Castles Made of Sand (28 page)

When he’d convinced his partners, Ax went to Reading to see Olwen Devi, because Sage had insisted that he have his chip checked out, and it was something Olwen could do. She decided she needed to give him a general health check while she was at it. Ax, like his father, was the
never had a day’s illness in my life
type, and he didn’t like the idea. But he submitted. The report was good. The heart was fine; last you a century. The lungs likewise, though Olwen seemed less pleased about that. It always annoys people when a tobacco smoker doesn’t show any sign of suffering from it. Everything was fine, except for the chip. She said he ought to get rid of it at once, which was a shock. It hadn’t been serviced for years and he’d known it needed fixing (no alarming symptoms, but he knew). He hadn’t been expecting anything so final. The idea of living without his other mind, his library, his internal security, was a hard blow.

‘We’ll have to see about that when I get back.’

They were debriefing in the new Rivermead Palace health centre. Rain stormed at the small square windows in Topsy’s thick metal-and-mulch walls: seems like we’ll be inaugurating the new Rivermead flood refuge soon… Olwen looked at him compassionately. She wore the Zen Self mainframe as a jewel on her finger: she understood.

‘I want to do it now, Ax.’

‘I have to go to Romania. This is not the moment for brain surgery.’

She might have asked what was so all-fired crucial about the trip, but she did not. She knew from the look in Mr Preston’s eye she would get nowhere.

‘All right. As soon as you get back. Hm. I’ll give you a facet of Serendip. She’ll look after the implant, you will have her resources to call on, and that will be fine for a few weeks. No longer!’

He went up to Yorkshire to see Sayyid Mohammad Zaid, his mentor in the Faith. They talked at length, alone, with Mohammad’s family; and with other vital English Islamists. They spoke of the Islamic Community’s duty
to be
the presence of God’s mercy and compassion on earth: a spiritual hegemony, far greater than material power. Ax extracted a firm acknowledgment that the secret plan to make England into an Islamic State was indefinitely on hold, a result he’d been working towards for a while. These goodwill agreements might fall apart the moment your back is turned, but they mean something. He stayed three days, and came away feeling his burden lighter. If I’ve fucked up everything else, he thought (too weary and deadened for prayer, thinking only of England), that’s one good choice I made. From Bradford he went to Easton Friars to see Richard Kent, the barmy army’s chief of staff; then a circuit of the big staybehind camps and urbans, talking to hippy councillors and green gangstas.

So many people wanted a piece of Ax. He even managed to make it (alone) to a last Liaison Meeting with Benny Prem. Poor Benny, behind his enormous desk in his big empty office: it was like visiting some cranky old lady. Benny was in a huff, feeling slighted as usual. He wanted to know if there’d be Liaison Meetings while Ax was gone. Ax said Fiorinda might be forced to cancel, as she would be very busy, but he’d remind the Minister.

Benny said, sulkily, ‘Does Sage always do what you tell him?’

‘When he feels like it,’ said Ax cheerfully, ignoring the insolence.

I will even miss
you
, he thought, as he took his leave. Absurd as that might be.

He kept Benny on out of pragmatism, though he knew his partners didn’t believe that. But sometimes he looked at the guy and saw himself: the mixed-race boy made good, overcompensating. He hoped he could persuade Sage to visit Benny, just for form’s sake. It would be a kindness (not that Benny could appreciate kindness, poor bastard). And it would be wise.

Benny was only pretending to sulk. He was excited. Ax was leaving the country. He still didn’t know who his patron was, and nothing had changed except that Ax had gone from strength to strength. But he had faith: he was
sure
something would happen now.

Fiorinda had been very surprised to discover that everybody, including Sage, took it for granted that
she
would be Ax’s deputy. But she’d accepted her fate. They’d had the briefings, Fiorinda and Ax with the suits and the Ceremonial Head Of State staff. There was one more thing, a conversation he didn’t want to have at home.
He came to find her when he knew she’d be working late in the Office at the San, and waited, chatting with anyone who offered, until everyone had gone, even Allie.

‘Lot of memories in this view,’ he said, staring out through the Balcony doors. Gold gleamed on the Victoria Monument, the Japanese banners at the Insanitude Gates fluttered in the light from the lanterns that hung there; Central London was in profound shadow. He could remember when that darkness had seemed very strange and ominous. Not anymore.

‘Yes,’ said Fiorinda.

He looked at the sacred noticeboards: corkboard ruthlessly knocked up on the gaudy, shabby walls, repositories of holy Reich relics. The old, filled ones were never dismantled; they were framed and sealed. Allie sold scanned copies as Few merchandising and you could see the attraction. Here’s the whole history of our strange days inscribed in old wristies, jokes and gnomic messages on Post-its. Withered memos, photos, newspaper cuttings.

Like a folk museum, touching and sad.

Fiorinda watched him, looking puzzled, until he came to her desk.

‘D’you recall the day we sat around those tables and I told you all I was going to demand the repeal of the death penalty, or I would quit?’

‘It was another world.’

‘Yeah… People are making such a fuss about this Romanian trip. Makes me wish I’d made a habit of going to conferences. Maybe the Chosen should do a foreign tour, the lazy bastards, and I could tag along, pretend I’m still a rockstar.’

He sat beside her, looking at the ring she had given him, turning the red bevel so the inscription caught the light.
This too will pass
. ‘We never had a romance, do you remember? We just climbed into bed together and that was it. No fireworks.’

‘I remember plenty of fireworks.’

‘Maybe, later. But I like to remember the way it started—’ He’d better shut up. He was getting maudlin, going to ruin everything. ‘I want to give you something.’ He showed her the bi-loc. It was a clunky early version, but not the standard prototype. ‘This is a tricky kind of satellite phone. It works through my chip; it’s the one we used to hack our way out of the quarantine. I want you to have it, so you can always reach me.’

‘But you’re not leaving Europe.’

‘No, but… Telecoms go down, networks crash. I can’t lose my chip, and you won’t lose this. You don’t need to know anything technical, it’s like a normal bi-loc to use.’ He closed her hands over the handset. ‘Call me if you really need me. But be careful, we don’t want aggravation with the Internet Commisioners. Don’t tell anyone that you have it. Not even Sage. He, well, he’d be happier not knowing I’ve given you contraband to look after.’

‘Okay.’

She tucked the phone in her bag. They stood up, and hugged each other. The veil was very thin. He knew that he had only to say the word, one plea for mercy, and she would pity him. She would be his little cat again. But he had vowed to himself that he would not say that word, and he wasn’t going to break down now.

‘I’ll miss you very much,’ she whispered.

‘Me too,’ said Ax. ‘I’ll miss you. You’ll look after Elsie for me, won’t you?’

‘Yes. I’ll look after Elsie.’

Just before Ax was due to leave Fiorinda and Sage went down to Cornwall by train. Ax had things to do: he followed them in the Volvo the next morning. The visit to the cottage was a last-minute
tour de force
, but they’d all wanted it. It was November, and the floods were out. The Somerset Levels looked like melted tundra, the once and future landscape of mere and marsh and hilltop towns clearly discernable. He stopped at Wheddon Down in the rain to recharge, bought a sack of damp birch logs for the price of a cup of coffee and heard that the Tamar was threatening to break its banks: but when he reached the river it looked okay. He talked to the Flood Watch, one more patient conversation with the English, and crossed over the Guinevere Bridge one more time.

On Bodmin Moor he stopped the car. He wondered about Sage’s wolves, and thought he would get out and listen for them; but he didn’t. He wiped his eyes, and drove on.

He had been daunted, almost
frightened
, at the thought of this last night. But it was okay. They stacked Ax’s logs in the hearth to dry, they did the usual Tyller Pystri things; they talked about Ax’s trip. It seemed to Ax there was a painful silence behind every word they spoke, but if his lovers felt the same they made no sign. At midnight they banked the fire. Sage and Ax went out in the dark and rain to take a piss, a little ritual. They’d always liked pissing together. And so to bed.

He didn’t sleep. In the morning he packed the car. Fiorinda was driving back with him, to see him off. Sage was staying at the cottage. Ax couldn’t remember how this arrangement had been made, but it was settled. Separate goodbyes. He walked out to look at the Chy, and then went into the studio. Sage was sitting there staring into space. He jumped up when Ax came in. The words won’t come. The last chance to break the silence is here: and then it’s gone, and the words didn’t come. They hugged.

‘Stay off the smack, okay?’

Ax had been an occasional user, once, long ago. Sage the ex-junkie had hassled him into giving up.

‘Is that all you can think of to say?’

‘It was a joke. Uh, poor taste. I meant, look after yourself.’

Sage thought, if he’d been Ax he’d have an itemised list, covering every reckless thing Ax might think of doing, and he’d extract a promise for every one. Don’t take drugs from strangers. Don’t jump in pits with tigers. Don’t march on Moscow, don’t… Don’t take on the world, fuck’s sake, it’s bigger than you.

‘I just want you to come back safe.’

‘You…same.’

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ said Sage.

Ax nearly said, forgetting he’d wanted separate goodbyes,
at least you could have come to Dover
But he didn’t. Fiorinda was waiting: she and Ax got into the car. Sage came down the track, loping beside them through the rain to open the gates; and this is the last moment. The little Chy roaring, the leaves on the oak trees tattered gold, Sage in the rear view mirror, bluest eyes, there, he’s gone.

The ferry (a massive old thing, rattling empty) left Dover at six in the evening after several hours’ delay. Fiorinda was long gone. He’d told her he didn’t want her to wait around. The rest of the Dacian expedition had settled in the saloon, getting stuck into some merry drinking. They were picking up a chartered flight to Bucharest in Paris. Ax stood by the rail in the stern, guitar-case over his shoulder, and watched the cold, grey water churning away.

I don’t blame you, brother, he thought. I
do not
blame you.

When had he realised he had to go? After that night at Tyller Pystri in July? Or before that, or later? It seemed to him now that he’d always known that he was living on borrowed time. You can’t give a guy like Sage limited access to the love of his life, and expect him to accept the idea: sit there like a dog with a biscuit on his nose. Not indefinitely. This is
Aoxomoxoa
, for fuck’s sake. And you can’t go on watching the girl you love tear herself to pieces… They would never have left me, they would have been loyal. He set his teeth at the thought of their
loyalty
, letting Ax tag along, all three of them knowing the real situation. Fuck that. I had to leave. No more nightmares now. She’ll be happy. She’ll get the sterilisation reversed, she’ll have his baby. Oh, God, have I really kissed her for the last time? Really never hold my darling again?

The pain in his heart—

He’d left his bag indoors, but he’d brought the jade axe out on deck. He took it from inside his coat. The Sweet Track Jade: dropped or laid as a sacrifice by the causewayed road from Taunton to Glastonbury, more than five thousand years ago. A slim, unpolished, leaf-shaped blade of blue-green stone, perfectly crafted, beautiful to hold. What a rare thing to own: my badge of office. One last good look. A swing from the shoulder. There, it’s gone. He didn’t see the splash. Will an arm clothed in white samite rise, to hand his sacrifice back to him, to restore his loss? Nah, no arm clothed in white samite. Nothing.

He watched the water for a while, fists in his pockets, the wind and rain whipping his hair, then he went back into the warm saloon. So that’s that.

Ax was in Romania, and having a wild time of it from what they could make out (communcation wasn’t easy). George and Bill and Peter had come back to the van, in Travellers’ Meadow: they were hoping to get the boss to talk about a new album. On a cold Sunday morning Bill and George sat browsing sections of the
Staybehind Clarion;
drinking tea with condensed milk and whisky chasers. There was no fresh milk. The Rivermead Organic Dairy was having trouble with the wrong kind of grass. Peter lay on one of the astronaut couches, thinking about his latest kaleidoscope. Making kaleidoscopes was his secret vice.