Magnus knew a little psychology. Dying was a process that everyone had to go through. Rage, denial, acceptance – he understood the general idea. And it was true to a degree. People with the canker had time to work it all through at leisure. People in Magnus’s basement didn’t have that kind of opportunity. But they did come to terms with death. Almost all of them. What they couldn’t handle, what none of them had ever handled was the pain of their systematic destruction. The unmaking of their bodies with knives while they yet lived. They all broke in the end.
All of them.
Even Prophet John Collins here on the rug, so defiant in these first moments, would do the same.
There were Shantis all the way back to the creation of the town but it quickly became clear from reading the records of their births, marriages and deaths that she was going to find little of any bearing on Richard Shanti. She followed his bloodline from seven generations to the present. Everything was in order except for the death of the child named Richard Shanti. But if Richard Shanti’s records were false in any way, if he did not possess true status as one of the townsfolk, then every generation that followed him must also have no status. The beautiful twin girls, children any family in the town would be proud of, and even his wife, because she’d taken his name; they would all face his fate.
She found herself not wanting that because she had been so fond of the girls. Maya Shanti she could take or leave; she was like so many of the women of the town and the Parson could smell the deceit on her. Mere deceitfulness was not enough to cause loss of status, however. Being the wife to a non-townsfolk bloodline, a defrauder of the Welfare and abuser of the faith on the other hand was the thing that would finish her and her daughters.
Richard Shanti held for her a certain respect and fascination. He was a man whose work kept the town of Abyrne alive. He was an MMP legend. The Parson did not consider herself without sympathy for the Chosen; while it was a divine privilege to give flesh in the name of the Lord, she realised that the Chosen suffered in order to do so. Men like Richard Shanti understood the Chosen the way most could not. Because of this he reduced their suffering and, at the very same time, provided the high chain speeds that supported the town. She truly did not want to find this man lacking in such a fundamental aspect.
It was a matter of religious duty, however, and she would see it through.
Rawlins brought her a glass of milk and though she’d seen him step with due care along the central walkway of the archives, there was a gritty film of grey particles on the surface of the milk by the time he arrived. She thanked him anyway. The milk relieved the pain in her stomach for moments only. She would have asked for another if the thought of drinking it didn’t make her feel so nauseous. The quivering of her fingers made the dust rise from the old record boxes and files no matter what she did.
The Shanti files exhausted from creation to present day, she went to Richard Shanti’s file, checked the year of his birth and his recorded, if not actual, death and began to scan the files of every child born that year. Her plan was to cross-reference with orphaned children and look for possible switches. She was certain now, that if there was an infraction, it was down to someone taking the dead child’s place rather than an incorrect entry. The adult Richard Shanti was someone else’s child and had been taken in by the Shanti family.
All that remained was to find out whose child he was.
‘Don’t you know anything about evolution, Collins? I thought you were educated.’ A wet, lippy suck on the cheroot. A swill of clear, fragrant vodka. ‘Food chains. Natural selection. Survival of the fittest. It all makes sense, you know. More than this religious crap the Welfare put about. The strongest, smartest animal is at the top of the pile. Take this situation here; the hunter catches its prey. The hunter eats the prey. The hunter survives. The bloodline of the weaker animal is thus removed from the equation. Surely even you can understand that.’
Collins didn’t respond. He looked into Magnus’s eyes. There was silence in the room but each man heard the sound of breathing in their own head; Magnus’s harsh and loud. He was used to it and it seemed normal. Black-coated Bruno’s breath was rapid and shallow, his adrenaline high, impatience making his heart beat fast. He shifted his weight from foot to foot wanting violence, wanting dismissal, wanting anything other than this silence. John Collins could hear his breath but it was a distant thing, not like the waves on a beach; slower, like tides. He controlled it and everything else became calm.
After a couple of minutes, Magnus laughed. Bruno’s bunched shoulders dropped an inch or two. Collins continued to stare.
‘Your problem is that you still think you’re my equal. Bollock-naked and on your knees, you still believe your life means something, don’t you? You’re finished, Collins. You may not know it yet but your life is over right now. You have no more significance in this world.’ Collins’s voice came in some perfect nano-pause when neither Magnus nor Bruno were completely focussed. It made them both jump. His composed tones didn’t belong in the room. Magnus recovered himself first; in time to take the words in:
‘It isn’t of any concern to me,’ he said, ‘but my life is significant and will continue to be so, long after I die.’ He kept his eyes on Magnus. ‘You, on the other hand, while you may be remembered as an aberration, are already nothing more than a walking, talking carcass of fat and meat.’
Magnus’s face heated up but he kept himself quiet. It wouldn’t do to let either of these men see him rattled. Instead of shouting, instead of mashing Collins’s pathetic testicles in his fist and putting out his cheroot in the scrawny man’s eye, he forced a chuckle. He finished his vodka and dropped the cheroot into the damp dregs where it hissed and died. He stood up and his full height became clear. He was a giant. Two metres of bulk and muscle. He had a paunch, but his chest was enormous and his arms bulged beneath his suit. His thighs were like the trunks of small trees and his neck was as wide as his head. Bruno felt the physical threat rolling off him in pulses and wanted to step backwards. He stayed where he was.
Magnus walked around to the front of his desk which already stood on a plinth. To keep eye contact, Collins had to stretch his neck upwards. The movement was enough to cause Bruno to respond. He pushed Collins’s head down until he was bowing before the Meat Baron.
‘You’re a far weaker man than I,’ said Collins towards the rug.
‘I could snap your neck with one hand,’ said Magnus.
‘You could do anything you want to me while I’m tied up like this. Anyone could. That tells me that you’re afraid. I wonder why that is, Magnus. Why would a man as well put together as you be afraid of a thin little man like me? It’s because you’re frail inside. Your will is frail. Your mind is frail.’
Bruno looked down and away, embarrassed; scared of what would come next.
‘You talk of the strong surviving but you could never fight a man like me and win, Magnus. You don’t understand what it takes to be truly strong. True, I’m an easy catch for your gang of thugs. I can’t deal with the numbers. But one-on-one you wouldn’t have a chance against me. You know this and that is why I’m kneeling naked and bound on your carpet instead of talking to you man to man. You’re afraid of me.’