‘Just down there a little way,’ Jules said, pointing back to the way she’d just come. ‘Through the big doors. She went to the loo… to the toilet, sorry. And got lost. She is fine, Mariela.’
Pieraro’s wife nodded gratefully. ‘I worry. I cannot see her and I worry.’
‘She’s fine,’ Jules repeated.
The woman grabbed at her arm as they passed each other, a strong, almost vice-like grip. ‘You are a good person, yes?’ she said. ‘A good person to save my family. All of us. Thank you, thank you…’
Embarrassed, as any Englishwoman would be by flagrant neediness and raw emotion, especially from a stranger, Jules blushed slightly and tried to shrug it off.
‘No,’ insisted Mariela. ‘You did not have to take us all, but you did. You helped when no one else would. You are good person, Miss Julianne. Good person.’
‘It’s fine,’ replied Jules, not knowing what else to say. ‘She’s in the lounge. Best go get her.’
‘Si Si’
Mariela continued on her way, muttering ‘Thank you’ repeatedly as she receded. It was the longest conversation Julianne had had with her or any of Miguel’s people, save for Pieraro himself, of course. Truth be known, she had avoided them, not wanting to grow attached to people she had promised herself she would cut loose at the first opportunity.
Putting that uncomfortable thought out of her head, she resumed the journey to her cabin, taking another few minutes to get there. She was sticky with salt and sweat, and filthy from the day’s exertions, but the sea was too rough to have a bath or shower. Instead, Julianne stripped down to her underwear, crawled under the covers and turned out the light.
There was nothing she could do about the storm or the men chasing them. The storm would pass. The men would not.
She fell asleep haunted by visions of the little girl called Maya being tortured by faceless ghouls.
45
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON
Jed Culver stood at the back of the auditorium, stirring a sachet of Sweet ‘N Low into his instant coffee, regarding the deteriorating fiasco of the convention with mute detachment.
Reggie Guertson had the call again. He’d firmed up as the point man for what Culver was calling ‘the Beer Hall Putsch’ – the broad-based faction of neo-con Democrats, national security fetishists, wingnut Republicans and a grab bag of survivalist whackjobs, chancers, urgers and shameless self-aggrandisers who had all come together behind the banner of the so-called Reform Movement. They were his enemies. That’s how he thought of them. His enemies, and the enemies of the old Republic.
And they were winning, at least on the floor of the Constitutional Convention. Their crazy, fear-driven idea of a new Constitution, enshrining military representation at the heart of civilian government, was actually gaining traction. If he didn’t have such a low opinion of human nature he’d have had a hard time believing it. Didn’t these fools understand that the US military couldn’t even sustain itself now, let alone run what remained of the country?
The hard truth didn’t seem to matter to them, though. It was as if they’d all joined hands and stepped through the looking glass.
Up on stage, Mayor Guertson was haranguing a section of the audience that was attempting to shout him down. Spittle was flying from his lips and the public address system distorted every time he banged the podium with his fist. For their part, the hecklers were giving back as good as they got. Screeching and even throwing things at him.
‘This is what we’re fighting against!’ railed Guertson. ‘This sort of anarchy and subversion is what will destroy us all – it has to be stopped!’
‘Sieg heil. Sieg heil,’ chanted his detractors.
‘This is going well then.’
Culver wasn’t surprised to find James Kipper at his elbow. He’d been expecting him here. He knew Kipper often cruised the buffet tables looking for treats to take home to his daughter. In fact, before Jed could speak, the engineer fessed up.
‘Just came up here looking for more army chocolate,’ he admitted sheepishly.
‘Here. For your kid,’ said Culver, producing a carefully hoarded packet of Milk Duds. ‘I traded my cigarette ration for them.’
The city engineer blushed and began to shake his head, but Culver waved off his objection.
‘I don’t smoke, and I’m diabetic. I just thought your little girl might like them.’
‘Well, she would,’ Kip admitted. ‘But it doesn’t feel right. Things are so tight at the moment.’
‘What are you, a Catholic, with all that guilt? Take the fucking Milk Duds, Kip. They’ll kill me if I eat them. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get insulin at the moment?’
The engineer thanked him and pocketed the small treat. ‘Suzie’ll love them.’ He had to raise his voice to be heard over the din.
‘This is a first-class shambles, isn’t it?’ said Culver.
Kipper nodded. He surveyed the scene as if discovering a bedroom left in chaos by a naughty child. The convention chairman was on his feet now, pointing his little wooden hammer at Guertson, demanding he give up the podium. The Sieg heil crew were being pushed around at the edges by a group of men who looked like they’d just come in from a logging mill, and at least two fist fights had broken out on the far side of the hall. Kipper muttered something, excused himself and hurried away. A minute or so later, all power to the room was cut, plunging it into darkness.
The effect was almost instant: a sudden change in tone from angry contention to confusion and surprise. After a short interval, the lights came up again, and when they did, Kipper was standing at the podium, smiling at Mayor Guertson, asking politely for the microphone. He got it and then spoke forcefully to the entire room.
‘Sorry, folks. James Kipper, city engineer. We’ve had some trouble with relays from the power station and this place is a major drain on the grid. The whole building is set to flip off when we get a spike. Perhaps a ten-minute break while my guys sort this out would be a good idea. It won’t take long, I promise.’
He flicked off the PA and waved a hand over at a man in overalls, standing by a junction box at the rear of the hall. His technician dimmed the lights and cut power to the sound system with an audible pop. Kipper hopped down from the stage, holding both hands up, with his fingers splayed. Ten minutes.
The crowd seemed to deflate as the malign energy that had been building up sluiced out of the room. Not entirely, but enough for everyone to retreat from their entrenched positions.
Culver stood to one side as a hundred or more people made straight for the coffee and sandwich tables where he was standing. He pushed through them, like a salmon swimming upstream, intent on catching Kipper before he disappeared again. He found the engineer, loitering by a side exit, watching over the room with a censorious air.