Berlin was her great hope. She wanted the rotten wall down and they were so close now. So close.
Except that EXIT itself was threatened. By the man on her left? She didn’t know. Perhaps Cain was right. Perhaps the morose surgeon CO was behind it, destabilising things enough to damage her but not enough to destroy EXIT itself.
Why?
The motive was missing.
Damn it. She still couldn’t see it.
The second bloated, charred body was hoisted. She didn’t find it disgusting. Here, death wasn’t life’s conclusion but its salve. She came to this place to excise the rotten tissue of society, just as a doctor might view a necrotic wound seething with sterilised maggots as therapy. She glanced across at Vanqua. He continued to look ahead, nostrils narrowed against the smell.
Minimalist, she thought. For her, few censures were worse.
It was before time, she decided. That meant she had to move now. In this business, timely moves were tardy. What was Zurich Axiom Two? Always sell too soon?
Time to activate the countermeasure — the one she’d hoped, prayed, never to use.
17
CULT
Cain entered the wind tunnel of Walker Street, North Sydney, his tape in his briefcase, his mind half a world away. He’d been in Australia three months, his first time back in sixteen years.
Compared to the subcontinent, it was heaven — although the place had changed. The competition was greater, the traffic a car park, the people sourer, more hounded. And with the increasing depletion of ozone, the sun burnt you in minutes.
He’d begun with a Barrier Reef holiday that made him feel he was spinning his wheels. Although he had money and a life to himself, exile hurt. He felt suspended at the fringe of events. Worse, he was lonely — which he considered adolescent.
As he waited to cross at the lights, he noticed a poster taped to a window.
THE SQUARE.
ABUNDANT LIFE AND THE
SECRET OF SUCCESS.
THE ASTONISHING
GUSTAVE RAUL
IN PERSON
Exhibition Centre, Darling Harbour
Two nights only
Raul — the cult leader? Here?
The lights changed. He walked across. Women glanced at him, eyes lingering. He appraised the pert arses of younger ones ahead. Since coming here he’d been celibate, first happily, now uneasily.
He’d cadged two jobs — corporate videos slung at him by mates who’d once been well paid to train him. These had scored an assignment with the advertising agency he was visiting today. He couldn’t show his Pakistan footage. It was irrelevant and would place him. In this hard-bitten industry, florid foreign-language footage would be bizarre. With no show-reel of recent commercials, he was starting almost from scratch. Videos weren’t commercials but they were work.
He’d learned film techniques in this city — started as grip, then gaffer’s assistant, worked with an editor, done focus-pulling, assistant directing. Now he was back. Funny how things went — not in straight lines but circles. Which explained the disasters of businesses, relationships and nations. He had to stop being philosophical. Today’s meeting called for shallowness profound. Get with it, kid, he told himself. Be light, bright and trite.
The lift swished him to the creative floor where he was met by Jojo, their producer, a tall trendoid woman who looked nothing until she smiled.
‘Hi. Pre-prod’s in Gary’s room.’ Her superwide mouth peeled back to display racks of teeth. If she’d played pro tennis, she could have swallowed difficult balls. The Associate CD, a copywriter, head shaved and shirt-sleeves rolled high, rose and shook Cain’s hand with what he supposed to be a vice-like grip. He was the standard truculent arsehole with self-image invested in his body — a type he’d been taught to disable in seconds. ‘It’s below-the-line crud. We’re in hand-holding mode with the client and he has this subsidiary. You with it? Here’s the hardware.’ He slung across brochures for a range of mobile towers.
Cain scanned them. Four lever operation at pivot frame with overriding foot-operated dead-man switch. Maximum working height — 40 metres…
‘We’re right for crane shots.’ Jojo flashed teeth. ‘I see it as perspective shots and great low-angle stuff.’
The writer glared at Cain for assent.
He said what they wanted to hear, lukewarm about the job.
The woman dealt papers around. ‘Working call sheet and rough agenda. Talent. Location. Gear…’
After the session, he waited in her cubbyhole while she went to copy papers for him. Pinned to her partition was a poster for the Gustave Raul circus.
She returned, saw him looking at it. ‘You into that?’ She produced a paperback from her drawer. ‘One of his books. It’s great.’
He glanced at the title: Live Selfishly and Love It.
‘I’m going tonight. Want to come?’
The impulsive type, he wondered, or did it mean she was available? She looked flat as a board but he had the drive of a nail gun. ‘Sure.’
There were no booked seats and the car park was a trial but she was impressed with his leased BMW. By the time they entered the cavernous place and found the open section, the only seats left were high up from the stage. Once they sat, she turned to him.
‘It’s so nice to go out with someone.’
‘No current attachment?’
‘Been a bit of a desert. You?’
‘No one at the moment.’
Her flicker of delight.
He took her hand which felt like a collection of small screwdrivers and applied his matinee-idol smile. She chattered happily, her letterbox mouth an intriguing gash. ‘… most have gone freelance or got jobs in production houses. So I’m one of the few in-house producers. Now tell me about you.’
The houselights faded, sparing her his cover story.
A synthesised dirge began as they projected starscapes on a black expanse. Three women in flowing costumes came on, entwined in a languorous gymnastic display. He wondered if Karen Hunt was here — and if she’d replaced Raul with his duplicate yet.
As the tempo increased, a floating throne slowly moved forward bearing a man in a golden tunic with compelling eyes emphasised by make-up. It was an excellent illusion. Some in the audience gasped. A pale youth in the next row clasped his hands and sobbed.
The chair reached the front of the stage, hovered over the dancers. They raised supplicant arms then retreated as it lowered to the floor. The man rose from the chair, walked forward, bowing, and the faithful erupted with acclaim.
Cain wondered how anyone could take this nonsense seriously and hoped his companion despised mass psychosis. But her engaging teeth were sheathed, her eyes transfixed. Not, he decided, a critical companion.
After the tumult subsided, Raul began to speak in a deep, convincing voice, augmented by throat mike. His stock in trade was a fixed smile and Wagnerian body language. ‘So things will never get better? Never change? Don’t be so sure. Did any of you suspect the Berlin Wall would come down? That Mandela would be freed? Life — can — change.’
With help from EXIT it can, he thought. The man went on with his sales pitch. Interest, motivate, authenticate. He was gaining acceptance by hooking onto the international bandwagon. ‘Everyone here is able to control their lives. Even as you sit there, you’re making your future. Your thoughts, moods, attitudes are creating what will happen. You’ — pregnant pause — ‘are your destiny.’