No Harm Can Come to a Good Man

‘Even Lane.’ She kisses him. It’s everything, these moments: they remember Sean with every single kiss and it doesn’t stop them doing it. He calls for the girls from the hallway. School has just gone back. Alyx comes out and smiles at him in the doorway of her room.

‘Hey, Pumpkin,’ he says. ‘I can take you, if you’re quick getting dressed.’

‘In the car?’

‘In the car.’ The car is a big black cross-country thing that his party has recently leased to drive him around, less conspicuous out here than the town cars, coming complete with low-paid driver and super-strict fuel budget. Laurence knows that budget doesn’t extend to taking Alyx to school, but he doesn’t care. ‘Lane?’ he calls, ‘you up?’

‘Yes,’ she says.

‘I’m off soon,’ he tells her. ‘Want to say goodbye?’

‘Bye,’ she shouts.

‘Look at the college applications,’ he says. She hasn’t decided about what she’s going to do next year yet and they’re not pushing her too hard, in case it scares her off. They mentioned college once and she countered with a desire for a year to find herself. He and Deanna both hope that she likes what she finds. He rolls his eyes at Alyx who has reappeared, clutching her clothes. She starts to pull them on in the hallway.

‘No shower?’ he asks.

‘Later,’ she says, and she runs downstairs, past him and to the kitchen. ‘Dad’s taking me,’ she tells Deanna. ‘Can I have my breakfast to go?’ She says it in a voice that she’s heard on a TV show. Deanna pulls bread from the grille of the toaster and the spread out of the cupboard, and she puts it down in front of Alyx with a thick, rounded knife.

‘You get the honor,’ she says to her daughter, and then she leaves for the hallway and finds Laurence there, at the foot of the stairs. He’s in the lemon tie, and she knows exactly when he was last wearing it. Exactly what day it was. She balks and stands back.

‘What’s up?’ he asks.

‘Nothing,’ she says. If he can’t remember it, she reasons, there’s no point in saying it. The suit still hangs in the wardrobe. He hasn’t worn it since Sean died. He’s blamed it on the weight loss, but she knows that’s not true. She’s told herself that it was because of the connotations. The breast of it still has smears from her eyes on it, the dark tear-runs of her mascara like a print of her face. Deanna didn’t see the point in cleaning it. She thought, instead, that they should just burn it, but they haven’t. She doesn’t know how they go about it without making it seem like ceremony, so it’s inside a vacuum bag at the far end of the closet, beyond the part that you can see when the doors are opened. Out of sight, out of mind. But the tie is the first part of the puzzle to reappear, and he hasn’t realized what it means that he’s wearing it. Somehow it isn’t water-stained. Somehow it doesn’t need ironing.

He doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he adjusts it in the mirror.

‘I’ll take Alyx,’ he says. ‘It’ll be nice to spend some time with her.’

‘Sure,’ Deanna says. She focuses on his neck, his hands up and fiddling with the knot, and she wishes that he would realize what he’s done.

As he hands his bags to driver, he notices that the side gate to their house is open. ‘Shit,’ he says. The trashcan lids are up. He goes to them and peers in. ‘The bags are gone. Assholes.’

‘Again?’ she says from the porch.

‘I know,’ he says. He pulls the gate shut and looks at the cut-through lock that he put on after the last time that this happened, in the weeks following Sean’s death. ‘Can you buy a lock next time you’re at Henderson’s, something that’ll keep it shut, something they can’t cut through? Trent’ll know what sort of thing. A chain or something.’

‘Why do they do this?’ Deanna asks, coming out to look at the fractured remains of the cheap lock. It’s a rhetorical question. She looks at the pieces. Somebody came during the night and they were prepared. Laurence kicks the gate hard enough that it slams shut but swings right back open again, a clang of metal as the hinges meet and bounce against each other.

‘Don’t get stressed about it,’ Deanna tells him. ‘Please.’

‘I didn’t sign up for this part,’ he says. She kisses him, and he breathes out, an exhalation that’s part calm, part relief. ‘Let’s go,’ he says to Alyx.

In the car, Alyx clambers. She presses the window button, making it descend and then rise again, watching the world be taken away by the slick blackness of the glass. When it’s shut, the glass changes tone and shade, allowing just enough light in while still letting them see outside. She coos.

‘This car is awesome,’ she says.

‘I know,’ her father tells her. He puts the seat-back TV set on, flicking through the presets he’s established. Alyx turns her attention to it and the people talking.

‘Are you on here today?’ she asks.

‘No,’ he says. ‘Next week.’ The only time Alyx watches him on TV is when he’s in a one-to-one, because he always does a shout-out to her; always tells the family that he loves them. It’s a recent thing. The cynics, and there are many, think it’s working his personal situation to his benefit. Sometimes he wonders if he’s been that cynical himself and just not realized. ‘What have you got in school today?’

‘We’re reading The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe,’ she says.

‘That’s it?’

‘I don’t know what else.’ She undoes her seat belt and he sees past her, to the traffic on the streets, the busy morning intersections, the reckless drivers. It’s the route chosen by the computer’s algorithm, the most likely route to get them where they’re going in the most efficient way possible. Traffic is mostly (but only marginally) better thanks to their ClearVista branded devices. But still, you can’t account for other people and human error, Laurence thinks. Some things simply cannot be predicted.

‘Sit down,’ he says, and he reaches over and clips her in himself. ‘Be more careful, okay?’ She nods and he kisses her forehead. He looks behind and out of the window, to see if anybody’s following them. He doesn’t know why, but it doesn’t hurt to be paranoid, he tells himself. This is what they want: the press, his enemies. They want him when he’s dropped his guard.

Deanna’s finished her new book. She’s opened the file every day for the last week and read it all morning, right the way through until she picks up Alyx from school. It takes that full stretch of time: not because it’s especially long, but because she focuses on it, gets as deep as she can. She’s been editing it for weeks now, going over and over the words, searching for the truth in what she’s written. It’s important to find it because that informs the story, the characters. Every word is careful; every word has meaning. It’s arduous; but, she reminds herself, it probably should be.

It’s eleven when she finally hears Lane waking up. Doors slam – bedroom, bathroom, bedroom again – and then comes the sound of her boots on the stairs. Deanna shuts her laptop, so that her daughter doesn’t see what she’s been working on – as if she would care, Deanna thinks – but then Lane is gone without even coming into the kitchen. Another slam, this time from the front door. There’s no shout of goodbye.

Deanna thinks about going after her, but it would be pointless. She would yell at her and Lane would ignore her; or she would chase her and Lane would bite her hand off. They’re losing her, Deanna thinks. She’s old enough to leave home but she has no job or indication of a desire to do anything with her life, and that’s all that keeps Deanna hopeful: that Lane’s own lack of ambition, of drive, will keep her here for a while. While she’s at home, they can keep an eye on her; and it means that the house doesn’t become even emptier. Because Lane makes noise. Alyx is quiet, appearing in doorways and padding around in her bare feet, but Lane is noisy, and she’s difficult, and she fills the house with her presence.

Deanna returns to the manuscript and her emails. As well as the new book she has got an email in draft. It’s been half written for the last few weeks, addressed to her agent. He stopped calling after Sean died, most likely because it suddenly became something that he would have to talk about but clearly wanted to avoid; and, Deanna reckons, he wrote her off. There was no chance of her finishing a book while she was still in mourning. And she felt the same, until she realized that the feeling of mourning was never going to go away. Then it became freeing, and that’s when the words came. And it might be that he’s not the best person to represent her now. Her previous books were flowing and grounded and real, but this new one is so sparse and fantastical he might be the wrong person to try and sell it for her. The email says all of this, but then it introduces the book to him anyway. Into the Silent Water, she’s called it.

She describes the setting, the characters: a woman has forgotten who she is, but she wakes in a land that’s flooded, a thick and grotesque scar marked across her forehead. Her mark means that she did not die accidentally: it means that she killed herself. In her hand there is a picture of a child, and all that she knows is that she is there to find him. But he is lost, and she wonders, as she goes, how intentional this all was; that maybe her own death was the first part of a quest that she cannot possibly hope to complete.

As she reads the synopsis, the novel, she thinks how thinly veiled it is, but that it doesn’t matter to her. Not with this book. She wants to publish it under a pseudonym, if it’s good enough to even be published in the first place. She can’t tell; she’s never been able to tell. She’s sure that nobody will want to hide who she is, especially if Laurence gets further in the race. After that, everybody will want their blood; she just hopes that it’s harder to take it if you don’t know it’s there, waiting to be tapped.

As they wait at the airport’s check-in desk, Amit talks to Laurence about how this will be once he’s secured the nomination.

‘Then,’ he says, ‘they’ll wheel out the plane to ferry you around. No waiting. Think about that. And then, you know, a couple of years down the road, Air Force One.’

‘You’re cursing it,’ Laurence says.

‘It’s not a curse,’ Amit says. ‘You’ve seen the polls. Can’t curse that.’

‘I’ve seen three percentage points.’

‘Exactly. Foundations.’ In front of them an elderly couple bicker about the flight. They throw statistics at each other like curveballs. The airline hasn’t had an accident in a while, the woman says; that means, statistically, they are now more likely to. She talks about safety protocols and how likely they are to have slipped, reading probability numbers from the ClearVista app on her phone. The man counters that, behind the scenes, the airline is likely to have picked their game up specifically because of the existence of ClearVista. They’ll want to reassure their customers that they can be trusted. The woman asks why the likelihood of an accident – a percentage that’s higher than the airline’s nearest rivals – isn’t higher, then. The man says that they haven’t taken that into account yet. It hasn’t propagated. Laurence listens while trying not to, and watches Amit tweeting about their day, about where they’ll be and what they’ll be doing.

The delegates picked him, not caring about his lack of experience. Statistics and predictions, that was the way that the business of politics was always going to be heading and Amit came from that background, having worked for ClearVista in their early days. He helped to write their algorithm, the algorithm that has now intruded on so much of the world in one way or another. Too much math, he said, when Laurence asked why he wanted out of such a big company. They were something close to friends now, sure, but business always comes first. Laurence can’t imagine this relationship going further if he loses the race. Laurence knows how this works for Amit if they fail. He will bounce back, and he’ll be here again in four years with another potential candidate. His numbers, based on his time with Laurence, will be better; his stock maybe even higher. Especially if he jumps ship before he’s pushed. If he sees the way it’s going, watches the tide.

The couple checks in, finally, and moves on, and then Laurence and Amit are second in the queue. The man in front of them holds his ticket up to the scanner and hands his ID to the girl behind the desk. He has no luggage, not even a carry-on, just a blue jacket, carried in his hand. It’s expensive-looking but bundled up. He pockets his ID, and he looks at Laurence as he steps past them. He nods, and smiles. Amit notices.

‘He knew who you were, see?’

‘What?’ Laurence is caught for a second, somewhere else.

‘He recognized you. Foundations, then a ground swell of being recognized. That’s as good as support, because he’ll remember that. He sees your face on a ballot, he’ll remember who he wants to vote for. You’ll see.’ Amit hands the assistant their IDs, and both men hold their phones out to scan their tickets. She asks them the usual questions and Amit answers for them. Laurence glances behind them.

‘I don’t like being recognized,’ he says. ‘They raided the trash this morning.’

‘Who did?’