They clung together.
‘Chris.’ There was something in Carla’s voice that might have been a laugh as well, and what she was saying made no kind of sense, but the way she held him that didn’t seem to matter much. ‘Chris, listen to me. It’s okay. There’s a way out of this.’
She started to lay it out for him. Less than a minute in, he was shouting her down.
‘You can’t be fucking serious, Carla. That’s not a way out.’
‘Chris, please listen to me.’
‘A fucking ombudsman. What do you think I am, a socialist? A fucking loser? Those people are—‘
He gestured at the enormity of it, groping for words. Carla folded her arms and looked at him.
‘Are what? Dangerous? Do you want to tell me again how you murdered three unarmed men in the zones last weekend?’
‘They were scum, Carla. Armed or not.’
‘And the car-jackers, back in January. Were they scum too?’
‘That—‘
‘And the people in that cafe in Medellin?’ Her voice was rising again. ‘The people you killed in the Cambodia playoff. Isaac Murcheson, who you dreamed about every night for a year after you killed him. And now, you have the insane fucking nerve to tell me the ombudsmen are dangerous?’
He raised his hands. ‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You were going to.’
‘You don’t know what I was going to say,’ he lied. ‘I was going to say those people are, they’re losers Carla, they’re standing against the whole tide of globalisation, of progress, for fuck’s sake.’
‘Is it progress?’ she asked, suddenly quiet. ‘Balkanisation and slaughter abroad and the free market feeding off the bones, a poverty-line economy and gladiatorial contests on the roads at home. Is that supposed to be progress?’
‘That’s your father talking.’
‘No, fuck you Chris, this is me talking. You think I don’t have opinions of my own. You think I can’t look around and see for myself what’s happening? You think I’m not living out the consequences?’
‘You don’t—‘
‘You know, in Norway when I tell people where I live, where I choose to live, they look at me like I’m some kind of moral retard. When I tell them what my husband does for a living, they—‘
‘Oh, here we go.’ He turned away from her in the narrow confines of the car. Outside his window, the wind whipped along the embankment, flattening the long grass. ‘Here we fucking go again.’
‘Chris, listen to me.’ A hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off angrily.
‘You’ve got to stand outside it for a moment. That’s what I did while I was in Tromso. You’ve got to see it from the outside to understand. You’re a paid killer, Chris. A paid killer, a dictator in all but name.’
‘Oh, for—‘
‘Echevarria, right? You told me about Echevarria.’
‘What about him?’
‘You talk as if you hated him. As if he was a monster.’
‘He pretty much is, Carla.’
‘And what’s the difference between the two of you? Every atrocity he commits, you underwrite. You told me about the torture, the people in those police cells and the bodies on the rubbish dumps. You put those people there, Chris. You may as well have been there with the electrodes.’
‘That’s not fair. Echevarria isn’t mine.’
‘Isn’t yours?’
‘It isn’t my account, Carla. I don’t get to make the decisions on that one. In fact—‘
‘Oh, and Cambodia’s different? You get to make the decisions on that one, because you told me you do, and I read the reports while I was away, Chris. The independent press for a change. They say this Khieu Sary is going to be as bad as the original Khmer Rouge.’
‘That’s bullshit. Khieu’s a pragmatist. He’s a good bet, and even if he gets out of hand we can—‘
‘Out of hand? What does that mean, out of hand? You mean if the body count gets into the tens of thousands? If they run out of places to bury them secretly? Chris, for fuck’s sake listen to yourself.’
He turned back. ‘I didn’t make the world the way it is, Carla. I’m just trying to live in it.’
‘We don’t have to live in it this way.’
‘No? You want to live in the fucking zones, do you?’ He reached across and grabbed at the leather jacket she was wearing. ‘You think they wear this kind of stuff in the zones? You think you get to jet off to Scandinavia when you fucking feel like it if you live in the zones?’
‘I’m not—‘
‘You want to be an old woman at forty?’ She flinched at the lash in his voice. He was losing control now, tears stinging in his eyes. ‘Is that what you want, Carla? Obese from the shit they stuff the food with, diabetic from the fucking sugar content, allergies from the additives, no money for decent medical treatment. Is that what you want? You want to die poor, die because you’re poor? Is that what you fucking want, Carla, because—‘
The slap turned his head. Jarred loose the tears from his eyelids. He blinked and tasted blood.
‘Now you listen to me,’ she said evenly. ‘You shut up and hear what I have to say, or this is over. I mean it, Chris.’
‘You have no idea,’ he muttered.
‘Don’t try to pull rank on me, Chris. My father lives in the zones—‘
‘Your father?’ Derisively. Voice rising again. ‘Your father doesn’t—‘
‘I’m warning you, Chris.’
He looked away. Cranked down the anger. ‘Your father,’ he said quietly, ‘is a tourist. He has no children. No dependents. Nothing that ties him where he is, nothing to force him. He isn’t like the people he surrounds himself with, and he never will be. He could be gone tomorrow if he chose to, and that’s what makes the difference.’
‘He thinks he can make a difference.’
‘And can he?’
Silence. Finally, he looked back at her.
‘Can he, Carla?’ He reached out and took her hand. ‘Yesterday I was on the other side of the world, talking to a man who might be able to kick Echevarria out of the ME. If I get my way, it’ll happen. Isn’t that worth something? Isn’t that something better than the articles your father hammers out for readers who’ll shake their heads and act shocked and never lift a fucking finger to change anything?’
‘If it matters to you so much to change things all of a sudden, why can’t you—‘
The heavy throb of rotors overhead. The car rocked on its suspension. The radio crackled to life.
‘Driver Control. This is Driver Control.’
The rotor noise grew, even through the Saab’s soundproofing. The helicopter’s belly dropped into view, black and luminous green, showing landing skids, underslung cameras and gatlings. It skittered back a few metres, as if nervous of the stopped car. The voice splashed out of the radio again.
‘Owner of Saab Custom registration s810576, please identify yourself.’
What the fuck for, dickhead? The thought was a random jag of anger. Match me from the footage you’ve just shot through my windscreen, why don’t you? Instead of wasting my motherfucking time.
‘This is a security requirement,’ admonished the voice.
‘This is Chris Faulkner,’ he said heavily. ‘Driver clearance 260B354R. I work for Shorn Associates. Now fuck off, will you. My wife’s not feeling well, and you’re not helping.’
There was a brief silence while the numbers ran. The voice came back, diffident.
‘Sorry to trouble you, sir. It’s just, stopping like that on the carriageway. If your wife needs hospitalisation, we can—‘
‘I said, fuck off.’
The helicopter dithered for a moment longer then spun about and lifted out of view. They sat for a while, listening to its departing chunter.
‘Nice to know they’re watching,’ said Carla bitterly.