REALM N HELL....PART 1

Nov 20, 2007 - 15:24 PM PST

REALM AND HELL...
"St Peter at the gates of heaven and hell. He’s a busy man. Dead Christians popping
up in front
Of him at six a minute. So his judgements have to be fast. I think he goes on clothes.
"There’s a backlog. Millions waiting to be judged. I see it as a great sports hall up
there with bare
Concrete walls, no windows, something from the sixties. Half of them are singing -
hymns, tribal
Chants, salsa. Dancing. Hell of a commotion. St Peter’s in his chair, trying to do his
best. They line up
To stand in front of him. He looks at the next one for a few seconds, says, ’Nice suit,
right hand door’."
1 Foxglove, Kite and Balloons
It was Spencer’s turn. The bishop seemed the best piece to move, not for any great
strategic
Reason but because of the shape of its hat. He lifted the bishop from its square,
moved it diagonally a
Couple of spaces through the air like a real chess player might do, and inserted it in
his left nostril. It
Fitted nicely. When he took his hand away it stayed there. As an afterthought he took
the second
Black bishop from the board and used it to plug his right nostril. This one stayed in
place too. Perhaps
It had something to do with those grooves on the bishops’ hats.
"’S that how you feel about religion?" slurred the Professor. Their quart of Jack
Daniel’s was
Almost empty. An average nine year old could have beaten them both at chess, but
happily they were
Finding it difficult to beat each other. They were sitting in their favourite chessplaying
spot in the
Middle of the biggest disused lot in the city, ten acres of raw earth and rubble half a
mile from the
Bay. The moon was close to new and still feeble. A few bright stars were beating the
city glare.
"Agnostic defence." Spencer’s voice sounded very strange inside his head, very
nasal and
Disembodied. He liked the sound of it. Well-distanced from reality.
"Hundreds of years old, this game are," said the Professor. "It’s easy to forget that.
Two empires
Fighting each other. The king, his consort, his castles, knights and clerics, all at war."
The chess pieces belonged to the Professor, but if he disapproved of Spencer’s
unorthodox move,
It didn’t show. His eyes were opening wide, as innocent as a child’s. A change in the
light caught his
bulging cheeks, veins like scarecrow’s hands clutching the cheekbones beneath the
skin. His coat was
Open, showing off the single baby-pin that secured his fly. Apart from the ruined
cheeks and trousers
He looked like an ageing cherub. How strange, thought Spencer, that I can see your
face and you can
See mine, yet we rarely see our own. Even when they shaved it was usually blind. It
wasn’t as hard as
Mirror-people might imagine.
Behind the Professor was the contractors’ yellow machinery, a big conference of
hydraulic arms
And dozer blades, a Japanese army resting from its daily battle with the soil. They
were all Komatsu’s
And Hitachi’s. Whatever happened to good old Caterpillar? Spencer had a brief
vision of himself
Patrolling the fence around that Japanese compound, in uniform, with his flashlight
and sidearm. A
Vision that would go back to a comfortable apartment in the small hours when the
shift was over and
Snuggle up with an adorable girlfriend for the overlap hours, until she rose
complainingly for work.
All history now. Can’t change history. And it had never been his compound to guard.
He took the bishops from his nose and wiped them on his coat. Instead of putting
them on their
Squares he put them to one side, on the red plastic crate the board was resting on,
signifying that the
Game was a draw under rule 142C, the excess Jack Daniel’s rule. If the Professor
was right, and this
Was a war of empires, these two had just declared a ceasefire.
The Professor’s description intrigued him. Two warring empires. A curious thought,
except that
Wasn’t the way wars were fought these days? Modern wars were fought by
multinational companies
For the hearts and wallets of the world’s consumers, for dollars rather than land.
Maybe it was time to
Bring the game up to date; invent a new set of pieces. The pawns as Mexicans and
Chinese stooped
Over sweatshop tables. The bishops in advertising, with TVs for heads and passing
out magazines.
The knights as company accountants with tall stacks of cash, but taking it in rather
than handing it
Out. The rooks as company attorneys, holding writs. The queen as chief executive
officer in a high-backed
chair. And the king? The king nothing more than a squiggly line on a chart - that
most crucial
Yet vulnerable element of any company, its stock market share price.
A stronger flash of light caught the Professor’s face. Spencer turned to see where it
had come
from. A raised freeway passed a dozen yards behind him, its concrete stilts holding
the twin decks
Too high for the cars and trucks to be seen. Only their ghosts were visible;
headlights turning the
Night air white or reflecting off the bottom of the upper deck, casting shadows circling
behind the
pieces on the board. But the light hadn’t come from there. A white limousine was
crawling down the
Contractors’ track through the centre of the lot, between the broken concrete and
banks of earth, its
twin white eyes rising and falling with the bumps. Spencer didn’t feel much one way
or the other
About its approach, except that it was an intrusion. Some half-lost memory told him it
was a car he
vaguely knew.
It came to a standstill a few yards from where they were sitting, engine off, looking
faintly
Ridiculous amongst all the raw earth and rubble. The big rear door clicked and
opened wide, showing
The backside of a pair of jeans, which reversed out awkwardly. The figure stood
upright and turned,
Smiling.
Spencer groaned and looked away.
The Professor stared. "You’re George Stiles. I’ve seen you in the papers." He said it
quietly. A
Secret thought accidentally said out loud.
"You must read the business pages, then." George shut the limousine door with a
nudge of his
bum. One hand was holding a folding mahogany chair; the other clutched a
limousine-bar decanter.
A small cut-glass spirit tumbler, upside down, rolled around the stopper. "And who
are you?" he
Asked, amiably.
The Professor collected himself. "I’m the Professor." He motioned at Spencer. "And
this
Gentleman is Gent." His voice was much clearer than it had been a few minutes ago.
Spencer guessed
He wasn’t the only one sobered up by the arrival of the car.
"Is that what you call him?" George walked across to join them. He shook the chair
gently. It
Opened gracefully like a folding umbrella. "Is that what you call him?" he repeated.
"Gent and I
Already know each other, don’t us, Spen?"
Spencer self-consciously toyed with the knot of his tie. It felt cool and silky to the
touch. So did
His suit, especially at the seat and elbows, even from the inside. From a distance he
looked half-way
Respectable, but not close up. He looked at the sky rather than at George.
George sat down. The decanter and glass clinked as he poured himself a drink.
"Armagnac. Forty
Years old. I don’t think a drink’s mature unless it’s a little older than me. Maybe I’ll
have to change
My mind when I’m seventy. Would you like some, Professor?"
The Professor grasped the decanter. He was eager to take it but didn’t know what to
do with it
Next. He held it but didn’t raise it to his lips.
"Come on, it’s not formal-night. You can drink straight from the bottle. Nobody
cares." George
Ran his free hand through his fair hair. "Or do you want a glass from the car?"
God, I wish I hated you, thought Spencer. It would be so much easier if I hated you.
But you’re
Such a goddamn charmer.
George sprawled on his chair, looking very relaxed. He’d barely changed since
Spencer had last
Seen him - what was it? - two years ago. He had that round, boyish kind of face that
doesn’t age, just
Melts a little as time passes. He was still slim, nearing forty yet not pregnant with
approaching
Middle-age. That posture across the chair was typical George. It was hard to
remember ever seeing
He sat upright. The check shirt and jeans were trademarks too. He always wore
casual clothes, even
For business. When you were as rich and powerful as George you didn’t have to live
by the normal
Rules.
The Professor drank from the decanter and offered it to Spencer, who took it
gratefully.
"Gent mentioned you a couple of times," the Professor told George as Spencer
drank. "Said he
Knew you." He glanced at Spencer, looking for clues on how to deal with this cold
reunion. "I guess me
Believed him."
"We went to high-school together. Spencer worked for Foxglove for a long time.
What would it
Be, Spen, ten years?"
Spencer decided it was time to end his silence. He put on a smile. It probably looked
false but it
Was the best he could do? He gave the decanter back to George. The Armagnac
was fine if you could
Live with the flavour. It was a sipping drink. In big gulps it tasted thick and raisiny.
"How’s the battle
For control of the Universe?"
"I’m winning," came the standard reply.
This had always been their opening exchange as teenagers, when George had
bought his first
Humble computer and started selling programs to change the screen display. There
was certain
Sharpness to it. Even all those years ago Spencer had recognised George’s
ambition. Given the
Difference in their circumstances now, it was doubly acidic. Yet Spencer wondered if
he’d said it to
Re-establish a withered bond.
"That where you worked on security, isn’t it?" the Professor asked Spencer.
"Foxglove."
"Until George fired me."
George sipped his drink from the perfect glass. The security lights of the contractors’
compound
Crawled around it, reflected from fifty yards away. Spencer started putting the chess
pieces back in
Their tattered plastic bag.
"I’m not here to open old wounds," said George, gently.
"You think they’ve closed, then, do you?" Spencer sucked his lip. That was more
than he would
Wanted to say.
A heavy silence followed, weighed down by the unsaid, but George had never been
one to stay
Silent for long. "Do you ever think about your old colleagues? You knew some of
them a long time,
Must wonder what they’re up to these days."
Spencer didn’t respond. Like anybody who’d worked with a group of people for many
years, he
Was curious. The answer was yes, but he didn’t want to say it.
"Sammy’s got another grandchild." George laughed. "Little family of rabbits he
produced there”