At the Edge of the Game Read online

  ‘George, are you asleep?’

  Helen’s standing over me.

  ‘No.’ I struggle to my feet in search of dignity.

  ‘I presume you want your dinner.’

  I mutter something - I don’t know what it is myself. She goes back downstairs, leaving me to follow.

  Heathshade’s awaiting his food at the kitchen table.

  ‘Bit of kip, mate?’

  It’s a meagre enough meal. A couple of sausages, a small amount of mashed potato (a warming foodstuff, especially with a lot of butter in it), and a wedge of turnip each. Heathshade eats like he hasn’t seen food in days. And, in fact, that’s also how he looks, sunken cheeks, darkness around the eyes. Testament to his dissipative lifestyle, I suppose. Even as the country sinks deeper into calamity, Heathshade does his bit to keep the leisure and hospitality industries afloat by distributing his dole money to the publicans and night-club owners. In fact, he must be getting money from elsewhere too, because I fail to see how he maintains his lifestyle purely on public assistance. Perhaps it’s through the saving he makes by paying such a low rent and getting his dinner laid on for him every day on top of that.

  By the time we have finished, the wind has strengthened to gale-force. The street is empty, swept by turning ice devils. Directly across the road outside are some upright metal grilles - star and crescent, square and circle motifs running across them. These act as a series of obstacles for the powerful airflow, setting up resonances that carry across to us; strange tones and chords weaving through the storm’s deep roar. I find myself inexplicably moved by it. Don’t think the other two have noticed, but natural processes have interacted with the roughly Euclidean proportions of the railing to produce ahuman music. Music without composer, without musicians. Makes me askd oes any aspect of the physical world still require human intermediaries in order to exist? Is it the case that Nature does not require us for any further purpose, that no higher power now demands our presence in the world to make Creation complete?

  Ice bits blasts the rattling windowpanes of this house. I put some more wood on the fire – part of the dismantled fence in the back garden.

  I’m glad no one is talking. Silence is the best thing right now. We’ll have to sleep here in the living room. It’s the only room warm enough in these suddenly worsened conditions. Helen and I have the sofa, Heathshade an armchair. The room is lit only by the fire which hisses and spits as it burns off layers of paint. There’s enough coal to last a while. I hold Helen tight under the blankets, trying to move some of my body heat into her.

  She’s asleep, Heathshade snoring. In the chords of the wind I identify the crying of the cat. Saw no sign of her while I was taking apart the fence this morning. At the kitchen window I find my friend scratching at the glass, paws sunk into piling snow. I open the window and lift her inside. Solid pieces of ice clump to her fur, cooling her hypothermic body. I brush some of it out and set her by the fire in the living room

  The cat‘s wheezing diminishes gradually to quietness, and I find my way back towards sleep, glad that the animal is here. In the event of an invasion of earth by superior forces bent on human destruction, I would struggle to deny a measure of sympathy for their cause. Protect select humans, by all means, but also deserving non-humans. Let the rest fend for themselves. Should I feel ashamed of my non-species-specific allegiances? How ironic that the rising sea level of the past century threatened to overwhelm the natural dam of the Atlantic Falls, waking the spectre of Mediterranean Basin’s re-oceanification, inundation of the Far City. That this possibility was forestalled by the new Ice Age was purely down to luck, and was not without undesirable spin-off consequences, such as the migration of the northern Neanderthal tribes southward into Africa. One anticipates new political dynamics in the coming decades, as previously distant peoples confront each other and compete for the resources of northern Africa. Not just the Neanderthals either, but we Sapients, we technological gods. We shall fight new wars too. Perhaps we shall desire the sacrosanct Neanderthal lands.

  But I can't allow myself to indulge in these pointless speculations, to succumb to such laxity of mind. My thoughts should be for Helen and the baby. They will both need me solid and dependable in times to come. But perhaps Helen's pregnancy is another product of my delusional state. No, don’t think that. Reject the notion, cling to undeniable reality. After all, I do feel the warmth of the sun's morning rays through the thick glass. I see the complexity of the city unfold before my eyes. I trace the thread of Dublin City Cylinder as it stretches into the stratosphere. I smell the scent of coffee emanating from the kitchen. I feel the cold of the tiles beneath my bare feet. Everything is real.

  Movement in the apartment across the street catches my eye. My mind goes back to the man from my waking dream, with his manic exercising, and the mad glare in his eye as he drew the curtains violently shut. There, now, is the same man, furiously pacing about the apartment. He is like a caged animal seeking a means of escape. He charges towards the front door and crashes against it, shoulder first. He bounces away in palpable agony. Then he picks up something dark and heavy, a metallic chair, and attempts to beat down the door with it. However, the sturdy door resists his assault. Finally, he falls to the floor, exhausted. He lays face-up, despairing, hands covering his face, for a long time. Then suddenly he is on his feat again. He leaps through the window and plunges in a shower of shattered glass towards the street.

  The apartment ambience alters. What accounts for it? Ghosts? Someone is hammering on the front door, screaming in rage. It’s the man from across the street. Through some hitherto unsuspected sense, perhaps one that activates only in the event of mortal danger, I know that his desire is to kill me. I have nowhere to run, no weapon with which to kill him first. The lock is giving way under the tremendous force of his enraged battering. I crouch behind the kitchen table, but he will see me here. Can I get out onto the window ledge, cross to another window? Too late, he’s in. Seeing me, he bellows triumphantly. He advances, brandishing a heavy club, a Neanderthal zurk, as from a museum. The striped city light illuminates his face. I know the man. It’s -

  ‘Jesus Christ, wake up, will you?’

  Heathshade has his tight fist on my chest, shaking me. I knock away the knotted hand. ‘Stop.’

  ‘There.’ He stands up, giving me one last, vigorous shove. ‘You having a bad dream, George?’

  Helen is sitting by the fire, looking at me, stirring something in a pot.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she says.

  I’m far from all right. My whole body is shaking, and not from the cold. The weight of the blankets on top of me is suddenly unendurable. Grey morning light comes through the window. The snow is higher than ever – up to about five feet, from what I can see. At least the storm has ended. I can see hard blue sky above.

  ‘Where’s the cat?’

  Heathshade answers. ‘Put it out in the snow.’

  ‘You threw her out in the snow?’

  ‘You can’t have dead animals stinking the place up, mate.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Outside the back door. What’s up with you, man?’

  I find the carcass half-buried. Heathshade’s behind me.

  ‘For the best, mate. Can’t spare the food. No way.’

  ‘Who’s we?’

  I push past him, back into the living room. A few scraps are waiting there to form my breakfast. The snow is only a couple of feet away from blocking out the daylight, but still the sun reaches low over blanketed rooftops, hushed after the destructive night, spreads a mix of harsh wavelength across the walls.

  The radio’s turned down low to preserve battery power. A voice speaks in what sounds like Spanish.

  ‘Turn it up,’ Heathshade says.

  He listens, head cocked sideways, a look of deep concentration. The signal fades finally, replaced by screeching interference.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did you understand
any of it?’

  ‘No.’

  He roars with laughter and gives me a thud between the shoulder blades.

  I need to get away from this fool. Up the ice-coated stairs the bedroom provides respite, and a better view of the street. It would be so good to just jump out, fall into the deep snow, swim around in it. And, actually, there are skis in the wardrobe, last used on the Continent during an inadequately recalled time when a superflux of money was mine. Window won’t open. Straining against the jamming ice lets away some adrenalin. When the window bursts free of its restraints a splinter buries itself in the palm of my hand. Fresh, freezing-cold air pours in. Both pleasant and unpleasant. I feel in control all of a sudden, decide I’m going to go out and try to derive a little enjoyment from the day.

  Heavy coat and gloves should provide adequate insulation. I get out onto the window ledge and carefully attach the skis to my feet. The drop to the snow is four or five feet. Should be fine. I drop, and when I hit the snow I sink into it much further than I had expected, falling backwards at the same time, so that I’m almost completely buried to my waist.

  There’s a knock on the living room window. Helen’s exhibits disapproval.

  Unwilling to go back inside just yet I head towards the village and see if there is any sign of activity. I would have thought the army or the police would be active by now, directing some sort of recovery from the storm. I had not expected nothing, but the street is silent. Everyone’s still indoors.

  But there is nothing happening in the village either. No matter. It’s good to move about after so long confined. I pass through the Triangle and continue towards the city centre.

  On the bridge spanning the frozen canal, there comes a low, droning sound. An aircraft. An Aer Corps helicopter flying low over the rooftops. Its downdraught raises glittering ice clouds. It veers around to fly towards me. Now it is close enough for me to see the pilot within the shining glass cockpit. He wears a deep green jumpsuit and a black helmet. He raises an arm, shows an open-handed gesture, as though of apology. The chopper does not stop, or even slow. It passes overhead, following the line of the canal towards the harbour. Another helicopter shoots past after it. In a few seconds they are out of sight, but the engine noise lingers.

  It is not until long after silence has returned that I remember my purpose and continue towards the city centre.

  I am not in the kind of physical condition necessary to be able to travel any distance cross-country skiing. Thin rations have seen to that. Little wonder, then, that I am wheezing for breath, sweating under heavy layers. I struggle past the pillars of the Odeon, down curved Harcourt Street, finally to the corner of Stephen’s Green, recognisable by the bare treetops protruding from the snow, and by the shallow crater where work on the Metro station was abandoned in October.

  The front doors of the Stephen’s Green shopping centre are wide open, the show drifting into the dark inside.

  Here I queued for food only two days ago. Nobody here now, everything quiet. If there is nothing happening here, no soldiers or police, no big relief operation getting underway to get the country back on its feet, then surely nothing is happening anywhere.

  I slide down the drifting snow at the shopping centre doors. There I take off my skis and set them against the wall to one side. The interior, lit weakly by the light filtering through the snow-covered glass roof, is covered with rubbish. Food wrappers, items of clothing, blankets. And larger forms some way inside that I can’t see clearly.

  There is evidence of looting all about – broken shop windows, collapsed security barriers, merchandise strewn about. Now I reach the first of those larger forms - lying a few feet up a halted escalator. It is a dead Garda. Blood has spilled down the steps, has halted in static pools and red icicles, frozen like a winter-locked waterfall. Further up the steps are more bodies, a few in uniform, others apparently civilians dressed in layered jumpers and coats. One may be a child, or perhaps is simply a coat dropped to the floor. I do not look long enough to be sure.

  I notice the bullet cases at my feet, the many pockmarks and holes of bullet impacts.

  I turn and rush towards the daylight. There are two men there with guns.

  ‘Hold it.’

  The voice echoes around the cold walls and surfaces.

  I stand where I am and raise my hands.

  ‘Who are you with?’

  Only a gasp emerges from my throat. A boot strikes the back of my knee and my legs buckle.

  ‘Get down.’

  Something is poking at my head, my back. Pressing hard enough to hurt. A gun barrel.

  ‘Don’t shoot.’ My voice is weak.

  They kick me in the ribs. ‘‘Who are you with?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘You think we’re stupid? Army or Guards?’

  ‘We haven't got time for this, Tommo.’

  ‘Army or Guards? Answer or I’ll shoot you.’

  ‘Come on, Tommo, for Christ's sake. Bring him down to Victor.’

  They haul me to my feet and push me forwards. I still haven’t seen their faces. I stumble through glass shards, the wreckage of some smashed computers, overturned chairs and tables, a bloody dead body sprawled at the wide entrance to Dunne’s Stores. They direct me to the halted escalator leading to the basement supermarket. The steps are hard to negotiate in the half-light, but the basement is lit in the golden light of dozens of candles. They make me stand and wait at the bottom of the stairs. Warm down here. Some of the supermarket shelves are still stocked. About half the supermarket of occupied by stacks of boxes marked with the European relief stamp.

  But the air smells foul.

  ‘Who are you, mister?’

  Two scruffy children. No malice evident in their faces. A boy and a girl. She presses her streaked face half obscured in his woolly coat. The sharp laughter of unseen women echoes on the dirty tiles. The children dash down one of the dark aisles.

  Shoved against a wall, hit my head against it/ Blood that drips over my eyebrow, onto my face.

  ‘Griffin, ye space cadeh.’

  Both men laugh.

  Fat and red-faced, the speaker has deep creases running from the corners of his nose all the way around his mouth, almost meeting in the middle of his chin.

  ‘Watch him while I get Victor, right?’

  When he returns it’s with a man much taller than himself. This one is different, seems healthier, more sure in his movements, more frightening in every way. He has short thinning black hair and is clean-shaven, with heavy boots and a fur-collared overcoat. He looks me over half-amused, half-annoyed.

  ‘The two of you, get back on patrol.’

  His accent is middle-class Dublin southside.

  The two slovenly henchmen climb back up the escalator.

  ‘Gave you a bit of a doing over, did they? What’s your name?’

  ‘George Holden.’

  ‘Who are you with, George? Army or Guards?’

  ‘I’m just a civilian.’

  ‘What were you doing upstairs?’

  ‘Looking for food.’

  ‘How did you get in without Tommo and Griffin seeing you?’

  ‘I don't know. I just walked in.’

  He is silent for a long interval during which the blood starts to pound through my brain so hard I think my ears might burst.

  ‘Linda!’ he shouts.

  An overweight red-faced woman emerges from the checkout area.

  ‘Tell Tommo and Griffin to come back.’

  She starts to huff her way up the steps.

  ‘Get a move on, Linda.’

  ‘Shut your hole. I'm going fast enough.’

  When Tommo and Griffin return he gives me a hard shove.

  ‘What do you see here?’ he says to them.

  They look confused.

  ‘Does he look like a copper or a soldier to you? Are you thick, bringing him in here? He’s nobody. Why didn’t you just shoot him?’

  ‘We thought it'd be better if you handle
d him, Victor.’

  ‘Where were you when he walked in here?’

  They look at their boots.

  ‘This happens again, I'll throw your children out into the snow.’

  ‘It won't happen again, Victor.’

  ‘We'll do better.’

  ‘Get back outside and do your job.’

  Victor turns to me. ‘George, are you a political man?’

  I have say something. ‘Not really.’

  He shakes his head. ‘My friend, everyone has sympathies. What I am asking you is, do you stand with us?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Think, man. Do you support the ideal of a united island governed according to socialistic principles?’

  I dare to look at him. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Good. Never let it be said that the Unity IRA took life when it wasn’t necessary.’

  I’m not sure what he’s saying.

  ‘We’ll lock you away for now. Think of it as a bedding in. Behave yourself, do what you’re told, and you might get out of this alive.’

  He puts me in a small, pitch-dark room behind the meat counter.

  Unity IRA. I’m a prisoner of the Unity IRA.

  Feel around the walls. Junk-filled dusty shelves, boxes and sacks on the floor, sweeping brushes and mops in the corner.

  My eyes adapt to the dark. Slivers of light penetrating from the corridor, where a sort of red emergency lighting is in operation. It’s cold in this room. Hold my coat tightly. I can hear shouting, guffawing.

  My body rocks to the beat of my heart. How much time has gone by? Not sure. Nor am I sure about space. The darkness is a void whose limits may be a few feet away, or a billion light years. Drifting now, afloat on a river. My body rotates, head over heels. Arcing around slowly.

  I emerge into clear, fresh air, bright morning sunlight. The Salt Desert shines like ice, so beautiful, so far below me. But I am descending, descending…

  The door is unlocked and red glare floods in from the corridor, hurting my eyes. It’s the woman Linda.