HARM Read online

  A group of resident women in dusty homespun robes looked on hopelessly; all seemed old and worn, although two of them held babies in their arms.

  A new center had been created. A banner proclaimed it to be LOCAL GOVERNMENT, although it flew the flag of Stygia City. Essanits marched straight through its door as if he had thought of nothing else throughout the trek.

  Bellamia and Fremant climbed their steps and went to wash. She fed the dog, who produced a swirl of red between them, possibly a kind of flower. She took it as thanks.

  “You’re a good doggie, ugly as you are.” And in an aside to Fremant, “Another bluggy type of insect, too.”

  After a brief meal, Fremant went to see Utrersin to find out what was happening. The man was working, as usual, in his forge.

  “I never thought I’d see you again,” he said, without a smile, setting down his hammer. “This dump is now like an anthill—full of newcomers, all talking about freedom. You might think that was okay by me. You ain’t got no notion how orders for guns is increasted, but me, I’m agin such change.”

  “What’s going on, then?”

  He straightened himself, pushing his hair back from his damp forehead. The hair flopped back as usual. “I ain’t the only one what’s got more work. There’s men flatt’ning out ground so’s push-pulls can land here. There’s men building a road or a railway or sommat from here to Stig City. There’s men training up for a sort of local militia. You wouldn’t know the place. No peace now.”

  “Sounds like improvements to me.”

  He looked through his overhanging hair with a grin. “You always was a bit soft in the head, ole feller.”

  As he was trudging back across the square, Fremant was stopped by two powerful men wearing uniform caps. “You are wanted for a meeting in the government offices.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You was on the trek with Gov’ner Essanits, wasn’t you?”

  “Governor, is he now?”

  “He’s gov’ner of somewhere or other,” said the leader of the two men indifferently. “Come on, get a move on. You don’t want trouble, do you?”

  He went with them, not without misgivings.

  No sooner had the three of them passed through the door of the local government office than he was seized. He kicked and struggled, but the two men caught his head in a lock and were almost choking him. He was pushed into a small cell with wooden walls. He smelled the scent of fresh-cut wood. Furiously, he hammered on the door.

  The only light in the dark cell filtered through a gap under the door. No response came to his hammering. He gave up and went to sit down, defeated, on a narrow ledge which served as a bench.

  Time dawdled. A sheet of paper was passed under the door. He picked it up, squinting to make out the text in the dim light. In elaborate lettering, it read:

  By Command of the Government of Haven City, you are imprisoned pending trial for the act of striking the Governor of Seldonia, as the region between Haven City and Stygia City is now known. Such ruffianism is no longer legal under new state laws. The date of your trial will be announced shortly. Meantime, you are instructed to keep quiet or food and drink will be withheld.

  It was signed: “The Mayor of Haven City.”

  He flung the paper down in exasperation.

  He stayed awake as long as possible. Eventually, he sat on the ground with his back to a wooden wall, drew up his knees, and slumped into a deep sleep.

  A ROARING IN HIS EYES, a sound like tumultuous applause, a feeling he was falling, endlessly, through a medium that was space and yet not space.

  A woman was withdrawing a hypodermic needle from his left arm. A portable lamp stood on a nearby trolley.

  “That’s better,” she said. She had brown eyes behind rimless glasses. Her expression was not unkindly. “How do you feel? You don’t look too good. I’ll get you a glass of water in a moment.”

  He could say nothing. He was glad to hear a woman’s voice.

  She busied herself with the trolley she had wheeled into the room. He knew the room. To his distorted senses it was vast. It had once possessed grandeur. There were marble cherubs by the fireplace, decorated alcoves and ceiling, a domed ceiling, and floral wallpaper, now peeling from the walls.

  The woman turned back to him and, seeing he was more alert, remarked that he must have walked into a door, since he had a badly bruised left eye.

  He managed to speak. “I have bruises all over.”

  “There, there!” She came and loomed over him, looking sympathetic. “Many prisoners harm themselves. It’s a guilt reaction to confinement.”

  He did not attempt to contradict her. Indeed, he was almost overcome with emotion to hear a sympathetic voice, to see a sympathetic expression in this place of suffering.

  “What’s happened to Bellamia? She should have a proper funeral.” Seeing the woman’s look of puzzlement, he corrected himself and said that he meant Doris.

  “Oh yes, Doris. Of course. Of course.” She wagged a finger at him. “I want you to sign a document. Then the glass of water.”

  As she turned back to her trolley, he saw she was a thickset woman, very broad in the hips and buttocks. She wore a heavy cloth jacket and skirt, much like a uniform. Such liking as he had initially felt faded at the sight of that formidable rear view.

  “Am I going to be given my freedom?”

  Without turning around, she said, “You are still claiming you are innocent, eh?”

  “I am. I am innocent. Completely innocent. I’m a British citizen.” He added, “In fact, I am a good deal more innocent than many another British citizen.”

  She turned to him, her face suddenly grim. Her hair was cut short and dyed blond. He caught a glimpse of its dark roots.

  “But you’re a Muslim. You made that remark about the British prime minister in your book…”

  “It was just one joke among many.”

  She was unmoved. “Tell me another of these so-called jokes.”

  He sighed. “Well, for instance, there’s a character called Snowy Snowden, he’s a male nurse, and he goes into an Italian fish restaurant and orders a spina bifida…”

  Not a muscle in her face moved.

  She asked where he was when he was arrested.

  “I had been playing cricket. They came and arrested me in the pavilion.”

  “Playing cricket?”

  “Why not?”

  “Was it some kind of alibi?”

  “An alibi? What for? I had done nothing wrong—beyond scoring only a miserable nine runs for my side.”

  The woman had a way of not hearing what he said. Putting on a sympathetic expression again, she wedged one of her hips against the ledge on which he was sprawling and said, “Well, you’ll be free to go now. You’ll get your watch and the contents of your pockets back, of course. We hope your stay here has not been too uncomfortable.”

  “Where am I? What country are we in?”

  “You have to sign this document first.” She handed it to him. He squinted at it with his good eye.

  The document, with various flourishes, stated that the interrogations had all been fair and conducted in accordance with the precepts of British justice, and within the limitations imposed by the Geneva Conventions, that he had been well treated during his stay, that he had not sustained any injuries, that he had been well fed. That all his properties had been returned to him, including his British passport. That he was not being charged for the use of his room.

  “This is absolute bullshit!”

  “You refuse to sign it?”

  “There’s no mention of my wife, Doris. What has happened to her body?”

  She brought out a mobile phone and tapped at it. She looked hard at its rectangular face.

  “You are Fadhil Abbas Ali?”

  “Paul Fadhil Abbas Ali.”

  “There’s no record that you have, or had, a wife. No mention of any Doris. Just sign the document, will you? Don’t fuck about. I haven’t got all
day.”

  “But I must know about my wife. Surely you can understand that?”

  Suddenly, she was furious. “Sign the fucking document, will you? Else, you’ll be banged up in here till you rot.”

  For answer, he tore the document in two.

  The woman brought up a brawny fist and struck him on his bad left eye.

  HE ROUSED SLOWLY, his brain numb, stiff with cold. His knees felt locked. Slowly, he straightened his legs. Cautiously, he stood up, a hand on the wooden wall for balance. His eye was hurting him.

  There was nothing to be done but stand there.

  The door was eventually unlocked. A man pushed it open and came in with a small tray. Another man stood guard just beyond the door.

  “Here’s your meal. Your trial will be coming up later today.” Said as the man balanced the tray on the ledge.

  “When? Morning or afternoon?”

  “We’ll have to see.” He retreated, walking the few steps backward. The door was closed and locked after him.

  The meal consisted of a crust of bread and an egg, and a small glass of water. He smelled the water cautiously before drinking.

  Much later, the two guards who had arrested him came and took him to a small room at the rear of the building. “Don’t worry,” one of them said. “He’s a pretty good guy.”

  There at a table sat Essanits. Two young secretaries sat at a table behind him. The guards came to attention and remained one on either side of Fremant. Through a window behind Essanits, he could see green things growing.

  Essanits contemplated his prisoner for a while without speaking, his large, wide face expressionless. He was wearing a new white uniform.

  “Fremant, I want you to do me a service.”

  When Fremant made no response, Essanits said, “You are aware that striking a governor—in this case, myself—is illegal. I could have you severely punished. I hope that a night in that cozy little cell has sufficiently adjusted your attitude. How was your meal?”

  “Adequate.”

  “Adequate? Good. Perhaps the best we could hope for under the circumstances. I wish you to do me a service. Accompanied by guards, you will take the dog we captured to Stygia City, to Governor Safelkty, explain the circumstances under which it was caught, and hand it over for inspection.”

  “Why me? Why not you?”

  “I am busy here. We must establish proper organization. I am determined to put Haven City in working order. What happened to your eye? We need to arrest Elder Deselden and all his clique for blasphemy. Etcetera, etcetera.”

  Fremant was silent, thinking, before he spoke again. “If you went back to Stygia City, Safelkty would probably kill you, wouldn’t he?”

  Essanits banged a fist down on the table, “Confound it, man, I am offering you a chance, instead of a trial, at which you would probably be found guilty and punished.

  “You know me for a lenient man. I am attempting to help you. I know you are a strangely neurotic fellow with associative identity disorder. Take this opportunity I offer you to get out of this town—you and that bluggerational dog!”

  THEY NO LONGER had to walk or ride, as formerly. Instead, they caught a carriage, a broad-wheeler. For a charge of three stigs apiece, Fremant and Bellamia crammed into its seats with four other people. Several other carriages passed on the way. They traveled through the newly designated province of Seldonia without event. A push-pull flew by overhead. In a push-pull they could have arrived in five minutes at the destination which had once taken them through three Dimoffs to gain.

  Bellamia kissed Fremant as they set off. He noted that she always unthinkingly held his head when kissing him, as if afraid he might move away. But her soft and ample lips were hard to resist.

  He did indeed love her. He regretted greatly that he was unable to love her with all of his being—as he felt the situation demanded. So he was especially kind, and kept his arm about her ample waist as they traveled, she with the caged dog on her lap. The dog radiated little fugitive pictograms, where naked people danced, to be transposed into leaves and blossoms; or was it leaves and blossoms that transposed themselves into naked people? In any case, these were friendly if disconcerting gestures from their captive.

  AS THEY HAD ANTICIPATED, Stygia City had changed. At a well-defined boundary, their broad-wheeler was halted by a guard post. The passengers alighted and were directed to enter the post, one by one. There they were interrogated in an amiable way and had to give their names, their occupations, and where they came from, as well as a statement on their health.

  All six passengers were passed and presented with tickets which identified them.

  “Don’t lose them,” the clerk advised.

  Fremant scrutinized his and Bellamia’s tickets. They were newly, if badly, printed and bore a signature: “Lord Safelkty, President of Stygia.”

  “So now he’s president of the whole jupissing planet!” exclaimed Fremant.

  “Where does it say that?” Bellamia stared blankly at the ticket. He remembered that she could not read. One or two of the other passengers experienced the same problem.

  They went into the city.

  It was much busier than they remembered it to be. Men were moving about in teams. Stalls had been set up, mostly attended by women. Slogans had been nailed up everywhere. BE GOOD CITIZENS, one of them urged. CHILDREN ARE OUR FUTURE. BUILD MORE. LET WORK BE YOUR GOD.

  The block previously known as the Center was now designated Government Offices. Across its portals hung this long exhortation: CITIZENS, LEARN TO READ! OBTAIN A FREE ALFABET BOOK INSIDE. BECOME CLEVER. BE CLEVER. WE PROGRESS OR DIE. WORK FOR A BETTER LIFE—FOR YOURSELVES, FOR YOUR FRIENDS, FOR YOUR NEIGHBERS. IN THE FUTURE LIES HAPPINESS—IF WE SUCCEED! It was signed: “Lord Safelkty, President of Stygia.”

  When Fremant had read this notice aloud, he and Bellamia looked glumly at each other. “I’m clever enough,” she said. “I don’t want to be any more clever—or not to please him…”

  Unlike Bellamia, Fremant was inspired by these signs, feeling that someone was trying to improve people’s lives. But these reflections he kept to himself.

  They entered the building, where a doorman directed them to New Arrivals, a counter, behind which a smiling woman stood.

  “We need to see the president.”

  The woman never ceased to smile. “You can make an appointment with me. There may be a two-week wait, I must warn you.”

  “We have to see him today, lady.”

  “That can’t be done, I’m afraid.”

  Bellamia set the caged dog down on the counter. It projected a small white shelf. On the shelf there slowly emerged a bloody beaten head, the head of the Dogover killed beyond the lake. Maggots fell from its open mouth. The clerk lurched back in horror.

  “I—I’ll see what can be done. Please…”

  A few minutes later they were entering the presidential suite. The waiting room was supervised by a man Fremant recognized as Hazelmarr, the youth who had stayed behind when they escaped from Astaroth’s prison. Hazelmarr was no longer a youth. He had grown a thin mustache and cut off most of his hair. He wore heavy clothes. He was in a minor position of authority.

  And in the widening of his eyes, and a slight stiffening, he showed he recognized Fremant.

  “We have an appointment to speak to Safelkty,” said Fremant, striding up to the desk.

  “What’s your business?” Hazelmarr inquired. “The president is occupied just now.”

  “I’m here on official business. I’ve come from Haven City. So announce me, will you?”

  Hazelmarr’s face remained expressionless. “You can’t take that insect in with you.”

  He pointed with a pencil at the dog.

  “This dog? I certainly can.” He took the cage from Bellamia’s hands and set it on the desk in front of Hazelmarr. The dog, startled, gave forth a series of brown and gray pentagons which rushed toward the clerk, fading only as they reached his face.

  Hazelmarr gave a
shriek. Lurching back, he tipped over his chair and fell sprawling on the floor. Fremant picked up the cage and marched right into Safelkty’s office, Bellamia following.

  Safelkty was remarkably like Essanits in build, a big man, tending toward heaviness. He also had a large, plain face, although alert blue eyes improved matters. A neat beard, showing flecks of white, clung to his jawline. He rose from his seat without haste.

  “You were having trouble with my little clerk?” he said, with a slight smile.

  “Nothing serious,” Fremant replied. He introduced himself and Bellamia. The president was courteous and offered them seats. Fremant then explained the importance of the dog as virtually the last of its species.

  Safelkty listened with interest. “Thank you for bringing him this long way. It shows initiative. We’ll pop the creature in Cereb. I am told the gadget is now up and running. We can test both the machine and your dog.”

  “Splendid.”

  “I can see you have been through much. Be my guests while you are here and stay in our New Hope Hotel.”

  EIGHT

  IT WAS CLEAR THAT SAFELKTY set little store by what revelations the dog might provide in the mind-evaluator. Yet he was scientist enough to see they should at least attempt the experiment. For Fremant’s part, he rejoiced that here was a man who appeared not to be a bully, and who received them with courtesy. Bellamia and he were installed in a comfortable room in the newly built hotel.

  A mixture of relief and weariness overcame them. Both sank together into a deep sleep, in which numerous strange dreams drifted like phantoms from scenes of old plays.

  Once more, almost with a sense of faint, faded pleasure at its familiarity, he was back in the grand dilapidated edifice, HARM, containing its whispers and echoes whenever he moved, like the murmurings of the past—a past he never entirely possessed.

  And the heavy woman, the officer broad in the beam, was there, explaining again that he was free to go once he signed the release document. She had wheeled in her trolley and checked him medically. She had injected 20 cc of a strange liquid into his veins and had presented him with another copy of the document.