‘Then booby trap the bridge, so that it won’t fall until a motorised convoy passes 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 Space 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 glass 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 God 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. Nobody is getting off — already the guards in white gloves are shunting yet more unclean 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? 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.
The waves of unclean break against me, squeezing out my breath. Business drones, office women, schoolgirls, sex swelling the curves of their lips. I push back, an arm gives way, a body yields a fraction. 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.
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. 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. See? See? It’s not far, not far. I crouch under the giant, and twist upwards. Along the ceiling of the compartment I see grasslands rise and fall like years, years upon years of them. The Great Khan’s horsemen 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. Petersburg, City of Masterworks. An icing-sugar palace, a promenade, a river spanned by graceful bridges. What stops this train collapsing under its own mass? What stops the world?
This is my stop, I explain to the unclean I am stepping on. I get off here.
The unclean reply as one. 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. I elbow it out of my face. I get off here. The fire in the hearth is the colour of fellowship. Their smiles are warm and gluey as 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.