Only Forward

Let me explain what I mean about the rough beast of unpleasantness I mentioned earlier, the one for ever slouching towards my life to be born.

There is a little god somewhere whose sole function is to make sure that there’s a lot of grief in my life. The rough beast doesn’t just visit me occasionally: there’s a regular fucking bus route. Most of the reason for this is that I end up with the jobs that no one else could handle, but part of it is this little bastard god who sits there keeping a steady eye on the grief meter, giving the lever a jog every now and then. What’s happened, I suspect, is that someone on the other side of the universe has made a pact with the guys in charge, selling his soul for a grief-free life. The grief has to be used up somehow, otherwise it would just pile up and make the place look untidy. So they give it to me.

And what is really weird is that it always comes in equal-sized packets. Some jobs are a bastard from minute one, continue to be a bastard throughout, and finish in a bastard way too. Others, however, start off alarmingly smoothly, full of unlikely coincidences and strange good fortune, and those are the ones that I really hate. Because it means that they’re saving all the trouble for later, that all the dangerous, strange and unpleasant grief that I know I have coming to me has coalesced in a pulsating mountain somewhere further along the line, and is sitting there waiting for me to run into it.

My cigarette eventually burnt my fingers and I stubbed it out. There was simply no question that it was Alkland who was sitting not five yards away from me. I didn’t have to consult the cube in my pocket to be sure of that. Sitting there, taking his time over the menu, he was like an advert for how lifelike cube images were. He looked a little tired, and his suit was rather crumpled, but otherwise he was exactly as I had expected.

I picked my knife and fork back up and moved the crud on my plate around a bit, covertly glancing across the room. The Actioneer, was, I suspected, a little tenser than he looked, but all in all he was doing quite a good job of it. No one else had entered the restaurant with him: evidently his captors were confident that he wouldn’t make a break for it. After all, where could he go?

After a few minutes he looked at his watch with a frown, irritated as only an Actioneer can be at being kept waiting. Then he went back to the menu, doubtless thinking up ways in which it could be improved and made more efficient. I was surprised, actually, at how well-adapted he seemed, how blended in. He almost looked as if he was on holiday, which, for someone who was being forcibly kept from doing billions of things, showed fairly high reserves of resignation. When the art student eventually appeared and wandered within shouting distance of his table, he looked up and smiled vaguely.

‘Hello, my dear: how are you this evening?’

‘Fine thank you, Mr Alkland, and you?’

‘Oh, fine, fine. Relaxing nicely, thank you. So. Is there anything worth eating on this badly-designed menu this evening?’

‘No, not really. The chef said he thought the Chicken a‘ la Turk with strawberry yoghurt and braised sunflower seeds probably wouldn’t do anyone any actual harm, but he didn’t seem too confident.’

I was gobsmacked, I really was. I’d done my very best to be charming to the art student, which was probably more charming than you’d expect, and hadn’t got a single word out of her. It just went to show what looking like a harmless professor does for you. I haven’t described what I look like, have I? Remind me later and I will: it’s not that bad, but it’s kind of uncompromising. Every face says something: the deal with mine is that though you might not like what it’s saying you have to admire the strength of its convictions.

‘What does it look like?’ Alkland asked doubtfully. The waitress thought for a moment.

‘Strange.’

‘I can’t say I’m surprised. Well, I suppose I’ll have to risk it.’

‘Anything to drink, sir?’

‘A glass of wine would be rather nice. Any idea how long it’ll be? To the nearest day?’

‘Well, he’s already cooked one thing this evening, so he’ll probably be a bit tired, but I’ll try and hurry it up for you, sir.’

‘Thank you, my dear,’ Alkland beamed endearingly, handing her his menu and settling back down to gaze benignly round the room.

I flagged her down as she passed, and asked for the check, lighting a cigarette and settling down for a long wait. She was back before I’d finished it, however, with both my check and a salad for Alkland, for God’s sake. He hadn’t even ordered one and there he was eating something within minutes. Obviously some people have got it and some people haven’t.

I paid up and went straight to the lobby, where a uniformed flunky was now standing, trying to look busy. Maybe this was the off season, or perhaps this was the least favoured of Play’s hotels. It was certainly a good choice for a gang to hole up in. Passing myself off as ‘one of his party’ I asked which room Alkland had, and the flunky was glad to help. He told me twice, it was such a novelty to have something to do, and when I asked him where the bar was he practically carried me there.

For the next two hours I sat unobtrusively in the bar, flicking through magazines and keeping an eye out. I’d decided to wait until after shutdown before I did anything, and the bar was conveniently placed for making sure nobody I was interested in left the hotel without my knowing. A few couples were dotted around the bar and a handful passed through on their way somewhere else, but no one who didn’t look like they were Stable born and bred. Either the gang were lying low in their rooms, or were out and about in Stable. I considered asking the lobby flunky for a list of registered guests, on the off-chance that I might recognise any of the names, but decided that it would look too suspicious. Just before ten o’clock Alkland passed by the door, heading towards the stairs up to the rooms, but I didn’t follow him. I knew where he was going.