Paul Collins - The Government in Exile and Other Stories

as if on the TV and radio. Perhaps from their inventories they snatch each

other's jokes and embellish them.

Ob centers himself at the table. There he is closest to the meat.

Presently he is hacking at it with his hunting knife. He attacks the

meat

as he does every obstacle in his life. As a special treat to us he is wearing his Pierre Cardin suit. On him it looks like a Myer special. He has splattered it with globules of gravy.

I sit at the other end of the table. We have candles tonight to celebrate

Ob's killing the bird. It was Mary Sue's idea. As she explained it to me:

"Don't you see, Harry? The bird was free, as are the unemployed -- so it

had to die! Isn't that precious?" Her logic would not stand the scrutiny

of a ten-year-old.

Again, I believe it amuses her to humour Ob. There are so few pleasures in

life. The other four pick at their food with no great fervor. I do not see

them often; they usually eat dinner in their rooms while studying Great Books of Wisdom. They were once technicians of some repute. Eyes sunken,

owing to massive over-reading, cheeks pallid and gaunt through worry and

malnutrition, bodies emaciated owing to utter neglect, they live to learn

and sleep.

The technicians consider themselves our salvation. I refrain from burdening them with the problems of day-to-day living. The freezers are malfunctioning; the generator is burning out; the water supply is being tampered with at its source; so now I drink wine rather than the bitter water (the others have not noticed it yet) -- and the unemployed are becoming increasingly violent.

And Ob is running out of ammunition.

Mary Sue raises her glass of Cuvée Dom Perignon. "Compliments to the chef!"

The technicians leave the table, the worries of the world upon their faces. I imagine they feel we are rather frivolous.

Ike maneuvers his fingers around the gold chalice at his right and glides

it towards me.

"Magnifique," he slurs. The chalice hovers precariously between his lips.

The table swallows more champagne than he. Mary Sue offers assistance and

together they sip from the same chalice.

The centre dish now completely bare, Ob dispenses with the leftovers on the technicians' plates. His eyes, twin coals of fire, are forever watchful, distrustful.

"Hey, did we congratulate Ob on his kill?" Mary Sue wonders. Her face becomes pensive. Thought of this magnitude worries her.

Ob has finished. He reclines into his seat and makes sucking noises as his

tongue digs for errant meat.

"It was damn good shooting," Ike says appreciatively. Ob's cheeks balloon

into a smile. His Neanderthal mind does not readily perceive sarcasm.

"Shame though it's taken you this long to get good," Mary Sue tells him drunkenly. "You're almost out of ammo, aren't you?"

That familiar slow flush pinches Ob's cheeks, deflating them. All at once

he is standing, towering over the two lovers. His chair cartwheels

across

the floor.

I stand to clear the dishes. Melodramatics bore me. Ob is a lousy shot, poor at crosswords, and a glutton. He is a pig of a man. I abhor him.

And

I have no doubt that he finds me equally detestable.

Mary Sue says in a surprised manner, "Look at the candles, Ob!" She stares

at them wide-eyed, like a five-year-old gazing with wonder at five candles

on a birthday cake.

"Shall we blow them out?" Mary Sue asks.

Ike, with a prod from Mary Sue, counts: "One, two -- come on Ob, the candles are for you, three -- "

And Mary Sue and Ike blow at the candles and bubble with laughter as each

candle winks out.

Owing to their negligence they do not see Ob standing in the corner with

his carbine. It is raised to his shoulder and his cheeks are blood red.

He

looks not at all pleased.

Mary Sue falls across the table, too drunk to reach back to where she was

extinguishing the last candle.

Ike, wheezing from the effort of huffing and puffing, sees Ob.

In the semi-darkness I see that Ike has an expression of extreme caution,

difficult to achieve in his state. Eyes fixed on Ob, Ike nudges Mary Sue.

It topples her from her chair. She clutches at the tablecloth and the candles fall like skittles to join her on the floor.

Stupefied, Mary Sue scrambles to her feet and looks forlornly at the great

muzzle of Ob's carbine.

I have not moved since Ob retrieved his weapon. He would much sooner be rid of me than the others.

I stand very still.

"Ob," Mary Sue says quietly. She almost touches sincerity. "You think we're having you on, don't you?"

This woman is galling.

"C'mon Ob, a joke's a joke," Ike cajoles.

Not appeased, Ob elevates the carbine several degrees above their heads and pours tracers into the stairwell.

Mary Sue and Ike crumple to the floor, stripped of their chutzpah.

Amid the cacophony of ricocheting bullets I hear Ob's raucous laughter.

Revolution Day. It is perhaps a paradox that this day is considered our day of fun yet also a day during which we could easily die.

Some years ago, Mary Sue proposed a scheme wherein we could taunt the unemployed. It would give us something to look forward to, she claimed.

On the twenty-first of May each year, while the unemployed are celebrating

the downfall of the government, we should go among them and cause anarchy

wherever possible -- as they had done when we, members of the government,

had tried so hard to run the country smoothly.

The technicians had asked to be exonerated and this was permitted. As for

the rest of us (there were fifteen of us then), we all swore an oath to

leave the fortress and go hunting.

The Official Body of the Unemployed (OBU) has enforced a curfew from 10

pm

to 7 am. So it is at midnight that we hunters evacuate the fortress. We have a blackout to offer us a modicum of protection against free rangers

who may be breaking the OBU's curfew.

I wake at 11 pm. I hear Ob preparing his gear in the next room. Every year

I follow him Out There. It is why I have survived so long. As the minutes

pass, I become nervous. Occasionally I listen for sounds of Ob's departure. I must not lose him.

At midnight, I hear him quietly leave his room. I wait thirty seconds, then tiptoe down the stairs. I am barely in time to see Ob's bulk move shadow-like through the front doors. For ten years I have watched him depart. He always returns at midnight twenty-four hours later.

Ob was the government's hatchet man. Australia's Heinrich Himmler. He is

as efficient at staying alive as any man I have ever known. He is the most

wanted among us, and was so even when there were many of us crowded here.

The Prime Minister had not survived the first year's outing. But I have always thought the PM was no more than a figurehead, reliant on the team

about him. Ob had refused the PM's order to remain at his side Out There.

That is why Ob is alive today. He is a loner.

Mary Sue and Ike brush past me in the dark and Mary Sue utters a clipped

squeal.

"It's only me," I whisper urgently. Ike is heavily armed and no doubt extremely trigger-happy.

Mary Sue snaps, "Harry! Christ! You're normally gone by now."

I am surprised she knows this. But then, she had been the PM's personal secretary, had recorded every important movement.

Ike says, "Be seeing you, Harry." Ike was a good Press Secretary.

Forever

optimistic, he speaks in terms of success, or prosperity. He is a living

contradiction. I wonder how he can look at himself in the mirror.

"Sure," I say simply. After all, we have seen one another after each Revolution Day for the past ten years, haven't we? When we rendezvous back