Dan Carver - Ruin Nation

“I’d say it was good to see you,” he says. “I really would. Only some wanker’s blinding me with a lamp.” Master of understatement is our Durham.

I’ve told you about Calamari’s taste for the theatrical manipulation of fear. But it’s hard to get the psychological edge over a six-foot-six monster dung beetle wreathed in shadows and smoke. He cuts a menacing figure alright. So, it’s with barely concealed disappointment that Calamari orders the blackout curtains opened and we ditch the Gestapo-style melodramatics in favour of good, old-fashioned sunshine.

I guess this particular species of insect must be nocturnal – or at least realise how ridiculous he looks in broad daylight – because the helmet comes off. Where once was a tall, brooding man-beast we see a short, scowling Don Quixote in a wrinkled wetsuit. He sucks in his hollow cheeks and fixes his piggy, red eyes on each one of us in turn.

“So much for the spirit of interdepartmental cooperation,” he growls. “I look around me at your – hah! – ‘Interrogation Room’ and your – ahem, hah! – strong-arm boys here, and it occurs to me that someone’s got a different definition of the word.” And he stubs his cigarette out on the table, much to Calamari’s twitchy annoyance.

He unfolds like a Swiss army knife, striking the ash into Durham’s lap. He leans in close, his hair bristling and his flint-axe teeth glinting in a jaggedy row.

“Now,” he hisses. “How can I put this politely…” And what happens next isn’t nice.

Okay, I don’t know your familiarity with professional sadism, or how rapacious your appetite for maiming and mutilation might be, but I’ll hazard a guess, suggest it’s low, and further suggest that you keep it that way. Curiosity’s a strange impulse that can lead us into situations our sanity can’t handle. With that in mind, I’ll keep things light and leave out any references to the removal of fingernails, testicles and electric shocks, and the unfortunate things that can be done with a length of old-fashioned dynamite fuse. It might make the following harder to follow, but I figure that’s for the best. There’s a reason they call it ‘blissful’ ignorance. I will tell you that Durham spends the next ten minutes upside down. I pull my fingers from my ears and catch the next conversation midflow:

“…and you claim to be the Chief of Police,” Calamari continues. “Well, let’s examine that statement a little closer.”

“Yes, lets!” says Malmot, making yet another unexpected entrance. The door slams behind him, the air turns grey around him. He steps forward, we take two paces back. He has that effect . “What exactly are you chief of? A thriving black-market economy, perhaps? How nice. My official economy barely exists.”

“Sounding bitter,” Durham jeers.

“You’ve also got your dirty mitts on drugs, firearms, prostitution and people trafficking. Lucky you. I’ve got the ability to raise taxes that nobody pays.”

“You got the Army,” Durham spits bitterly. “You got our Army!”

“I rebuilt the Army,” Malmot corrects, “from damn-near nothing. And now the hard work’s done, you want to take it all away from me.” And he pauses. “You know, it’s the sense of betrayal that hurts the most.” And he sighs. And he smacks his former comrade in the mouth with a glass ashtray.

“What the hell is this about?” I whisper to a dark shadow standing next to me. But they don’t know either. I figure all will become clear eventually. But how long does ‘eventually’ take.

“You don’t deserve an army,” Durham taunts through split lips and crimson gushings. Malmot considers his response.

“I hope you like hanging by your ankles, because we’re going to lunch. So do try not to breathe in too much blood. Can’t have you drowning on us, can we?” He’s halfway out the door when he adds, “Oh, and just one more thing before we leave, something to mull over: We found your little subterranean bunker. Bit of a health risk. Full of vermin. So we fumigated it for you. No, don’t thank me. Do be a dear though, and sign this.”

“What is it?”

“It’s the bill. Gas doesn’t come cheap, you know. Still, you can always redirect the money from your wages bill. After all, it’s much smaller now.”

And so we adjourn to the canteen. I’ve no notion what we’ll return to. I don’t recall what I eat. I just remember fighting to keep it down.

“Ah! Still alive, I see. Excellent!” says Malmot clasping his hands together. “Well, I feel we got a little sidetracked earlier. So let’s start again, shall we, and explain why such a loyal servant of His Majesty should find himself snatched in the middle of the night.”

“Yes, do please,” snarls a sarcastic Durham.

“Well, it seems a number of your more senior Brownshirts were involved in a little incident at Battencross Manor the other day.”

“The crowd control officers you requested?”

“The men I made you lend me . Yes.”

“And you know how much I hate the fact you can make me do that, don’t you?”

“Yes, it’s half the reason I do it. There has to be some perks to running the country. Anyway, it seems your boys went a little bit mental, assassinated Lord Battencross and would have moved on to the guests if Jupiter here hadn’t interrupted them.”

Durham shoots me a seething look.

“My men don’t go mental. You set them up!” he spits.

“Yes, I did rather,” Malmot sneers. “But that’s what I do to young gentlemen with orders to kill me.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” says Durham.

“Audio!” Malmot orders and a disembodied voice fills the room. It’s Spencer, the Brownshirt thug I supposedly executed:

“He’ll be there, skulking in the background somewhere. When we’ve fulfilled all our contractual obligations, so to speak, we grab the old bastard by the shoulders and ram him, head first, through the windscreen. Make it look like a traffic smash. Simple as…”

“And you’re sure about this?” asks an unknown voice.

“Sure as sure. Chief D’s orders, straight from the beetle’s backside, as they say.”

“You can see,” Malmot teases, “the esteem in which your men hold you.” And when Durham makes a disrespectful noise, he subjects him to an unpleasant procedure. What happens next? Well, once again, I have the transcript. It’ll be quicker if you read it out:

MALMOT: Now, if you’ll just stop burbling blood and let me finish…

DURHAM: Yes. [Sarcastic] Sorry.

M: Okay. Now, what would you say if I said I had evidence that you were behind the murder?

D: I know what you want me to say. You want me to confess. I won’t, though.

M: You won’t? Well, what if I was to show you… In fact, I will show you! Look at this! It’s a flowchart! See this heading: ‘Bloodbath at Battencross Manor’ – it feeds into a box marked ‘Class Warfare’ before splitting off into two possible directions: ‘Death and Glory’ and ‘Complete Proletariat Revolution’.

D: All of which has nothing to do with me.

M: Well, you can say that, but if you look here, next to the caption, ‘Our Wise and Benevolent Ruler’, someone’s drawn a picture of you wearing a big crown.

D: No one will believe I did that.

M: You dress as an insect for sex. People will believe anything about you.

D: But… But…

M: No buts. Someone stab him with something.

D: Aaaaah!

M: That’s for planning to kill me. Now, about this Revolution.

D: There is no Revolution! You know that as well as I do!

M: But, if there’s no Revolution, how can there be a Counter Revolution?