Грэм Мастертон - Famine

Ed crossed the bar and laid both of his hands on Dr Benson’s back. ‘Dr Benson?’ he said. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Drunk,’ said Dr Benson.

Ed looked at Della with an expression like cracked ice. ‘Did you bring him in here?’ he demanded.

Della said, ‘He wanted to come. He said he felt like a drink.’

‘Goddamit, you knew he was an alcoholic!’

‘How was I supposed to know that?’ asked Della. ‘I’ve never met him before in my life. All I wanted to do was talk about the blight, and all he wanted to do was drink. Is that my fault?’

‘I don’t know,’ Ed said, bitterly.

‘He called me,’ said Mike Smith. ‘He said he had some news about the blight.’

‘Did he tell you what it was?’ asked Ed.

‘Well, he did,’ said Mike. ‘But I’m not sure what I’m supposed to believe now. I mean, the guy’s stewed. Whatever he says, it isn’t going to make a lot of sense.’

‘It’s a virush,’ said Dr Benson, rearing up from his barstool.

‘You see what I mean?’ put in Mike Smith. ‘It just doesn’t make sense.’

‘It’s a virush ,’ insisted Dr Benson. ‘A damned terrible virush I can’t remember the name of. Vorar D. That’sh it. Vorar D. You look it up. Vorar D.’

‘That’s what he told me on the phone,’ said Mike Smith. ‘He said that somebody called Professor Protter in Washington had called him up, and spilled the beans on the whole blight situation. The blight was caused by some virus called Vorar D, some kind of defoliant they developed for Vietnam.’

‘He’s drunk,’ said Della. ‘He’s been rambling like this ever since I met him. Earlier on, he was saying that the blight was an act of God.’

‘God?’ enquired Dr Benson, loudly. ‘Has God decided to grace us with His presence?’

Mike Smith pulled a face. ‘I can’t broadcast anything from a source as pickled as this,’ he said.

Ed kept his arm protectively around Dr Benson’s shoulders. ‘I know you can’t,’ he told Mike Smith. ‘But when I first talked to Dr Benson about this blight, he wasn’t drunk. And he did believe it was caused by a virus. Presumably somebody in Washington – Professor Protter, or whoever – presumably they’ve discovered what virus it is.’

‘I can’t send out a story on evidence like this,’ said Mike Smith, shaking his head.

‘So what are you going to do?’ asked Ed. ‘You’ve seen the crops for yourself, the condition they’re in. Are you going to ignore them, and run the same news stories as everybody else?’

‘It’s under control,’ said Mike Smith. ‘Everybody from the governor downwards tells me it’s under control.’

‘Sure it’s under control,’ said Ed, hotly. ‘It’s under so much control that I’ve just lost eighty-five thousand acres of wheat without being able to stop it, or even slow it down. Under control, crap.’

Mike Smith spread his arms apologetically. ‘I don’t see what I can do. Here’s a scientist giving me all the answers I want, and the only trouble is that the scientist is blind drunk. Sober him up, and then I’ll talk to him. But it’s more than my reputation’s worth to interview him now.’

Della said, ‘I’m afraid he’s right. You can’t believe a man in this condition, even if you want to.’

Ed lowered his eyes. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I suppose you can’t. Dr Benson – I’m going to drive you home.’

Dr Benson shook his head. ‘One more drink. One more, and then I’ll come. Bartender – one more drink!’

Ed looked at Della with a feeling of bitterness that he could hardly control. ‘I should have known better,’ he said. ‘I should have known a whole damned sight better.’

‘Once a hayseed, always a hayseed,’ Della told him, and grinned.

Ed slammed the fiat of his hand on to the bar, and the barman looked around warily.

She was lying on the cedarwood pooldeck in back of the house, stretched out on an airbed. A light breeze rustled in the trees, and the sunlight danced in dazzling spots on the surface of the water. She felt soothed, and relaxed, and calm. All the tensions of Kansas had eased their way out of her mind, until there was nothing inside her consciousness at all but summer heat, and fragrant wind, and peace.

She knew it would take far more than a couple of days sunbathing to replace the tensions that she had lost, but for the time being the peace was enough.

Carl and Vee had taken Sally to Universal this morning for the studio tour. Season had preferred to stay behind. She had lingered over her breakfast, drinking four cups of black coffee. Then she had undressed and sat naked on the edge of the pool, slowly kicking her legs in the water and smoking a joint. The glittering ripples had cross-hatched her imagination with bright reflections, and she had meditated for almost a half-hour, feeling one with the sun and the water and the trees.

Now, shiny with Coppertone, aromatic as a pina colada, she was lying with her eyes closed getting an all-over tan.

A little after eleven, she heard a knocking at the french doors which gave out on to the pool deck. She was almost asleep, and she stretched herself like a cat.

‘Vee?’ she called. ‘Is that you?’

There was an awkward throat-clearing noise. ‘Mrs Hardesty? Season? Am I interrupting you?’

Season reached across for her beach-wrap, and covered herself. Then she pushed her wide pink-tinted sunglasses on to the end of her slippery nose, and peered towards the house. It was too shadowy inside to see who was there.

‘Who is this?’ she said.

‘It’s me. Granger Hughes. I just stopped by to see how you were. But if it’s inconvenient—’

‘Oh, Granger. Not at all. Did Marie let you in? Come on out here, and I’ll have her fix us some drinks. It’s good to see you.’

Granger stepped out through the french doors into the sunlight. He was dressed in white today – a crisp cotton suit and white shoes. He wore aviator sunglasses, and his blond hair looked spiky, as if he had been swimming. The sun momentarily caught his huge crucifix, a flash of religious light.

‘How are you?’ said Season. ‘I won’t shake your hand. I’m smothered in suncream.’

Granger drew up one of the white wrought-iron chairs, and sat beside her. ‘I’m very well,’ he said. ‘And I’m pleased to see that you’re still here in LA.’

‘I think I’ll be staying for quite a while.’

‘You’re going to need some time, huh?’

Season nodded. ‘I’m beginning to feel better in myself. I’m beginning to understand that I didn’t actually lose my personality when I was out there in Kansas. I’m still me. But I’ve been in hiding for so many months inside of my head – well, it’s going to take me a while to coax me out again.’

Granger crossed his legs. ‘Do you think I could help? That’s what my church is all about.’

‘I don’t know. I’ve never been particularly religious. I believe in God, but that’s about all.’

‘That’s all you need. We’re not one of your heavy, upright, believe-it-or-else organisations. We’re not a bunch of religious kooks, either. We’re just a group of friendly, concerned young people who believe that the power of our Lord Jesus Christ was, and is, a practical power. As practical as a garage mechanic’s wrench, or a housewife’s food blender.’

‘The Church of the Holy Cuisinart?’ asked Season, sarcastically.

Granger grinned. ‘You can make fun. A lot of people do. But the whole thing makes human sense and spiritual sense too. Our Lord has power, and nobody in the whole world can convince me that he won’t let us use that power for good. Why do you think Jesus demonstrated his miracles in public? So that the people around him would realise that they could heal people too.’