’s Iris, isn’t it? he said. I knew an Iris.
– Must confess, said Lucy. Not cut out to be an Iris.
– Oh, sad, he said.
– So then—
– Have to go? he said.
– Need to— yeah, said Lucy. See ya.
Guy had dumped
Underwater Sex
by next meeting, for a mercy. Couldn’t get swift enough delivery of plexi of the right flex and strength to take the weight of water.
He flung his interim defeat aside. He saw the genderistas
grinning
at each other and their male sidekicks, and counting victory. Hoping to see Luna again, if
see
her was the term, Guy had texted the Leopard for an extra meeting, but had got, well, nil in return. He hadn’t dare to phone.
– Let’s offer Canton Two a Mel Gibson sequel, Guy said.
Faintheart
.
– No, let’s get back on track, said Lucy. She had decided to tough it out. Let’s open it all back up.
– Ooh, the Covenanters are coming, said Guy. Please, Mama, no Covenanters—
Guy fixed Otto across the table with mock-wide eyes, and wobbled his shiny dome like a novelty toy on a parcel shelf.
– Before Guy has a fit, said Lucy, here’s an idea. Let’s have a
Spectacle
about the Harbour. There’s plenty to celebrate there. Aberdeen Harbour Board is the oldest company in Britain. Uberdeen now, of course. Oldest limited company.
– Whoopee-woopsie! said Guy. If it’s not
educate,
it’s
celebrate
—
– Get ower it, Guy, said Alison.
She really could be remarkably staunch.
Guy glanced at Otto. Otto shrugged.
Lucy cleared her throat. Davie Dae-Aathing, she said, rid the Harbour of a huge blocking rock by lashing to it, at low tide,
hundreds of barrels. Early sixteen hundreds.
– Holding my breath here, said Guy.
– The ropes came under terrific strain, continued Lucy, but when the tide rose to maximum, the rock lifted too.
– Relieved to hear that, said Guy.
– And when the tide turned to go back out to the North Sea, so did Davie’s rock. Craig Metallan they called it. We could have Craig Metallan ebbing and bumping the length of UberStreet, then all the new boats coming in, trade opening up.
– What a spectacle, said Guy, for those days. Rubbish now. Papier-mâché lumpy thing bopping along UberStreet, under some helium—
– Sponsors, said Alison, we could easy get, surely? For aa the balloons—?
– All the balloons? said Guy. If it’s anything like last time, they’ll be burst inside five minutes.
He could imagine bursting inside Luna, in far fewer than that.
– Try to imagine various vessels, Guy, gliding along on your pavementette, said Lucy. Coals from Newcastle, lace from Brussels, esparto—
– Guano— said Guy.
Lucy inwardly gave him that. She had that sinking feeling. She knew she was on rightish lines, but without the heart or thrust somehow. She lived in a sea city, sure, but wasn’t really up to speed, if that was the phrase, as a sea person.
They attacked, from opposite directions, ten more ideas, without truceing once in the middle.
– Running into a big shortage of days now, said Guy. Decide.
The minute a decision was made, he could text Rookie again for a meeting.
– Let’s sleep on it, said Lucy.
– Lucy, eh, a bittie better? said Alison, once they had clashed shut the black forfex of the ancient lift.
– Maybe, said Lucy, as they were on their way down. Guy’s only biding his time. Soon he’ll really provoke us. No way he wants us
stymieing UbSpec that much longer. It’s UbSpec Total, after all. Ultimately, it’s not the Council’s show, far less the people’s.
– Yeah, said Alison. Suppose.
– Remember, said Lucy, as they hit bottom. If I’m forced out, you’ve got to find a way to stay. Alison—?
Alison was distant, slightly smiling, like she was looking forward to a somebody else who would make up for everything.
– Who is he? I recognise that look.
– Who’s who? said Alison, adopting her boss’s accents for once.
– Come on, lass, said Lucy, responding, I’ll buy ye a drink.
The leopardskin chair swivelled round to the tall slit window. The Leopard had just had that window reconfigured to give a perfect sightline down UberStreet.
Above him on the battlement roof was a replica working cannon and a tall flag, snapping in the wind. Although there was still
indecision
over renaming the city so soon a second time, there had been no tussle over the flag. By happy historical chance the flag came crested with two rippling leopards already.
Rookie Marr opened the slit window and trained his SAD rifle, the Swiss Army Digigun. It was a SAD 3, the one with the rifle, telescope, camera and mugshot database combined. SAD 1 had earphones and music-player bundled with the rifle, but music did little for him. SAD 2 had animal recognition and laser lock-on, but he knew his animals anyway, having eaten most. SAD 4 had the whole damn shoot, but it put the overall weight up, and brought on wobble.
By looking down through SAD 3’s scope, Rookie could see whoever came in or out of the Town House, the City’s formal HQ. The lift itself was fully bugged. He’d heard the chat, but the picture scan was set too fast, reducing the evidence to fuzzy glimpses.
He’d come across this Lucy once at a reception. He needed to suss the Alison out. After all, he had just employed her daughter.
They went in the pub with the longest bar in Scotland, The Prince, rechristened by Alison
The Price of Mince.
There was about twenty years between them, nothing really. Alison found a gap at the bar to get the drinks in. Lucy sank into the snug cushion of an open cubicle. Alison came back, set down the glasses, fluttered four fingers towards somebody bar side, then wriggled in.
– Cheers, said Lucy. Well—?
– Very well, said Alison.
– Does he want your hand in marriage?
– At the very least. Hey you, behave!
– Hey me nothing, said Lucy. It’s time you had a bit of stability.
– Thanks a heap. Hey, that reminds me. There wis this polar bear, see, said Alison.
– Polar bear, said Lucy. Really?
– It wis in the White Star offices in New York.
– Oh yeah? When would this be?
– Lang ago. Afore my time. 1912.
– Before mine too, madam, said Lucy, I’ll have you know.
– Sae it was the White Star offices in New York, see, 1912. And there’s this great lang queue shufflin alang the lobby, an shufflin up the stairs. An they’re weepin and wailin.
– Weeping and wailing?
– Weepin and wailin. An this woman in black at the front of the queue gaes up tae the mannie at the desk on the third storey an she says,
D’ye have word at all,
she says,
d’ye have word at all,
she had a mant—
– Mant?
– Stammer.
D’ye have word at all,
she says,
on Patrick
McGonagall
? No, missus, very sorry,
says the White Star man. No word.
Then a guy in a top hat steps forrard an he says,
I say, my man,
he says,
do you have any word of the Countess Cosmo?
An the mannie at the White Star desk says,
No, I’m terribly sorry, sir. No word.
An aince again the queue starts shufflin.
Just then there’s an affa kerfuffle fae the bottom of the stairs, followit by a heavy
clump-clump,
up through the first storey, up through the second, an finally, clumpin on tae the third storey landin, in flies a female polar bear, and elbows her wey tae the desk.
An the polar bear taks a fair grip o the desk, an leans richt ower. An, as the White Star mannie shrinks awa tae nithin in his seat, the polar bear says—
– What you stopping for? said Lucy.
– Big paws—
– Get on, you!
– The polar bear says,
Ony word aboot ma hoose
?
– That’ll go twice round the world by Christmas, said Lucy. We could do a Spectacle on it. With a cardboard
Titanic
like Fellini’s
Rex.
– Foo many wrecks did he hae like, Fellini?
– Not
wrecks: Rex. Rex Rex.
– Ye soond like a corncrake on heat.
– Alison, please, I’m a bit past being on heat— said Lucy.
– Dinna kid yirsel, said Alison. Humans are aye on heat.
Lucy looked into her own distance.
– It’s funny, said Alison. We’ve just deen Calving Glaciers. But if we doved straight intae Polar Bears—
–
Doved
? said Lucy.
– They’d accuse us o being frigid or somethin. Ken fit they’re like, the Gender Beasties—
– Never mind the genderistas, said Lucy. They do their best. How’s Gwen? Did she get the job?
– Workin in North Turret, start straight aff. Under Information Officer.
Publicity and other duties,
the descrip says, live-in
compulsory
, free accom. LeopCorp provides the uniform. Black slacks, orange blouse. Her partner Bill’s gotten a start as well. Assistant Principal Tasting Officer, he doesna even hae tae cook nithin.
– She pleased? said Lucy.
– Think so. I am an I’m nae. She’s nae as tough as she thinks, wioot her mither.
– G & T, love? To toast Gwen.
– Sure, said Alison. As it comes.
In South Turret, in Blissville, Luna made a set of random attempts at finding a key sequence. She punched the remote, but it didn’t reveal a window. She thought of, what was his name? Then she plumped down on the circular couch and resigned herself to the plasma. She did this three times a day, sometimes thirty.
In the adjoining turret, Rookie Marr was on the phone to TV interests. Global interests, there was no other kind. The extreme brilliance of the UberStreet package seemed to have got their juices working. All he had to do was bring them to auction.
There had been a few calls back and fore, but the
Calving Glaciers
support, concern, boycott and sueing group still hadn’t met.
Spectacle
Concern
was mooted as a name. Somebody thought somebody else was going to write to the paper.
Spermy went champing down to the shipyard and through security to check how they were faring with the
Girl Julie.
She was deserted. A dark and light grey minesweeper had come into drydock. All the wrights were gathered round her.
– It’s the Gulf, said the manager.
– The Gulf is it? said Spermy. The Gulf will aye be there next year, maist o ma fish winna.
– Possibly true, said the manager, but we have to take our orders where we can get them.
– Foo can a man like me compete wi a navy?
– Well, defence contracts are special, said the manager.
– Aye, said Spermy. At cost-plus, they fuckin wid be.
Maciek had arranged to meet Pawel for a walk, beyond the allotments
and out to the Battery and the South Breakwater.
– This reminds me of Gdansk, said Pawel. Westerplatte. My grandfather was killed there. Cavalry.
– I’ve been there, said Maciek, it is important.
– So why are Poles still running round? said Pawel. Now we got our country back?
– We got our choices, said Maciek.
– But not our houses, said Pawel. I’m a skilled builder. There are fourteen people in my flat. Am I black or something? Am I some sort of Jew?
– Pawel, said Maciek, if that’s how you feel, I don’t think you and me can work good together.
– We’re Poles, said Pawel.
– Being a Pole is not enough, said Maciek.
– Not enough? said Pawel. You some kind of traitor?
– No, said Maciek, I’m not a traitor.
– Well fuck you, man, said Pawel, you’re wasting my time.
The chestnut stall was back in good nick. Andy couldn’t attend to it any more; he couldn’t look down at all, with his disease, could only touch things. But Ludwig was a good hand with the WD-40 and a set of spanners. He cleaned and tightened the whole shebang.
– Coals are through the roof, Andy, you know this? said Ludwig.
– Fit I aye said, Ludwig, man, said Andy. Closin the pits wis a real brainwave.
Amande had gone down the town on her bus pass to try to buy conical bags. In conical bags, it looked like you were getting a bargain, and the chestnuts were nice to hold, like a treat. The cost of imported food was going up fast, with fuel and all, chestnuts were no exception. She and Ludwig had bought thirty kilo from a stall in the Green, but she wasn’t sure about shelf-life, so she’d exited everything from Andy’s fridge. Poor Andy was well beyond fridges anyhow, he was a menace to life and limb just spreading a piece.
Bing Qing was having trouble with her Poles. She paid them the minimum wage, and made sure a clear system was there for sharing
out tips. But they claimed they could get more in their own country. Lech was the spokesman.
– Sometimes you have to think about that, Bing Qing said. You have to feel for yourself what is best.
– Six pounds fifty, said Lech, we think would be best.
– Six pound fifty, very nice money, said Bing Qing. Six pound fifty I cannot do.
Zander Petrakis had a meeting with Lord Provost Swink. He wanted the city’s support for something. Well, Town and Gown have always gone hand in glove, Swink had remarked to his dresser, Walty.
– Come in, Mister Protrakis, he said.
– Petrakis, said Zander.
– What can I do you for?
It was a ludicrous expression for the occasion.
– You can do for me a great thing, said Zander. My Crete is facing the ruin of Knossos. You know Knossos?
– But it’s a ruin already, is that no so? said Swink.
– A film company, said Zander, want to trick it out with
knockdown
walls and three-sided chambers. For their filming, the old labyrinth is too tough.