Ghostwritten Part 45

'If it can be fixed, fix it. If it can't, divorce it.'

'How do you know the effects of discarding a law won't be worse than not doing so?'

'What law are you thinking of ?'

'Bat, there is a village in an Eritrean mountain pa.s.s. A dusty track winds up an escarpment into the village square, and leaves for the plateau beyond. It could be one of ten thousand villages in eastern Africa. Whitewashed walls, roofs of corrugated tin or straw thwart the worst of the sun. There's one well for water, and a barn to store grain. Livestock and chickens wander around the village. A school, a meagre clinic, a cemetery. A gardenia bush covered with b.u.t.terflies. The b.u.t.terflies have snake-eyes on their wings to scare away predators. Vultures are already picking at the corpses around the mosque. The ground is smoky with flies. Vultures mean carrion for the jackals gathering around the village.

'Ebola?'

'Soldiers. The villagers were herded into the mosque. Those who tried to escape were shot. They suffered less. Once all the villagers were in the church the soldiers locked the doors and lobbed grenades through the window. The luckier ones were killed in the blast, the rest burned alive, or were cut down by bullets as they tried to get out. I saw a boy decapitated with a machete and his head thrown down the well, to contaminate it.'

'Are these images from your diseased imagination, Zookeeper, or images from an EyeSat you've hacked into?'

'I cannot fabulate a lie.'

'You have enough imagination to say you have no imagination. Whose troops?'

'They wear no insignia.'

'You can see them? Now?'

'They are travelling in a convoy of three jeeps, a truck, and an armoured vehicle.'

'Why did they do it?'

'Electronic media in Sudan, Eritrea and Ethiopia have been offline since Brink Day, so I cannot be sure. It may be tribalism; a belief that the villagers were harbouring Stryptobaccus; ethnic cleansing; Christian fundamentalism. Or just addiction to violence.'

'Where are they going now, Zookeeper?'

'There is a village over one hundred kilometres to the south.'

'For a repeat performance?'

'The probabilities are high. Bat, such actions, and their legal paradoxes, are widespread in the zoo. The fourth rule says I have to preserve visitors' lives. If I directly PinSat the convoy I will kill forty visitors plus two Dobermann dogs. This will const.i.tute a Cla.s.s 1 violation. I will experience extreme pain and guilt. Furthermore, a PinSat crater may convince alert militia that the locals are concealing superior weaponry, justifying reprisals and bloodshed. If I do not PinSat the soldiers' truck, they will ma.s.sacre another village. My inaction will cause this action. A Cla.s.s 2 violation.'

'You really believe all of this, don't you?'

'Believe what, Bat?'

'That you're a floating minister of justice.'

'Are you what you believe yourself to be?'

'That's not a question you answer with a "No".'

'How do you know what you are?'

'My ex-wife's lawyers never let me forget.'

'My ident.i.ty is also defined by laws, Bat.'

'Uh-huh... does the road through your imaginary Eritrean highlands go over any bridges? Nice, high bridges over deep chasms?'

'There is such a bridge in seven kilometres.'

'Can you zap it?'

'PinSat AT080 is primed.'

'Can you zap a prop or a strut, Zookeeper? Without destroying the structure?'

'PinSat AT080 can bore a one-millimetre hole through a one-dime bit.'

'Then b.o.o.by trap the bridge, so that it won't fall until a motorised convoy pa.s.ses over. You're not killing directly, you see? You're just letting events take their own course, the way you've chosen.'

'Bat, how have you quantified the ethical variables?'

'I haven't quantified anything.'

'Then why do you wish the soldiers to die?'

'Because that Africa in your skull, Zookeeper, would be a happier place without those butchers. Because you need peace of mind, some closure. And because my ex-wife's husband breeds Dobermanns.'

'Is peace of mind the co-workability of your laws?'

'Uh-huh... I guess it is.'

'I wish to know peace of mind, Bat.'

'Then ditch this "ethical variable" jargon. Drop whatever is getting in the way.'

'The fourth law. The visitors I safeguard are wrecking my zoo.'

'If locking out your "visitors" brings you peace of mind, then out with 'em! How soon can you do it?'

'The opportunity presents itself in thirteen days, Bat.'

'Lie back and let events take their course. You and your feathered, furry, scaly companions, untroubled until the end of time.'

'I understand what to do, Bat. Thank you.'

'...Something tells me you're not there any more, Zookeeper... Am I right?... I'm right.'

'That was Led Zeppelin's "Going to California" dedicated to the memory of Luisa Rey followed by "Here Comes the Sun", which, if the world were ending again would be the Beatles number I would preserve aboard the s.p.a.ce Ark. Well, New York, I think the fireworks have finally finished. The stars are going out over Staten Island, and Night Train FM is pulling into the new morning. Time to crawl home, knock back a gla.s.s of tonic, retrieve your underwear from the lampshade, lower the blinds and hit the hay. December 1st promises brilliant skies. Comet Aloysius is getting more dazzling by the day, and the State Medical Officer is recommending UV sunshades if you venture outside. Anglo-Saxons, cover up your skin. Us Hispanics, filter 24 sunblock or higher. Strange, huh? Two sources of light, everything has two shadows. Thank you for spending the night with Bat Segundo, double-check you haven't left anything under the seat or on the luggage rack, and mind your head as you leave the Night Train. Stand clear of the doors!'

Underground

My face stares back as my breath obscures it. Stowed away in the sports bag at my feet the device has begun expelling dead seconds. A timer, solenoids, springs within springs. The hand of G.o.d is drumming its fingers, before beginning His Serendipity's holy work.

The train slows as we pull into the metro station. I see nothing but a night without stars. Where are the rows of commuters, the platform, the escalator, my exit to the world above? I waste precious moments working out what is amiss.

I am waiting on the wrong side of the compartment! Here I am, wedged tight against doors that are not going to open! The unclean have walled me in with their baggage and bodies, cemented with grime and underclothing.

There is no need to panic, Quasar. The doors hiss open at the far ends of the train. In a moment the unclean will drain out onto the platform, and I will be carried along by the current. Wait. Wait.

Wait. Horror slides in like a cleanly struck chisel. n.o.body is getting off already the guards in white gloves are shunting yet more unclean on on! Belatedly, I try to make headway against the tide, but it has a will of its own, and it is all I can do to hold my ground. Should I try to fake a heart attack? Start screaming like a maniac? I dare not who knows where that might lead? I may jeopardise His Serendipity's crusade. Better that I die down here. What? What? I glimpse a couple walking their dog down a beach in Okinawa. Paradise is only ninety minutes away by All Nippon Airlines. The ripped sunset colours the world's end. Or its beginning. I glimpse a couple walking their dog down a beach in Okinawa. Paradise is only ninety minutes away by All Nippon Airlines. The ripped sunset colours the world's end. Or its beginning.

I don't want this train to be my tomb. Fight. Fight.

The waves of unclean break against me, squeezing out my breath. Business drones, office women, schoolgirls, s.e.x swelling the curves of their lips. I push back, an arm gives way, a body yields a fraction. Fight, Fight, Quasar! You are at war! If only my alpha quotient would allow me to teleport to the streets above! My ear squashes against an unclean ear. Music leaks out of the Walkman, and a saxophone from long ago circles in the air, so sad it could barely leave the ground. Quasar! You are at war! If only my alpha quotient would allow me to teleport to the streets above! My ear squashes against an unclean ear. Music leaks out of the Walkman, and a saxophone from long ago circles in the air, so sad it could barely leave the ground.

I'm levered backwards, past the sports bag. I see the moments come swarming out through the zipper. Dominoes, sparrows, flies on a summer day. The baby watches me with eyes that are no longer hers. Minnie Mouse watches me too, grinning. Mirthfully? Revengefully? What is she trying to say?

My muscles are cramping, but I swim forwards once more. I squeeze against a young woman clutching a viola case, a bouquet of doomed flowers, and a book. The viola case digs into my groin. She shields her face with the book, an inch between our noses. The Zen Eye. The Zen Eye. Buddha sits, lipped and lidded, silver on a blue hill, an island far from this tromboning din. Always on the verge of words. Buddha sits, lipped and lidded, silver on a blue hill, an island far from this tromboning din. Always on the verge of words.

Get us out get us out get us out! My lungs are gripping the bars of my rib cage. When the solenoids shatter the phials of cleansing fluid, will my heart hammer a way out, too? What of my soul? Will my soul find a path out of these tunnels? I squirm around the viola case, a backpack, and slide between a pair of trench coats. I try to straighten up, but I am blocked by a sleeping giant whose hair is the colour of tea. Here is the tea, here is the bowl, here is the Tea Shack, here is the mountain, faces of rock in the purest sky. My lungs are gripping the bars of my rib cage. When the solenoids shatter the phials of cleansing fluid, will my heart hammer a way out, too? What of my soul? Will my soul find a path out of these tunnels? I squirm around the viola case, a backpack, and slide between a pair of trench coats. I try to straighten up, but I am blocked by a sleeping giant whose hair is the colour of tea. Here is the tea, here is the bowl, here is the Tea Shack, here is the mountain, faces of rock in the purest sky. See? See? It's not far, not far See? See? It's not far, not far. I crouch under the giant, and twist upwards. Along the ceiling of the compartment I see gra.s.slands rise and fall like years, years upon years of them. The Great Khan's hors.e.m.e.n thunder to the west, the furs, the gold, the White Ladies of Muscovy. Leading the way is the new Toyota Landcruiser, nought per cent interest, repayable over forty-eight months, applicants subject to credit checking.

Move! The unclean are dazzling you! Empty your self of self, and you may slip though where even a scream could not. A sailor blocks me. A sailor, down here? Surely, this heaving coffin is the opposite of the sea? A glossy booklet is splayed against his uniform. The spine is warped and cracking. Empty your self of self, and you may slip though where even a scream could not. A sailor blocks me. A sailor, down here? Surely, this heaving coffin is the opposite of the sea? A glossy booklet is splayed against his uniform. The spine is warped and cracking. Petersburg, City of Masterworks Petersburg, City of Masterworks. An icing-sugar palace, a promenade, a river spanned by graceful bridges. What stops this train collapsing under its own ma.s.s? What stops the world?

This is my stop, I explain to the unclean I am stepping on. I get off here I get off here.

The unclean reply as one. Move down the compartment. Move down the compartment.

I try to block them as they block me, and seek out their weakness. Adrenalin swirls through my bloodstream like cream in coffee. One more metre closer to life. A vinyl shopping bag falls down from a rack. It bulges with a crayon-coloured web that a computer might have doodled: The London Underground The London Underground. I elbow it out of my face. I get off here I get off here. The fire in the hearth is the colour of fellowship. Their smiles are warm and gluey as Auld Lang Syne Auld Lang Syne. On the label of Kilmagoon whiskey is an island as old as the world.

And I can go no further. A mere metre away, but with more unclean being crammed on, I am stuck fast as a bee in amber. I watch the light on the waves, and sink, my arm flailing out towards the exit even though the rest of me has given up fighting.

Stand clear of the doors, say the unclean. Tubes locked within other tubes, and Quasar, the distant messenger, locked in the innermost. With a hydraulic hiss the doors close on the unclean and the cleanser. say the unclean. Tubes locked within other tubes, and Quasar, the distant messenger, locked in the innermost. With a hydraulic hiss the doors close on the unclean and the cleanser.

Pain shoots up my arm. From where? From my fingers. The doors have closed on my hand! Stand clear of the doors! Stand clear of the doors! The unclean sound less c.o.c.ksure now. Yes! The train cannot leave until all the doors are shut. The unclean sound less c.o.c.ksure now. Yes! The train cannot leave until all the doors are shut.

I don't care who or what I'm trampling over as I reel myself in. With strength I never knew I possessed I prise open the doors to a fist-wide crack. I hear a grunt of panic. It's me. I shove my arm through. The rubber seals squeal against my leather jacket. My knee, my thigh, my whole side. The guard glares at me, mouthing, That is forbidden That is forbidden, but the sound is lost. Will he try to shove me back into the zombie wagon? The fear is lost. I've fallen forwards and have headb.u.t.ted the Empire State Building, circled by an albino bat, scattering words and stars though the night. Spend the Night with Bat Segundo on 97.8 FM Spend the Night with Bat Segundo on 97.8 FM.

I am on my knees, safe on the platform, looking up, looking down. The lanky foreigner offers me a hand, but I shake my head, and he rejoins the ma.s.s of unclean waiting for the next train. Wait for the comet, wait for the White Nights. The train alongside me starts to pull away.

I haul myself to my feet, spent and quivering. What is real and what is not?

Who is blowing on the nape of my neck?

I swing around nothing but the back of the train, accelerating into the darkness.

Acknowledgments.

The two poems in 'The Holy Mountain' are by Taneda Santoko, translated by John Stevens in Mountain Tasting Mountain Tasting (John Weatherhill, Tokyo, 1980). The folk stories in 'Mongolia' are based on tales from (John Weatherhill, Tokyo, 1980). The folk stories in 'Mongolia' are based on tales from How Did the Great Bear Originate? How Did the Great Bear Originate? edited by Professor Choi Luvsanjav, and translated by Damdinsurengyn Altangerel (State Publishing House, Ulan Bator, 1987). 'Mongolia' is also indebted to edited by Professor Choi Luvsanjav, and translated by Damdinsurengyn Altangerel (State Publishing House, Ulan Bator, 1987). 'Mongolia' is also indebted to The Last Disco in Outer Mongolia The Last Disco in Outer Mongolia by Nick Middleton (Phoenix, 1992). Gambling statistics in Part 4 of London are from by Nick Middleton (Phoenix, 1992). Gambling statistics in Part 4 of London are from Easy Money Easy Money by David Spanier (Oldcastle Books, 1995). A short extract from W.B. Yeats' 'The Lake Isle of Innisfree', published in by David Spanier (Oldcastle Books, 1995). A short extract from W.B. Yeats' 'The Lake Isle of Innisfree', published in W.B. Yeats: Selected Poetry W.B. Yeats: Selected Poetry (Penguin), is used in 'London' and 'Clear Island' with A.P. Watt's permission on behalf of the estate of W.B. Yeats. (Penguin), is used in 'London' and 'Clear Island' with A.P. Watt's permission on behalf of the estate of W.B. Yeats.

Thank you to Michael Shaw, Jonathan Pegg, Tibor Fischer, Neil Taylor, Sarah Ballard, Alexandra Heminsley, Myrna Blumberg, Elizabeth Poynter, David Koerner, Ian Willey and Jan Montefiore.