The descent, p.17
The Descent, page 17
The Boss and the wife had escaped to the ranch in Wyoming, which was a lot cooler due to the altitude, but the rest of us office staff had to keep the organisational wheels turning at headquarters. And that was what was so amazing about it all. We all showed up each morning, hot and irritable, yes, but we showed up anyway and did our jobs. We answered phones, made transactions and compiled reports, grateful for the office AC, breaking for iced coffees and Slurpees every once in a while, and then going back to it until it was time to go home. And so did everyone else. The restaurants and bars were full after work, the trains and buses crowded as usual. It was as if people didn’t know what was happening, didn’t know that they were all fucked. As if they didn’t know that the decisions had already been made. And here they all were – here we all were – pretending that everything could just go on as it always had, sleepwalking towards the edge of the cliff.
Despite Maddisson and Yu Wan’s best efforts over the last few years, it was still pretty easy to get a picture of what was going on. I mean, what was really going on. Most of what Trig had been briefing us about was available with a short Google search. Sure, the first answers that would come up now were the bogus narratives that our flunky ‘scientists’ – my fingers again – were putting out there, but scroll a little further down and it was all there. Hannah Arendt, my favourite philosopher, was right. Power is communication, not coercion, and can only be exercised by people acting in concert. In an age when we were all taught to be individuals and to value individuality above all else, we’d lost the ability or desire to act collectively. And the guys had basically set it up so that we were all eating an exclusive, self-imposed, low-carb diet of lies. Their lies. And now it was too late.
Matriarchy
The ghost of Cape Town is a thousand nautical miles behind us, but here still aboard somehow, lurking in the troubled faces of my wife and son, the disbelief I feel within myself. It’s one thing to read about something like that, another to see the aftermath.
Whatever is waiting for us in West Africa, that is where we are going. The home of my ancestors, the family I have never known, if any remain. Mum met some of them, a long time ago, all that were left. Two brothers, both older: Abeiku, who died in the war shortly after, and Tano. And a sister, Xoese, the youngest. And after, if we are able, we will cross the Atlantic, sail to Grenada, and try to find Becky.
The cold waters of the Benguela current well up beneath us, carrying us along. And everywhere, there is life. Fur seals frolic in the water around us. We see little African penguins twisting and flashing beneath us, black-and-white darts scooping up fish. Dolphins, too, are regular companions, riding our bow wave, delighting Leo, who sits at the bow as I once did long ago on this same boat, talking to these intelligent, graceful creatures.
And yet, despite this abundance, we have seen no fishing trawlers, none of the massive factory freezer ships Papa told us about. We are alone. I keep thinking about what First Governess said: ninety percent of the human population of her island gone in the last forty years. Papa’s book mentions several cities extinguished in this same abrupt, irrevocable way, but not Cape Town. How many more cities have met this fate? Can it really be that the rest of Africa has been similarly depopulated – the world too? Those bones stacked by the roadside in haunting, ordered pattern, the ditch cobbled with skulls.
Later, we pass through a gyre of garbage, plastic floating around us for as far as we can see, a heartbreaking array of containers, dismembered plastic chairs, disintegrating bags flapping just below the surface like giant medusa in strange suspension, countless moulded shapes of unknown purpose and origin, a universe of extruded single-use disposability. We watch it go by in numb awe, hour after hour. So much of it, this waste somehow testament to the millions who it had outlasted, a metaphor perhaps, of that other time.
Julie sits in the cockpit with me, the African coast dark to starboard, the South Atlantic slipping away beneath us, cold and quiet. I know she is trying to make sense of everything that has happened. So am I. Madagascar seems so long ago now, almost as if it never happened, so strange it all was. And yet, the echoes of that time surround us every day. Leo’s afternoon drawings regularly feature the village, its small canals and gardens, the flowers, pictures of women in long, flowing robes, men armed and walking through the jungle. First Governess’s insistence that each meal should begin with a statement of thanks is being maintained on board Providence, as are other customs.
Julie laces her hand in mine. ‘He was an orphan, you know. Like me.’
‘Amsterdam.’
‘Yes. He ran away from the orphanage at fourteen and joined one of the few merchant ships still running, as a cabin boy. He was only eighteen when First Governess bought the ship. He signed on. They loaded gold bullion in Lisbon, paid their way through the Suez Canal, picked up weapons and extra fuel in Aden, and sailed for Madagascar. He chose that life.’
It is dark now. Starlight glows in her eyes.
‘You love him,’ I say.
‘Yes.’ There is no hesitation in her voice, no equivocation. Just yes.
I say nothing, listen to the hiss of the water over Providence’s hull.
She squeezes my hand. ‘But I never stopped loving you.’
‘I know.’
‘That’s what I’ve learned, Kwe. We can love more than one person. Our capacity for love is huge. Infinite. All we have to do is open ourselves to it. And that’s what’s going to save us, Kwe. All of us. Becky too.’
‘Our capacity for hate isn’t far behind. Just look around you. She was going to have me killed.’
Tears well up in her eyes, splinter Rigel’s ancient light.
‘When he told me, I didn’t believe it.’
‘I never thanked him,’ I say. ‘If it wasn’t for him, I’d be dead. He saved my life, in more ways than one.’
We sit for a long time, staring out at the stars hurling themselves against the dark waves for as far as we can see, the warm breeze streaming her hair about her face, the tears shining on her cheeks.
‘What happened that night, Julie?’
She takes a long, deep breath. ‘Ever since you told me about that patrol, I had known it might happen, that it was a possibility. I learned to live with it. But when they told me you’d been killed, it was as if I’d died too. I wanted to die. I thought of drowning myself. Rowing to Providence and shackling the spare anchor to my leg and jumping over the side. But then I thought of Leo, and I knew I couldn’t. I had to be there for him. He was going to need me more than ever.’
Tears flow from her eyes, drip to her chest. She sniffs and tries to wipe them away. ‘A day passed, and then another. I cried until it hurt, until there was nothing left. And then on that third night, very late, Amsterdam came to see me. He told me what had happened by the river, all of it, that you were alive and were waiting for us. I didn’t believe him. It seemed crazy that First Governess would order such a thing done. I knew that you’d been angry, that you’d threatened to leave, but I always thought we would work it out, all of us, find some compromise.’
It has been so long since she’s opened up to me like this that I let her talk.
‘And when he told me that First Governess had selected someone else as my second husband, I knew he was telling the truth. I always thought it would be him, when the time came. Part of me thought we would stay there forever, Kwe. Really. That we would all be so happy. I’m sorry, but I did. It seemed so, so … I don’t know … perfect.’
She hides her face in her hands. Sobs come in deep waves now, overpowering her. ‘That she would do such a thing … the thought of you lying out there with a bullet inside you …’ She convulses again, overwhelmed.
It is a long time before she can continue.
‘He told me to be ready the next day, at sunset. He would come for us at dusk and lead us to you. Part of me didn’t believe him, but if there was even a chance you were still alive, I had to take it. That afternoon, we were all ready. I told Leo we were going for a short trip, but decided to trust Fema. I told her that it was her choice, that she could stay or go. She didn’t hesitate for a moment.
‘We waited. Dusk came and went, and Amsterdam didn’t come. Leo was getting sleepy. I was pacing the house like a madwoman, trying to decide what to do. It got late. Leo couldn’t stay awake any longer so I put him to bed, fully clothed, ready if Amsterdam should come. And then well after midnight, there was a knock at the door. My heart jumped. I ran to the door, flung it open. But it wasn’t him. Two women from the council stood in the darkness, disapproval creasing their faces. They told me to come with them. Fema stayed with Leo.
‘First Governess was in her chair on the dais, Zana standing next to her. She had a gun in her hand, your gun, the pistol Papa gave you when he died. First Governess told me that she knew all about what had happened, that Amsterdam was going to come for me tonight. But it wasn’t what I thought, she said. He wasn’t taking me to you, he was going to take me for himself. Angry at not being made my second husband, he had decided to leave in Providence, abandoning the village and all it stood for. But his plans had been uncovered in time, and he’d fled into the forest. You were dead, just as I had been told, killed by raiders from the north. Your gun was here as proof.’
She pauses, as if just bringing back the memory is pushing her to the edge of some cliff.
‘It was all too much to take in,’ she says, her voice breaking. ‘Like a dream you can’t wake from. I think I must have been in shock. First you were dead, and then you weren’t, and now you were dead again. I didn’t know what to believe. I trusted them both. I knew Amsterdam was in love with me. And I loved him. And yet, I knew he was furious about First Governess’s decision. And the thought of your execution, it was as unthinkable as when I’d first heard it. I sat there, paralysed, defeated.’
A new wave of anguish shudders through her and she doubles over, hands covering her face. I put my hand on her shoulder, feel the sobs racking her body. She takes my hand, composes herself.
‘And then Amsterdam burst in, covered in blood, armed, carrying a torch. He pointed his rifle at First Governess, told her to drop your gun and kick it over to him. He grabbed my hand, and before I could say a word, he pulled me out into the street. We ran back to the house, got Leo and Fema. As we passed the main workshop, he threw the torch onto the roof. Flames burst from the thatch, and within seconds the courtyard was choked in orange smoke. He screamed, “Fire!” In the confusion we slipped out of the main gate and ran all the way to where you were hiding. Until the moment I saw you there in the cave, I was convinced you were dead.’
She sits up and pushes herself into me, threads her arms around my neck, pulls me close. ‘I wonder what happened to him, Kwe.’
‘I don’t know, Julie.’
‘They’ve killed him, haven’t they?’
‘We’ll never know.’
‘It was my fault. I should never have —’
‘Don’t, Julie. You can’t think like that. By then he knew about Patricia Leopold, about the sanctuary, the mass murder. He was listening to the same transmissions I was. He made his own decisions.’
She buries her face in my chest, sobs. ‘How naive I’ve been, Kwe. How stupid. Will you ever forgive me?’
I hold her for a long time. ‘There is nothing to forgive,’ I say.
We are all flawed, doing the best we can in a world gone crazy.
September 2027
The heatwave was still going on when the Boss summoned me and some of the team to Wyoming. Bryce came to pick us up in the Gulfstream. As usual, he came back into the cabin after take-off to welcome the passengers. The last time we’d spoken was just after the wife’s warning. I’d called him on his mobile and relayed our conversation. We’d agreed to break it off once and for all, and since then we’d kept to it. That day in the cabin he seemed different, distracted, not his usual engaging, confident pilot self. I tried to catch his eye but he studiously avoided me.
Paolo and I and a couple of the others did lines in the back, and I was glad of the distraction. It was nice to take a flight and actually sit in a chair, rather than spending a big part of it on my knees. By the time we arrived at the ranch – it had its own airstrip – it was night and I was pretty much out of it. Paolo helped me to the limo and they dropped us each at our own private cabin in the woods. I loved these places, had stayed in them before. There were twelve in total, scattered around the ranch, each with its own pool and sauna and huge stone fireplace. They sat empty most of the year. I dumped my bag in the entrance and the butler came and carried it to my room, where the maid would be waiting to put my clothes away and iron whatever needed to be ironed. Then he came back down and fixed me a G&T and took my order for dinner, and I sat on the deck looking out across the dark mountains and let the cool alpine air flow over me. It was times like these that working for the Boss was worth all the hassle, all the worry, all the knowledge.
That night I lay in bed and thought about Bryce, in a cabin just like this one maybe a mile away through the woods. I thought maybe he’d come to me, walk over here, throw a stone at my window and I’d rush down the stairs and out into the cool night air and we’d walk hand in hand down to the lake. But he didn’t come.
The next morning, we were all at the main ranch house for buffet breakfast and an early meeting. I sat next to Paolo, who’d piled his plate with pancakes and bacon and scrambled eggs. I was trying to watch my weight, which had ballooned a bit recently, and sat there staring at a plate that was mostly white porcelain, adorned with a couple of strawberries and a slice of melon. Not fair.
The Boss stood at the head of the table. A man I’d never seen before stood at his side, dressed in a dark suit and tie. ‘This is Murray Nailor. Retired General Nailor, US Army, my new chief of security. He is here to brief us all on an emerging issue.’
The Boss sat and the retired general stood and looked at us. The Boss hadn’t mentioned anything to me about a new chief of security. He didn’t look like a general. He was short, overweight and balding. He looked more like an accountant to me. Sorry, Paolo.
‘Yesterday in Madagascar, Auguste Leopold, the country’s leading businessman, was assassinated near his home. His eldest daughter was with him at the time and she was also killed.’ The general paused for effect. If he was after sympathy, he didn’t get any. Thank God, was all I could think.
‘And today, the Direct Green Action Brigades – they call themselves De-GRAB – claimed responsibility. This is a terrorist organisation that we have been tracking for a while now. They are led by a group of radical deep-green and Marxist intellectuals dedicated to stopping economic progress, and according to their own propaganda, “ridding the world of the deathly scourge of runaway neoliberal capitalism and the governments who support it”.’ He changed intonation to make the inverted commas, made it sound as if a five-year-old was speaking.
‘That’s us,’ said the Boss. As if we didn’t know.
‘This represents a new and material threat to our organisation and what we are trying to achieve,’ said the retired general. ‘De-GRAB has grown quickly around the world, and has recruited a lot of very dangerous ex-special-forces types and other disgruntled extremists. They have warned that more assassinations and attacks on assets are to come. Leopold’s security was top notch. As good as ours. But these people are fanatics. The man who detonated the bomb that killed Leopold was sitting inside the car with him. It was the driver.’
The retired general paused for effect. He didn’t need to. We were all listening. ‘And so, from here on in, we are going to up our game. Over the coming few weeks, you will all be issued with detailed instructions and will be provided with enhanced security training. We are going to put an impregnable wall around the Boss and all his operations.’
We all breathed in.
‘All employment contracts will be torn up and new ones issued tomorrow. The new terms will include mandatory annual lie-detector tests, restrictions on membership of certain organisations, new requirements for disclosure of personal financial dealings, and pre-screening of all personal relationships.’
The room was silent. One of the secretaries, Marcie, dropped a knife on the floor. I could see Bryce sitting at the far end of the table looking as if he’d just swallowed a handful of gravel.
Then the retired general reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a pistol. ‘Who knows how to use one of these?’
Paolo choked on his eggs. A few people put up their hands, the Boss, Bryce.
‘Over the next few days, we are going to teach you how. The best defence is a good offence.’
That was the line Bragg used when he’d introduced the new Federal gun laws a couple of months earlier, not long after Congress and the Senate repealed the twenty-second amendment and he announced he would run for a third term. The new gun law required all teachers, public officials, and federal employees to carry firearms and wear body armour. ‘Make America Safe Again’ was the campaign slogan. The gun lobby was delighted. Civil-rights groups, as far as they still existed, not so much.
We stayed at the ranch for four more days, learning how to shoot a gun and signing our new agreements. Everyone signed. I couldn’t hit a thing. And Bryce never came to see me.
Takoradi
We reach Takoradi on the coast of West Africa on January 3rd, 2067. After a night of pounding rain, which more than fills our tanks, morning breaks with sun streaming across the harbour from between frothing pillars of white cumulus. We can hear the rumbling of thunder in the distance, reverberating across the dark country. I check the anchor and scan the harbour. A few canoes pulled up among the fingered roots of remnant mangroves, or tied to the submerged trunks of long-drowned trees. Half a dozen people squatting on overturned crates tending what look like fishing nets on a newly deposited beach of alluvium near the mouth of a muddy creek. Mud-brick houses scattered ramshackle around the bowl of the bay, the occasional slow flap of laundry drying in the sun, threads of smoke drifting aimlessly skyward.
