And nothingnothing had felt the same, afterwards. Nothing had felt comfortable. Nothing fitted. A full fifteen years had passed, and yet and at complete variance with the clichéfor Beede time had been anything but a great healer.
Progress, modernity (all now dirty words in Beedes vocabulary) had kicked him squarely in the balls. I mean he hadnt asked for much, had he? Hed sacrificed the Spider Orchid, hadnt he? A familiar geography? Hed only wanted, out of respect, to salvageto salvage
What?
A semblance of what had been? Or was it just a question ofwas it just a matter ofof form? Something as silly and apparently insignificant asas good manners?
There had been one too many compromises. He knew that much for certain. The buck had needed to stop and it never had. Itd never stopped. So Beede had put on his own brakes and he had stopped. The compromise culture became his anathema. He had shed his former skin (Mr Moderate, Mr Handy, Mr Reasonable) and had blossomed into an absolutist. But on his own terms. And in the daintiest of ways. And very quietly
There had been one too many compromises. He knew that much for certain. The buck had needed to stop and it never had. Itd never stopped. So Beede had put on his own brakes and he had stopped. The compromise culture became his anathema. He had shed his former skin (Mr Moderate, Mr Handy, Mr Reasonable) and had blossomed into an absolutist. But on his own terms. And in the daintiest of ways. And very quietly
Shhh!
Oh no, no, no, the war wasnt over
Shhh!
Beede was still fighting (mainly in whispers), it was just that by and large they were battles that nobody else knew about. Only Beede. Only he knew. But it was a hard campaign; a fierce, long, difficult campaign. And as with all major military strategies, there were gains and there were losses.
Beede was now sixty-one years of age, and he was his own walking wounded. He was a shadow of his former self. His past idealism had deserted him. And somehow along the way he had lost interest in almost everything (in work, in family), but he had maintained an interest in one thing: he had maintained an interest in that old mill.
He had become a detective. A bloodhound. He had sniffed out clues. He had discovered things; stories, alibis, weaknesses; inconsistencies. He had weighed up the facts and drawn his conclusions. But he had bided his time (time was the one thing he had plenty of no rush; that was the modern disease no need to rush).
Then finally (at last) he had apportioned blame. With no apparent emotion, he had put names to faces (hunting, finding, assessing, gauging). And like Death he had lifted his scythe, and had kept it lifted; waiting for his own judgement to fall; holding his breath like an ancient yogi or a Pacific pearl diver; like the still before the storm, like a suspended wave: freeze-framed, poised. He held and he held. He even (and this was the wonderful, the crazy, the hideous part) found a terrible equilibrium in holding.
Beede was the vengeful tsunami of history.
But even the venerable could not hold indefinitely.
You know what? Kane suddenly spoke, as if waking from a dream. Id like that.
Beede didnt stir from his book.
Id actually like it if you drew me a picture. Do you have a pencil?
Kane was twenty-six years old and magnificently quiescent. He was a floater; as buoyant and slippery as a dinghy set adrift on a choppy sea. He was loose and unapologetically light-weight (being light-weight was the only thing he ever really took seriously). He was so light-weight, in fact, that sometimes (when the wind gusted his way) he might fly into total indolence and do nothing for three whole days but read sci-fi, devour fried onion rings and drink tequilla in front of a muted-out backdrop of MTV.
Kane knew what he liked (knowing what you liked was, he felt, one of the most important characteristics of a modern life well lived). He knew what he wanted and, better yet, what he needed. He was easy as a greased nipple (and pretty much as moral). He was tall (6 3, on a good day), a mousy blond, rubber-faced, blue-eyed, with a full, cruel mouth. Almost handsome. He dressed without any particular kind of distinction. Slightly scruffy. Tending towards plumpness, but still too young for the fat to have taken any kind of permanent hold on him. He had a slight American accent. As a kid hed lived for seven years with his mother in the Arizona desert and had opted to keep the vocal cadences of that region as a souvenir.
Come to think of it, I believe I may actually
Kane busily inspected his own trouser pockets, then swore under his breath, sat up and glanced around him. A waitress was carrying a tray of clean glasses from somewhere to somewhere else.
Excuse me Kane waved at her, would you happen to have a pencil on you?
The waitress walked over. She was young and pretty with a mass of short, unruly blonde hair pinned back from her neat forehead by a series of precarious-looking, brightly coloured kirby grips. I might have one in myuh
She slid the tray of glasses on to the table. Kane helpfully rearranged his large Pepsi and his cherry danish (currently untouched) to make room for it. Maude (the strangely old-fashioned name was emblazoned on her badge) smiled her thanks and slid her hand into the pocket of her apron. She removed a tiny pencil stub.
Its very small, she said.
Kane took the pencil and inspected it. It was minuscule.
Its an HB, he said, carefully reading its chewed tip, then glancing over at Beede. Is an HB okay? Is it soft enough?
Beede did not look up.
Kane turned back to the waitress, who was just preparing to grapple with the tray of glasses again.
Before you pick that up, Maude, Kane said, balancing his cigarette on the edge of his plate, you wouldnt happen to have a piece of paper somewhere, would you?
Uh
The waitress pushed her hand back into her apron and removed her notepad. She bit her lip. I have a pad but Im not really
Kane put out his hand and took the pad from her. He flipped though it.
The papers kind of thin, he said. What Im actually looking for is some sort of
He mused for a moment. Like an artists pad. Like a Daler pad. I dont know if youve heard of that brand name before? Its like an art brand
The waitress shook her head. A kirby grip flew off. She quickly bent down and grabbed it.
Oh. Well thats a shame
The waitress straightened up again, clutching the grip.
Kane grinned at her. It was an appealing grin. Her cheeks reddened. Here Kane said, let me
He leaned forward, removed the kirby grip from her grasp, popped it expertly open, beckoned her to lean down towards him, then applied it, carefully, to a loose section of her fringe.
There
He drew back and casually appraised his handiwork. Good as new.
Thanks. She slowly straightened up again. She looked befuddled. Kane took a quick drag on his cigarette. The waitress observing this breach laced her fingers together and frowned slightly (as if sternly reacquainting her girlish self with all the basic rules of restaurant etiquette). UmIm afraid youre not really she muttered, peeking nervously over her shoulder.
What?
Kane gazed at her. His blue eyes held hers, boldly. What? She winced. Smokeyoure not really meant tonot in the restaurant.
Ohyeah, Kane nodded emphatically, I know that.
She nodded herself, in automatic response, then grew uncertain again. He passed her the pad. She took it and slid it into her apron. Can I hold on to this pencil? Kane asked, suspending it, in its entirety, between his first finger and his thumb. As a keepsake?
The waitress shot an anxious, side-long glance towards Beede (still reading). Of course, she said.
She grabbed her tray again.
Thank you, Kane murmured, thats very generous. Youve been really he paused, weighing her up, appreciatively sweet. The waitress plainly disconcerted by Kanes intense scrutiny took a rapid step away from him, managing, in the process, to incline her tray slightly. The glasses slid around a little. She paused, with a gasp, and clumsily readjusted her grip.
She grabbed her tray again.
Thank you, Kane murmured, thats very generous. Youve been really he paused, weighing her up, appreciatively sweet. The waitress plainly disconcerted by Kanes intense scrutiny took a rapid step away from him, managing, in the process, to incline her tray slightly. The glasses slid around a little. She paused, with a gasp, and clumsily readjusted her grip.
Bye then, Kane said (not even a suggestion of laughter in his voice). She glanced up, thoroughly flustered. Yes, she said, of course. Thank you. Bye
Then she ducked her head down, grimacing, and fled.
Beede continued reading. It was as if the entire episode with the waitress had completely eluded him.
Kane gently placed the pencil next to Beedes coffee cup, then picked up his danish and took a large bite of it. He winced as his tooth hit down hard on a stray cherry stone.
Shit.
He spat the offending mouthful into a napkin silently denouncing all foodstuffs of a natural origin then carefully explored the afflicted tooth with his tongue. While he did so, he gazed idly over towards the large picture window to his right, and out into the half-empty car park beyond.
Expecting someone? Beede asked, quick as a shot. Kane took a second (rather more cautious) bite of the danish. Yup, he said, unabashedly, Anthony Shilling.
What?!
Beede glanced up as he processed this name, a series of conflicting expressions hurtling across his face. I thought you knew, Kane said (eyebrows slightly raised), still chewing.
How would I know? Beede snapped, slapping down his book. Because youre here, Kane said, and why else would you be? Its miles away from anywhere youd ever normally go, and its a shithole.
I come here often, Beede countered. I like it. Its convenient for work.
Thats just a silly lie, Kane sighed, evincing zero tolerance for Beedes dissembling.
Strange as this may seem, Beede hissed, Im actually in no particular hurry to get caught up in some sordid little situation between you and one of my senior work colleagues Well thats a shame, Kane said, casually picking up his cigarette again, because thats exactly whats about to happen.