Dan Carver - Ruin Nation

“Now, how shall I put this? Well, you expect your police to be a little corrupt. However, you also expect them to solve some crime along the way. It shows willing. It goes some way to justifying the salary.

“But Durham doesn’t care. He’s getting his pay direct from the criminals, letting them do what they want. Which leaves him more time to do what he wants. And what the drunken little dung-baller likes most of all is plotting my downfall and the confiscation of my army.

“But I didn’t work long and hard buttering up mad old Generals just to hand everything to the first nutcase in rubber trousers who comes along.”

“Would he know what to do with an army?” I ask.

“Probably kit them out in stripy jumpers and send them off on a ten mile pollen hunt. There’ll be weapons training, self-defence classes and lessons on how to build a bivouac out of little wax hexagons. So what do you think?…Yes or no?”

“I’m guessing it’s a no then, Sir.”

“Yes, Jupiter, it’s a no.”

We drive up to a checkpoint. It’s past curfew and a black-visored, heavily-armoured leopard handler asks for our documents. I can’t see his animal, but I notice his leash disappearing up a tree.

“Oh, it’s you , Sir,” he says upon sight of Malmot. “So sorry.” We drive on without delay.

Now I don’t know how to talk to Malmot. He despises independence and looks down on deference. Silent? You’re plotting against him. Shy? You’re hiding something. You’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t. So I figure I’ll just come out with it. Best to bite the bullet and accept the bollocking if it comes.

“Durham’s plot, Sir… His revolution… How much of it’s, er… accurate ?”

Malmot makes direct eye contact. I wish he wouldn’t. He should be watching the road. There’s more thuds and crunches as he explains:

“You mean, how much of it’s bullshit?” And he laughs. “Remember Calamari’s speech in the Dental surgery? About delayed-truth? Well, this is similar. We’re reshaping the actuality to match the intent; making the crime fit the punishment, if you will.”

“All of it, from the butchering of the landed gentry, fomenting dissent in the capital, and the march to power on Downing Street, it’s all pure Durham, direct from his own secret papers. We’re just providing the people, the opportunities, the triggers, and putting everything into action a little earlier than he might have planned. And if we change the cast a little, make the division between the good guys and bad guys a little clearer cut, perhaps tack on a happy ending, well, if it was a film script, he’d still get his name on the credits.”

“But he can’t lead a revolution from a prison cell, Sir.”

“He can if he escapes. Or if we say he’s escaped. Then he’s twice as useful to us. ‘Reds under the beds’ and all that. Nothing like the threat of robbers to get the girls screaming and the boys running downstairs with baseball bats.”

Well, I’ve had enough of Malmot’s sage-like wisdom for the night so I’m relieved when we arrive at my house.

I hope he doesn’t try and kiss me, I think to myself, because there’s clearly an ulterior motive here. Fortunately, he doesn’t. Just bids me goodbye with a formal snort and tears off with his wheels squealing.

And I’m standing on my front step, just about to put my key in the door, when the damn thing creaks open in front of me. And there’s Calamine, smiling like he knows something I don’t. Which he always does. Smiling like he’s just screwed my wife. Which he might have.

“Do you want to know what the future holds?” he asks me obliquely.

“Only if it’s extremely, extremely uneventful,” I answer because, by this point, I’m exhausted.

“I’ve been talking to your wife,” he says.

“Oh, yes? With your penis?” Is this jealousy I’m expressing? Surely not. The woman despises me and the feeling’s more than mutual.

“Well, er, no,” he stammers. (You’d be surprised how prudish these men-of-action can be. Won’t look at a woman sideways unless there’s a wedding ring handy.)

“She wants you back. You’re a hero now. You can expect to be treated like one.” He leans in close. There’s a glint in his eye. “Would you like to know something else interesting? The tests came back and you’re not infertile! Well, that’s funny, I thought to myself. So we went through your bins and discovered that your wife has been taking black-market contraceptives! Isn’t that good news?!”

“What? That my wife didn’t want to breed with me because she thought I was a waste of space?”

“No, the wanting you back.”

“She wants her widow’s pension. Already spent it, probably. Really, Calamine, as far as good news goes, this is, well… it’s just shit news, isn’t it?”

Calamine seems unfazed.

“You’re a hero,” he continues brightly, “you should make the most of it. I’ll take your report in the morning. You have some repopulating of the species to do!” He looks at me and laughs. “See you tomorrow, bright and early,” he says with a wink. “Or bleary-eyed and saddle sore!”

But cold, emotionless sex with someone who expects gratitude doesn’t appeal to me right now. I’m a hero. I have options.

Tomorrow becomes Today and the rest of the Future lines up accordingly. There’s a knock on the door, but it’s not Calamine. Calamine never shows.

“Special delivery!” says a man in a grey jumpsuit and peaked cap, handing me a docket to sign. I look at him and he looks at me. It’s the gentleman with three testicles from Battencross Manor.

“Three corpses, mate,” he says in a broad Geordie brogue. “Reckon you’ll want ’em round the back. We’d bring ’em in for you but she’s hurt ’er wrist.” He jerks his thumb toward his female companion, sat behind the wheel of a large, refrigerated van. The turquoise dress is gone but I recognise her red hair and mad, brown eyes. She waves.

“Shot ’em ourselves,” he adds with a wink. “In Rangoon!”

“Couldn’t you deliver them to the workshop?”

“No, you’re not there,” he answers with impeccable logic. “And these things need careful storage. We’ve got some mechanical gubbins too. Couldn’t give us a hand, could you? Only she’s…”

“Hurt her hand. Yes, I know.”

Soon my shed’s full of mangled metal and human meat. I’m not happy. Bang goes my quiet weekend.

I contact Malmot. It takes ages to get through to him. Nobody knows who I am. The people who do, don’t care. Then I realise that I don’t own a phone and I’ve never been given a contact number. So whose is this mobile and how did I know what to dial into it? First things first, though…

“Ah! So you’ve got them, then?” says Malmot.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Wondering who they are, aren’t you?”

“The corpses? Yes. Yes, I do.”

“Do you really want to know? I mean, really ?”

“Er…”

“[Gleefully] Well, the black fellow, he’s Nelson Churchill, Shadow Minister for Agriculture, Fisheries and Food. Though there isn’t much of either at the moment. Pay particular attention to his neck. We used a garrotte and it bit quite deeply. The woman – can’t remember her name offhand. Campaigns against landmines. We thought it’d be funny if she started campaigning for them. No foul play involved. Drank herself to death. Turned yellow and dropped off the twig, so, perhaps, a lick of paint’s in order….And don’t fiddle about with her. I don’t appreciate that sort of thing.”

“I’ve got an estranged wife, Sir. I’m not some weird loner.”

“I’ve never known a marriage certificate stop a pervert.”