firstwriter.com First Short Story Anthology by Various Authors
Ariel (or is it Maria?) taps me on the shoulder.
- Did you hear that?
It is Ariel.
- This is something.
- What?
- Nothing. Not a whisper. You could have heard a pin drop out there.
Maria smirks.
- Or a paedophile.
She gives a little bull-snort out through her nose as she says it. It's the closest she comes to laughing. And it's at her own joke.
But Ariel is right. This one is special. The monitor in the screening room showed 645 million votes already, and still 70 seconds to go. In the history of Justice TV, this was the highest ratings ever.
A tap on the shoulder. Ariel, Maria?
- Why Blue?
Maria.
- Looks the most guilty.
- What about him, apart from the shape of the head?
- Poor posture. Tell-tale sign.
Ariel leans forward.
- Most guilty? Is it relative?
- And sign of what? A bad back?
- Anyway, aren't they all supposed to be guilty?
Maria turns to Ariel.
- So if they’re all guilty what does it matter?
- Course it matters. You're deciding who dies, you need some valid reason.
Maria nearly spits out her water.
- You're deciding? Please. You've got one vote in a billion. You don't get anywhere near deciding.
By now it's between Ariel and Maria, except they're not talking to each other, they're arguing through me. A voice in either ear. Not a voice of conscience, or a dialogue of the soul. No angel and devil on either shoulder – it is not a cartoon. Just two mouths on two colleagues winding each other up so their sex after the show could have that edge; that grudge that great desk-top sex should have. Their courting, like their fucking, derives its heat from friction.
- So what if it’s just one vote. That’s democracy. Got to be in it to win it.
- Democracy? You serious? It's just decent old-fashioned entertainment.
- Decent?
- Okay, old-fashioned then. Except with new technology.
- But we get to choose. We're exercising our right to vote.
- Three coloured buttons on your handset, darling. Interactive television, that's all, hardly democracy.
- So what coloured button did you go for?
- Yellow.
- Really?
- You?
- Same.
- Well there you go. Why Yellow?
- My sister was raped.
- Oh.
- Yours?
- What?
- Your reason?
- My ex used to like butter.
- You don’t like butter. Butter’s yellow. That’s a valid reason?
- As in Marlin Brando Last Tango In Paris kind of butter. Without consent.
- Oh.
I saw them two nights ago in the car park, grinding away between cars, their breath turning to steam in the night air, tumbling out like exhaust fumes, like smoke from rubbed sticks.
Blue's arms are back to the horizontal (one of the directors must have had a word during the break; something like if he didn't get his act together he'd be up here again, if he was lucky). Red's trousers have darkened round the crotch but it's too late to count against him. Voting's closed, the audience have had their chance. Millions of yellow, red and blue buttons have been pressed on handsets across the world. Elimination's over.
The helicopter has disappeared. The gorge wall is black. There is no noise, no light. The valley is in darkness. A flare is shot up from the river bed, high above the bridge. It burns for a second before anything happens. Then as one, always as one, Yellow, Red and Blue flex their knees and launch off the bridge, backs arched, arms out.
We see them dive through the night air, through the light of the flare, their cords looping out behind them. Red and Blue maintain their shape but Yellow's arms are now flailing. They reach the dying edges of the flare's light, and disappear. For a split second we see three perfectly vertical cords, yellow, red and blue. It is (according to the program) a moment of pure geometric suspense.
Then the pattern changes. The yellow cord and the blue cord begin to jangle and arc a little, while between them the red cord stays straight. The bodies of Blue and Yellow soar back into the flare's shrinking light, their hoods ripped off by the force of the recoil. The flare is weakening now and the crowd do not want to miss a thing (Justice TV is 100% real-time, no replays). This is supposed to be a positive show, a celebration: the idea is that they look at the faces of Blue and Yellow, murderer and rapist, stunned to be alive still, and now free. But in reality, most are watching the untethered end of the red cord, snaking its way down behind its body, a useless umbilical in the fading light.
The whole thing is immaculately executed. Apart from the minor blemish with Yellow's flailing arms, but I think we can be forgiven for that.
Commercial Break.
It is 4.0 seconds from the bridge to the river. Or 250 feet.
I breathe out so deeply it feels like I have been holding my breath for minutes and perhaps I have. It is still dark here, and all I can hear is the throb of blood in my ears, and all around me a shockwave of silence.
I feel nothing, and then, a tap on my shoulder.
Table of Contents
The Death of James Chambers
By Tom Campbell
United Kingdom
Chateau de Bois, Bergerac, November 11, 2.30pm
It was, typically, Mark who realised the mistake. Up until then, the last days of Sir James Chamber’s life had been spent in peace, calm and comfort. One would almost say good health, if it weren’t for the cancer.
He hadn’t experienced any intolerable pain for weeks now. Once he had stopped trying to fight it, the tumour had proved to be a very gracious victor, and had quietly got on with the business of killing him, steadily growing and squeezing, and thinning and draining him. Meanwhile, well regulated doses of unlicensed painkillers, procured quasi-legally from the Houston Institute of Medicine, were making the process as dignified as possible. They were highly effective and precisely targeted, and each pill had cost four hundred dollars. They were also still experimental and untested, but, as his doctor had said, it was a bit late to be worrying about side-effects now.
Emotionally, James had remained on an even keel. He had always prided himself on his capacity for rationalism, and once he had been given the terminal prognosis, he had quickly passed through the stages of shock-denial-grief-anger-acceptance, and spent his last few months as profitably as possible. And, really, how could he resent his tumour? That libertarian masterpiece, growing freely and efficiently across his chest, unencumbered by the tyrannical regulations that all his other cells feebly subjected themselves to. No, the tumour was part of him – in fact, it was the most ambitious and enterprising part – and it would die with him. In fleeting moments, he had even found himself wondering if anything could be done to save it.
In this reflective mood, he was able to spend his last few days going over the balance sheet of his seventy years unsentimentally, in a disciplined, well-organised manner, making careful note of all that had happened. From his earliest memories of wartime summers on the Sussex coast, through to prep school, boarding school, Oxford, the bank and all else that followed, he scrutinised the decisions he had made, the paths he had taken and, never allowing himself more than a morsel of regret, those he had not.
And, at the end, the inventory really wasn’t too bad at all. There were, he estimated, no more than 150 people in the United Kingdom who were richer than he was. True, he hadn’t exactly started out with nothing, but he had played his hand with verve and skill. Most of the big risks had come off, all of the losses had been manageable, and he had properties, businesses, investments, partners, holding companies, creditors, debtors, enemies, mistresses, victims, competitors and litigations handsomely spread across four continents.
Fortunately, he had avoided the great follies that had engulfed his contemporaries – politics, sports, philanthropy, the arts, newspapers. There was no Chambers school of music, no ruinously expensive football club to worry about, and he was of little interest to journalists. He had always regarded his political donations as no more than an unavoidable business cost, and his knighthood had been awarded for no other reason than that he had a lot of money.
Nor had he been lonely. His first marriage lasted thirty years, produced four children and ended amicably and surprisingly cost effectively, while his second wife, although now hugely irritating, had provided him with four years of glamour and sexual excitement, without ever being completely vulgar. He had two economically dysfunctional daughters, who had inherited at least some of their mother’s good sense, and thankfully made only semi-poor choices of husband. There were five indistinguishable grandchildren, many of whom were now bouncing around the grounds of the Chateau. Touchingly, for the last week of his life, most of his family seemed to want to be, if not with him, then at least somewhere on the same property.
It was Anthony who was the only out-and-out disaster. The eldest, who had behaved so much more like a youngest son, a foolish forty-five year old adolescent who dedicated his life to getting high and plotting schemes to bring down capitalism. It was very disappointing. Almost a million pounds spent on bringing him up, and all cancelled out by £10 worth of hallucinogenic drugs that transformed his son from Balliol scholar into gibbering idiot. Not that it got any cheaper afterwards. For five years, James had invested heavily in his son’s mental health. The world’s most expensive pharmaceuticals, the alpine sanatorium, controversial shock therapies, Chinese meditation, and, finally, fatally, the Californian psychoanalyst who provided Anthony with not only a theoretical justification for his lunacy, but a patriarchal culprit.
At the end, Anthony was no longer mad, but he was no longer Anthony either. The earnest young classics student went on to become many other improbable things instead: revolutionary Leninist, anarcho-libertarian, pantheist, surfer, Buddhist, environmental activist, cannabis dealer, skateboarder. Finally, he settled on unspecialised beach bum. If he lived in England he would be what James would have called a tramp, but on the West Coast of America he was considered a citizen, even a community leader, among the whackos with whom he took drugs and shared the funds his mother sent him.
But with Mark there had been no such accidents. From the earliest age, his youngest son had instinctively understood the contractual underpinnings of family relations. Mark knew what was due to him and what was expected of him, and had quietly got on with the family business of making money. He had a pathological work ethic, spoke in a flat trans-Atlantic accent and was impressively, brutally right wing. Emotionally uncomplicated, he still managed to be permanently on the point of losing his temper. His tall, blonde and barren Connecticut wife was both one of the most attractive and boring women that James had ever met.
And it was Mark who was now coming to him at the end. Broken from his stocktaking by the sound of footsteps, James raised his head to see his youngest son. He was striding purposefully down the hall, briefcase in hand, looking strikingly like James himself had done three decades ago, if somewhat shorter, and he started speaking to his father even as he approached.
“Jesus, dad. Do you know what tax regime you’re about to die in?”
Mark wasn’t alone. Scampering behind him was Lewton, frenetically nodding his bald head. “Sorry Jimmy, mea culpa, I’m afraid. Eye off the ball on this one. It was Mark who spotted it, and immediately I knew he was right. France is no country to die in. Not unless you want to be making a generous contribution to the state this year.”
“To all intents and purposes, we are in a communist country,” said Mark.
Although he understood what he had just heard, it was some moments before James was able to reply. He hadn’t spoken a fully-formed sentence for many hours, and seemed to take a while to formulate a cogent response. “Okay, I understand. I should have thought of this myself. Take me to London. Valerie, let’s do this as soon as possible.”
The nurse, who had been sitting in the corner of the room, was on her feet. Anything she was about to say was silenced by a curt shake of the head. Mark and Lewton looked at each other for a moment. Mark said: “Okay, let’s not push it now. Let’s just get back to London. Will you get Frye to sort this out?”
Mark turned to Valerie. “We need to get back to London straight away. I guess you’ll need to give dad a sedative for the journey, but for Christ’s sakes, be careful – if he dies on the flight, I don’t even know what the tax implications are.”
Eaton Square, London November 12, 3pm
As if by teleport, Sir James awoke in London. The weather was beastly, as he had known it would be. He looked out of his window at a grey wall. He had never expected to see a winter’s afternoon in England again, and the sight did not cheer him. Already it was perceptibly darkening, or was it his vision that was fading? He knew that that was to be expected soon.
For some reason, they had made a bed for him downstairs, rather than use the master bedroom. In the room next door, his study, he could dimly hear voices. Lewton, Mark and Jarmir Chahal, the lawyer, were talking. They weren’t arguing, but he recognised Mark’s purposeful and business-like tone dominating the conversation, asking questions, overruling objections, making collective decisions.
He couldn’t say how long he had been awake, and how long this had been going on for. He felt groggy from the sedative, and he wanted to go back to sleep. Perhaps he did, because when he looked up next, the curtains had been drawn and the room was full.
“How are you, Jimmy old boy?” said Lewton, with laboured chumminess.
“Tired and very ill. Now what’s going on?” said James.
Lewton didn’t reply. He turned to Mark, who said: “Dad, we were thinking you should go to Mexico.”
“You know you’ve got residency rights there,” said Lewton.
James nodded, and said slowly: “Mexico... yes, that’s right, I do, of course. Though I haven’t been there for years. It’s rather a long way from here.”
Lewton nodded unhelpfully. “Yes, it is rather,” he said. “But the tax savings are considerable.”
“We’re talking a difference of almost twenty million dollars,” said Mark.
Sir James did not reply, but looked at his lawyer.
“Not immediately, of course,” said Jarmir. “It will take us a few months to sort the paperwork out, and it will have to be routed through the States. But it’s a perfectly standard procedure. No risk, and yes, I’m confident you will make tax efficiencies in approximately that region.”
Sir James’s father had given him little advice in life, but had told him always to have an English accountant and a Jewish lawyer. Well, times had changed, and he had a Jewish accountant and an Indian lawyer. He also had a French nurse, Valerie, who up until now had been listening by the door in silence.
Suddenly, she said: “We cannot go to Mexico. I don’t give my permission. It’s not safe. The doctor will not give his permission.”
“The doctor will give his permission to whatever dad says,” said Mark.
Sir James looked up, away from the others, to the ceiling. God, he didn’t feel like going to Mexico. All he really felt like doing was dying, but it clearly wasn’t going to be as straightforward as that. People said that the only certainties in life were death and taxes, but which people – nobody that James knew. Death was one thing, but there had never been anything certain about his taxes. Twenty million dollars was hardly the kind of money to throw away, and besides, there was the principle of the thing. No bureaucrat, French or English, was going to rob his grave. Not if he could do anything about it.
“Okay. Call Frye. Tell him to get hold of the plane and make all the necessary arrangements. Prepare the house. Make sure all the paperwork is tight and that you’ve got everything worked out. I don’t
Although it wasn’t clear who exactly he had been addressing, there was an immediate flurry of activity. Lewton bustled out of the room, Chahal started rummaging for papers in his case. Valerie shook her head, but stomped out of the room, to go and do as she was told. She was, she knew, being paid more than any nurse she had ever met. Only Mark stayed where he was.
“Dad,” he said. “I’m not going to be able to go with you on this one.”
James looked up at his son, but before he could say anything, Mark continued: “I’ve got a hellish week, and I need to get back to New York. There’s a heap of things going down. One’s big, really big, and all of them need my attention. If I don’t steer it myself, I’ll have a shit storm to deal with. You understand how it is.”
Sir James nodded slowly. “I understand,” he said.
“And don’t worry,” said Mark. “I’ll definitely make the funeral.”
San Teodoro, Yucatan, November 15, 11am
It was funny, he thought, how the present circumstances impact so strongly on one’s perceptions of the past, even in the most rational of men. As James looked out over the farm, he couldn’t help but wonder if his previous assessment of the last seventy years, made just a few days ago, hadn’t been unreasonably upbeat.
There was no doubt that things were a lot less comfortable than they had been. Most of his medical supplies had been either confiscated or stolen at the airport and he was now solely dependent on imprecisely measured doses of morphine. Since waking he had veered erratically from vast pain to blissed out idiocy. Even now, on what was his very best form, he felt groggy and unclear. With some effort, the most distinct emotion he could muster was a state of extreme grumpiness.
He wasn’t the only one. Clearly furious to be in rural Mexico, Valerie had disappeared into the house, only appearing every so often to perform the most perfunctory of tests and clumsily administer some medication. The doctor had only seen him twice, and both times had seemed strikingly disappointed. They obviously wanted him to die as soon as possible.