Ник Харкуэй - Tigerman

‘I must object,’ said Kaiko Inoue.

Oh.

Kershaw slumped slowly down, chubby hand holding his mouth as if he was receiving news of a death. Thirty-eight guests stared at Inoue, along with the military waiters and the band.

‘I must object,’ she said again. ‘I understand the logic. It is quite easily understandable. It is absolutely sure that we will have a Cloud again soon. The wind might take it anywhere. And each Cloud increases the likelihood of the Mancreu bacterium finding a home in another environment, if it has not done so already.

‘But I must object most strongly. This is not the right answer. Destroying this island is not the right answer. It is wasteful and foolish. Even if we burn the rock to the waterline, if we kill every plant and animal, if we dig deep down into the caldera and fuse the rocks to the mantle. Even then, we will not sterilise this place. Some small piece of ejecta will fall into the sea. Something will survive. And we will have ruined a beautiful thing for the sake of a security which we cannot have.’ She sighed. ‘I have said this in my report. I have made it very clear. And now I say it to you, in the hope that you will pay attention. What is contemplated here is not science. It is like trying to knock the moon out of the sky with a rock. It is childish fear, not grown-up action. It may make things worse. And for sure: it – will – not – help.’ She bowed her head. ‘Thank you for your attention.’

Kershaw nodded slowly to her, winced a bit, and stood again. ‘I’m going to say two things. The first is that Doctor Inoue’s concerns are well documented and I’m told they have been factored into the decision-making process, but that they are considered too sensitive for public dissemination and are covered under the Mancreu Confidentiality Resolution.’ He shrugged. You all know what that means. The Sergeant found himself wondering about his unsolved case, those stolen papers from Inoue’s office. Did whoever had them know about the MCR? Or care? Probably not. But for sure they’d burned the draft or stuffed it in a mattress, because if not, well, where was it? The time had passed for a dramatic revelation. Had really passed, now.

Kershaw held up his hand sternly. ‘The second thing… is that it’s time for the pulled pork sandwiches, made to my grandfather’s own special recipe, which is even more secret than that! And for those of you who don’t eat the meat of the pig I’ve adapted it for goat, which is surprisingly good. And for those of you who eat no meat of any kind, God help me, there are yams. Gentlemen and ladies: bring it on!’

From the wings, huge silver plates of sticky pork – and goat, and indeed yams – and fresh bread emerged, bowls of mustard and pickles, and about a hundred bottles of wine. The band struck up. Inoue took the Sergeant’s hand.

‘Thank you.’

‘I didn’t do anything.’

‘I did. And I could not have done, without a friend.’ She smiled. Around them, the party had picked up again, as if nothing had been said. Or perhaps because it had been. There was a desperation now which lent it an edge, a sense of urgency. Inoue pursed her lips. ‘It is very loud, Lester. Is there somewhere quieter? I need to clear my head.’

‘There’s a roof terrace,’ he remembered. ‘Well, there’s a roof, and some chairs.’

He stood, and – because the food smelled good – he gathered them a plate of sandwich materials. After a moment of consideration, Inoue scooped up the wine glasses, and they scurried away, to speculative glances from their nearer neighbours.

The rooftop was cool but not cold, though the sea breeze could raise goosebumps on your skin. The Sergeant took off his jacket and hung it around Inoue’s shoulders. She smiled thanks, then shrugged into it and sat pensively looking out at the wide night-time sea. He knew she would talk when she wanted to, so he sat and set about building her a spectacular sandwich – food being in his experience the best cure for post-patrol funk, which he reckoned was close enough. Then he hesitated: Inoue was a small person. His usual strategy with sandwiches was to layer on as much as possible, but this might not be the best method here. He looked over at her mouth, bobbed his head to get a better view. Silvery lips quirked in a smile.

‘Are you actually measuring my bite, Lester?’

‘Well…’

‘That is…’ She flapped her arms. ‘That is ridiculous! You are a totally ridiculous man!’ She leaned over her knees and pecked him on the cheek. Her scent came with her, a curious mixture of fruit and tea and something deep which was surprisingly like coffee. ‘I am not a tiny person. I can perfectly well eat a normal sandwich. Tcha, you are putting too much pickle. Give it to me, or Kershaw will think you are a barbarian.’ She began combining the ingredients with practised proficiency. The Sergeant wondered how often Kershaw had made this dish, and for whom. The ghost of her cheek was still lingering on his face. He wondered if they were assuming, in the main hall, that he and Inoue had come up here to kiss. He watched her fingers, deft and sure. She grinned at him, then lifted the sandwich to her mouth and took a defiant bite. A surprisingly large chunk disappeared from the bread. She raised her eyebrows and passed the rest across.

‘Mmm! Pulled pork, pickle, red wine. Very good. And Lester Ferris to talk to. Also good. Then we will enjoy the view.’

They ate, passing the makings of the sandwiches back and forth. Occasionally, fleetingly, he felt her nails graze the back of his hand as he yielded the pork platter, and vice versa when he took it back. The contact was not unpleasant, and neither of them shied from it. They ate, and then as Inoue had predicted – ordained? – they sat and looked out over the waterfront and the rooftops of Beauville. The old prison looked down on some fine colonial townhouses, narrow and elegant, and from one cluster of old streets in particular came a warm filigree light and the sound of bustle and chatter. The street of the card-players, the Sergeant realised, its inhabitants sitting out with some disreputable grappa and defying the world to move them. No doubt the old women were out, too, gamely chastising their husbands and peering in the candlelight at one another’s perfect white steps for spots of grease and dirt. It sounded as if someone – he suspected it was the street sweeper in her scarf – was playing the accordion. If the right song came along, he wondered if he should ask Inoue to dance.

Over the bay, a gull and another bird got into an argument. The outrage of the parties was so recognisable that both the Sergeant and the doctor laughed aloud. The mirth cracked the moment slightly, brought them back to themselves.

‘Tomorrow, I’d like to ask you about—’ He gestured vaguely over his shoulder. About the end of the island.

‘We shall have breakfast,’ she agreed.

‘People will talk,’ he said automatically, and then couldn’t believe he had.

Inoue grinned a feral smile. ‘Indeed, they will.’ She stood up and shrugged off his coat. For one moment he thought she was going to step onto his lap and kiss him. She had that look of intent, a wicked quirk in her lips. But then she looked over his shoulder and her expression changed and she said, quite inappropriately: ‘Oh! What the fuck ?’

He stared at her for a second and then turned sharply in his chair, the bruises on his back yowling in protest.

Out above the Bay of the Cupped Hands, a single line of flame, narrow as a wire, was drawn across the water and the sky. For a moment he thought the world had gone mad and the destruction of the island had started, that they were all going to be sacrificed, that they were somehow infected and must be burned away. But there was only one trail, rising leisurely from somewhere in the mist. They watched it plot a bright curve in the darkness and then fall, seeming to increase in certainty and velocity as it neared the land. It was casual, effortless, even elegant. The sound reached them at last, a high wailing roar from the first moments of the launch, and then the impact flash as it reached its target and detonated. The Sergeant wrapped Kaiko Inoue in his arms and dropped to the floor, and the pulled pork sandwich and two glasses of wine flew over them as the shockwave hit. The chairs skittered away along the roof like brushwood in a gale. There was a huge, appalling noise, and then silence.