William Deverell - Snow Job

Sleeping soundly beside him was his stay-up-late wife, who’d slid into bed after midnight, waking him briefly from fitful sleep. He’d thought it unwise, but she’d gone to an event for the Bhashyistanis. “Farewell Reception,” the embossed card read, an oxymoronic keepsake. Presumably, she went out with her gang afterwards, to regale them.

He didn’t approve of such late nights, was fearful for her safety ever since the spectral man in the black coat had proved to be a follower indeed. Several nights ago, after leaving a committee meeting on the Hill, Margaret had turned to see him in distant, shuffling pursuit, wearing either a black toque or a wig. And at least twice she’d seen him in her rear-view mirror in his small car, a Mitsubishi, this time with a moustache that seemed pasted there. A detective hired by Alta International, that was their best guess. He seemed unlikely to be a government hireling — if exposed, that would ignite a scandal. Margaret had morbidly taken to calling him her personal death angel. She no longer went out at night without a swarm of friends attending her.

Arthur quietly slipped from under the covers, and she rolled over but slept on, dreaming her own vivid dream. A low laugh, the kind sleep disguises as a pleasant guttural rumbling. Arthur envied her dreams, which seemed abnormally congenial, unstirred by the repressed pain that energized his own harrowing nighttime travels.

An old, lined face, buttered with foam, stared at him as he scraped it with a dull razor. He’d been considered handsome once, despite the elephant’s trunk, but age had begun to expose the codger within. He resented having to shave every day, having to wear a tie, but Ottawa had imposed its will. Anyway, it’s how he always dressed for the city, suit and tie, even on his walks. It was something neurotic, the fuddy-duddy syndrome.

As he performed his morning routines, he was plagued by a sense that his marriage had begun to show gaps, ever widening, a gulf between two islands. His slowly sinking beneath the sea, hers high above the tide line, full of bustle and battle. The thought of losing her had been causing palpitations, panic attacks.

Friday, November 26. Why did the day feel so oppressive? He had to shake this mood. A sprightly pre-breakfast walk along the canal ought to help, though it looked bone-chilling cold out there. Global warming had yet to target the nation’s capital.

A morning spat from next door, quickly drowned by a baroque concerto. The neighbours had arisen.

The phone rang as he pulled on his pants, and he nearly stumbled in them as he raced to arrest a second ring. “Good morning.”

“Good … well, it’s actually not a good morning, Arthur.” Savannah Buckett, in Blunder Bay. It was five-thirty out there.

“What happened?” Was this, finally, the prayed-for crisis that would wing him to the western shores?

“I didn’t want to bother you last night, but they’re not letting him out.”

“Who?”

“Zack. They’ve got Zack. The cops. They say he’s going to have to do the rest of his term, five months.”

He’d been at the rally in Vancouver, outside the bank tower housing Alta International’s B.C. office. Arthur was shocked to learn he was accused of violating parole by joining a public demonstration. “Do I understand a term of parole prohibits Zack from attending public protests?”

“Yeah, both of us. That’s why I didn’t go.”

“Read me the language.”

“We are barred from organizing, participating in, or attending any public demonstration relating to political or environmental issues. Zack says that’s against the Charter of Rights.”

“Fundamentally so. There was no court order enjoining this protest?”

“No. The police didn’t intervene at all except to keep order and grab Zack.”

“Savannah, you are to call Tragger, Inglis in Vancouver and ask for my secretary, Gertrude Isbister, and give her what she needs for an affidavit for a judicial review. Regrettably it can’t be heard until after the weekend, but I’ll be there.”

“You’re a lovely man, Arthur.”

He felt a tingle of relief, anticipation. Perversely, Zack’s arrest offered an antidote to his felt uselessness.

Still no stirring from the bedroom. He left a note: “Gone for a nippy walk.”

And nippy it was. But the sun was out, and a fast walk warms, and there was comfort in knowing he’d be in Vancouver by the weekend enjoying the dying autumn’s softness. Back in the saddle. Doing what he did best.

He walked south on Bronson Avenue, a busy artery feeding the Airport Parkway. His usual route would take him to Dow’s Lake, the pathway along it, past the skaters’ changing huts — unused as yet, but as this freeze continued the lake and canal would soon be thronged with hardy commuters skating to work, an Ottawa rite of winter.

Approaching from the north came a vehicle with its flashers on — an RCMP cruiser, moving with a funereal lack of speed. Behind it came a troop of Mounties on motorcycles, followed by a second cruiser and, some distance away, a stretch limousine, which seemed deliberately to have slowed the procession’s pace. From its open windows, swarthy men were waving to pedestrians. “Maple leaf forever!” one shouted. “On marge of Lake Labarge!” called another. They were passing a bottle.

Clearly, this was the infamous band of Bhashies, who had profoundly failed to charm staid Ottawa. Heading for their Ilyushin and a polar flight home. An RCMP van was impatiently pressing them from the rear. A police helicopter roared overhead. The Crown must have called out the reserves to get rid of its guests.

As he reached the bridge between the canal and Dow’s Lake, Arthur momentarily lost sight of the procession in the backed-up traffic. But as he gained the apex of the bridge, he recoiled with a gasp on seeing a brilliant flash below, accompanied by a whump so loud it seemed to reverberate drumlike within his chest cavity. Pedestrians froze, cars braked. A puff of grey smoke, swallowed by darker clouds, billowed skyward. The lick of flames reflected red from the frozen surface of the lake.

People were pouring out of cars and stalled buses. Arthur, craning over the bridge railing, could see the twisted remnants of the stretch Lincoln on Colonel By Drive, by the lakeside. A skaters’ change hut was aflame, as was an adjoining Beavertail hut.

As Arthur picked up his pace, others overtook him, running, and by the time he found his way down to the disaster scene, police and emergency vehicles were arriving, brakes screeching, uniformed men and women bounding from them.

Soon, extinguishers were dousing flames around the sprawled, blackened bodies in the limousine. Collateral damage had been done to the RCMP cruiser behind it, whose two dazed occupants were sitting on the sidewalk, receiving first aid.

Arthur felt faint, grasped a lamppost, took several deep breaths. He’d seen dead bodies before — his career had hardened him, but not enough; never had he witnessed such carnage. A missile or a roadside bomb. A direct hit. Clean, expert, unerring, ghastly.

Police were throwing up a cordon, ordering the crowds back with the frantic bawling of the severely rattled. A woman next to Arthur was vomiting. He felt his stomach roiling too.

An improvised explosive device, that was the verdict of the experts who testified before the news cameras. A remote-controlled IED, the odious weapon of choice for the fanatics of the modern age of terrorism, tested and refined in the battlefields of Iraq and Afghanistan. Likely triggered by a cellphone, the experts said. Ten dead, the entire Bhashyistan delegation plus the chauffeur and their ambassador, who’d been seeing them off to the airport.

Here was a day-old clip of that ambassador, his face lit by a smile as he cut a ribbon outside a brick duplex being renovated for an embassy. Here were clips of the Bhashie delegation being welcomed, feted, inspecting the honour guard. The sole Canadian victim, the chauffeur, was a retired naval warrant officer, whose children were shown grieving.