Ник Харкуэй - Tigerman

‘Thank you.’

There was a mirror standing in the corner of the room, and he could see himself reflected in it beside her. To his amazement, he did not look absurd. The suit was a good fit and he filled it the right way, with weight in the shoulder and chest, not much in the tummy. There was a whisper of grey at his temples – when did that happen? He looked like a grown-up, like the people he had guarded when they came to visit in Iraq and Bosnia. The two of them together were formidable. People of consequence , that was the expression.

Inoue followed his gaze, and made an approving snort, then took his arm again and led him to their places. Someone had spent a longish while, he thought, writing everyone’s name in cool copperplate script on the little white cards at each setting. Inoue’s card was in Japanese as well as English.

Even with all the places occupied, the room felt huge and echoing. When the band paused between songs the Sergeant felt an eerie moment of vertigo, reminded somehow that the sky beyond the shingle roof was a bottomless abyss and that he and the building itself were held on the ground by a blessing of physics he did not understand.

The gathering had become, if not raucous, at least relaxed. The first course was done and enough wine had been drunk and enough fluff had been talked that the diners had lost their initial sense of awkwardness. The tinny chatter of the guests dipped as everyone realised they were suddenly that much more audible, their voices bouncing off the brick walls and echoing in the detention cells. Now they hunkered down and made exaggerated gestures of furtiveness to one another to conceal a genuine embarrassment in the quiet.

They were a mixed bag – NatProMan staff, foreign officials and quasi-officials, and one or two the Sergeant did not recognise who must be regional bureaucrats or factfinders passing through. He hoped very much that the thin-faced man at the far end was not Arno the investigator. His eyes were unsettlingly sharp. As if responding to the thought, the man turned in his seat and waved a graceful hand, his lips curling up in a faint, cordial smile.

It’s him. I know it is. The Sergeant nodded back, bluff and a bit clumsy. Well, that was of a piece with who he was supposed to be, after all. He retreated from the penetrating gaze and hid behind his neighbour.

Jed Kershaw tapped on his glass with a knife. A high, pleasing bell-sound rang out, and he seemed happily surprised and did it a couple more times, then got a rhythm going. He tapped the glass, then stamped, then slapped his hand on the table. A moment later, to the Sergeant’s absolute amazement, he added vocals, doowahbopping and tchakachahing, and people began to clap along. When the head of financial affairs began tapping her spoon and fork together he encouraged her mightily like the conductor of an orchestra, and slowly a few others made impromptu instruments and were inducted into the fellowship. A Croatian officer with NatProMan insignia proved to have a very elegant bass voice, and a moment later the thing had become a rendition of Screamin’ Jay Hawkins’s ‘Heartattack and Vine’ before collapsing into a mess of laughter.

‘Did you know he could do that?’ Inoue asked behind her hand.

‘I really did not,’ the Sergeant said. She shook her head in wonderment, and they shared a moment of complicit bewilderment. Jed Kershaw, bluesman.

Kershaw waved for calm, and banged the glass again. The meeting came happily to order.

‘Okay,’ Kershaw said. ‘Okay, okay. Welcome, everybody. I hope you’re having a good time. I’m having a great time. I kinda love this island, actually. I really do. It drives me insane. But in this business you’re pretty much gonna go insane somewhere, so it might as well be here.’ Laughter. ‘It’s been a helluva week at Kershaw Towers.’ More laughter, Kershaw’s right hand waving to indicate the building, recognising the ugliness of the place, the pompousness of naming it for himself, and a little bit of pride in his ugly domain. ‘We had… what did we have? We had stolen fish. Yeah, don’t think I didn’t hear about that. We had guys in hospital because a demon came out of the sky and beat the shit out of them – or they got in a fight with one another over a pretty girl and someone else faked up some weird film, it’s very hard to tell. Thank God, that’s not my job, I have Colonel Arno here for that.’ And yes, the thin-faced Arno nodded languidly. Kershaw bobbed his head as if reading an imaginary list. ‘Someone threw a dead dog at Lester and Kaiko, which was bad for them but really sucked for the dog. How’s that coming, Lester? Bad guys on quad bikes who are mean to puppies. We do not approve of bad guys who are mean to puppies, do we?’ He referred the question to the table, as if the Sergeant might otherwise say that he rather did. The room booed firmly, and Kershaw raised his eyebrows.

‘We’re pursuing lines of inquiry,’ the Sergeant responded. ‘We anticipate movement shortly.’

‘I love how he says “we”,’ Kershaw told the table. ‘And I love that he’s not kicking down doors and yelling. He’s so polite, even when he’s pissed. And do not mistake, my friends, he is pissed. An Englishman assaulted with a dog? In front of a lady? Beshrew me! Fol-de-rol and hey, nonny noo, there’s going to be crumpets toasted over this frightful racket, right, Lester?’

‘I have no idea what any of that means, Jed,’ the Sergeant said primly, to general delight.

Kershaw grinned. ‘So, actually it’s been pretty much an ordinary week on Mancreu – assuming the devil did not actually send a minion up out of hell to torment my Ukrainian contingent. They’re fine, by the way.

‘Except one thing is a little bit different. You know how it’s always the quiet ones? Just when I was leaving the office the other night, I got a report on my desk. Dr Inoue, couldn’t you have waited until ten minutes later? I was going to play some golf, and I missed my tee-time!’ Laughter, but a little strained. Everyone here knew what Inoue’s reports were about. ‘Yeah. So, this report. It’s not the same as the last one, or the one before. It says we have… maybe another three weeks before the next Cloud, and it’s going to be a big one. So I was lining up a big civil-protection effort for everyone who’s still here.

‘But we may not be doing that after all. We may be leaving. On receiving this report, the higher-ups have gotten a little windy. Yes, they have. And they are saying right now that they may push the button on this island. The final evacuation. We should get word before the weekend. So if there’s anything you want to see here, do here, do it this week. If there’s someone you’ve been thinking of asking on a date, I suggest you do that too, because there’s a good chance we’re all going on to our next assignments.

‘Hence this party. This isn’t a Leaving. That’s not who we are. This is not our home. When we came here we knew it was temporary. But it’s something. It’s the beginning of goodbye. So eat. Drink. Celebrate Mancreu. If you have business unfinished here, get it done. Because I’m pretty sure the clock is ticking.’ Silence, sombre and contemplative. ‘And if you do not eat this food that I have personally made, I will come to your house and hide the leftovers in your curtain rails!’ Laughter and applause, on cue, but from the chest rather than the gut.

As Kershaw went to sit down, Kaiko Inoue got to her feet. She seemed unwilling, compelled. She’s got to explain , the Sergeant thought. Bit harsh, to make her read the notice of death to the relatives before the patient’s dead. He shot a glance down the table at Kershaw, annoyed.

But Kershaw was looking uncertain and a bit nervous. His face, turned to Inoue, seemed to be asking her to sit down again, to stay quiet. Inoue was looking down at the table. She glanced at the Sergeant, and he smiled reflexively: be brave . She smiled back in gratitude. And then raised her head.