He turned to this side and that side, becoming angry at not receiving the oblivion of sleep. Scenes taunted his mind. There was this difference: Lawrence had pulled the triggers. He had seen wretched surplus torn apart by the storm of steel. Yes, there is a vast difference in the world between merely knowing something is going on unseen and actually being there pulling the triggers.
The pointlessness of dwelling on these memories eventually exhausted him and he got his sleep. Yet the morning provided no relief. He could not change the past, only the future. What kind of future had The Captain reserved for his new lieutenant? The Captain was no fool. There would be no gentle easing-in for his new subordinate. Not a week would pass before Lawrence had branded his own chest with the iron of villainy, else shot himself.
The nights that week were long. Lawrence slept little, his organs surging and tingling in stress at the prospects. Say yes and he could be free again, free and rich. Yet Pezzini’s sternness had taken root in him, gnawing at him. He had prevented surplus flow for years without ever doubting that what he was doing was justified. The logic could not be disputed; preventions were essential to protect the cosmos from chaos. That legitimised them. Yes, the logic was sound, the problem was, did he still really believe it? In his own mind? Say yes to The Captain and all the doubts went away. Whereas, escape meant turning into the gale of his guilt to risk the judgement of decent-minded people.
He writhed this way and that in his bunk, sliding in his own sweat. Who was he trying to kid? He would say yes. He knew he would say yes. Even if his brain commanded his lips to say no on Sunday afternoon, his larynx would disobey orders and say yes. He had to say yes. Damn it. The Captain knew what he was doing, allowing a man a whole week in which to stew over whether he wanted to live or die.
Chapter 12
De Stulna, the Stolen Ones, took the stage. The clean, high tones of the nyckelharpa carried over the gamers, sitters and spays, poising them on edge. Saturday night in the Value System exploded into a leaping and spinning melée. For a blissful few hours, stiff and music liberated eighteen hundred head of value from the trap in which they were doomed for the rest of their lives.
Lawrence edged up one wall of the Dining Hall, barely noticed in the shadows. He was sweating and flushed. Where the hell was Pezzini? The place was a Hogarth painting, value falling over tables, tipping backwards off benches, throwing each other in joy and anger, gamers a whirl of pink and yellow and scarlet, hairy arms and legs. In all this the big spay was nowhere.
Tricky Fingers! Draped in a white toga with a pink belt. Lawrence took cover on a crowded bench, head down feigning a maudlin attack, muttering curses, urging Tricky Fingers to bugger off. Buttons had joined him now, sporting yellow tights, a green mini skirt and a black leather waistcoat. Lawrence enjoyed a vicious pleasure at the sight of that waistcoat. It had been a jacket, until Lawrence sliced off the sleeves the previous day—not out of spite, it was all for a good cause.
A hand grabbed his arm and dragged him around. It was Pezzini. Anyone bored enough to be watching Lawrence amongst all the other men would have seen him apparently make for the stage and then switch abruptly right to pass out through one of the doors to the Yard. Such a person would have assumed he was going out to join others pissing against the wall. No sitter or spay went anywhere near the toilets on a Saturday night. Lawrence pretended to take a stroll in the Yard, inhaling crisp air as a relief from the foetid air of the Dining Hall. It was a mild night with a total overcast holding down the heat of the land. That is, the night was perfect for escape. Lawrence ambled off into the darkness beyond the lights. From the left came grunting and panting, which he supposed were two gamers having sex. In a far corner of the Yard, a ring of drunken louts was beating up some poor bastard, probably some Undead Nameless Gone unwary enough to be caught alone. Laughter and cheers, the thudding of boots impacting a body, groans and whimpering. Someone spat. The louts drifted back towards the door of the Dining Hall.
Spiderman was amongst those lined up taking a piss. On impulse, Lawrence called out:
“Hey Spiderman—over here.” Spiderman glanced over his shoulder, squinting. “Big Stak calling.”
Spiderman hitched up his pants and came forth, listing and stumbling. He was pretty drunk—far too drunk to make an escape run.
“I haven’ sheen much of you. Whereyubin?” Spiderman said.
“Not in a drinking mood. You having a good night?”
“Pretty usual. You?”
“So far, so good.” Lawrence felt lost for words. He looked into Spiderman’s face, seeing the tragic woe in the eyes, the creases of middle age on skin not yet forty years old. The man was lost to his fate. Lawrence could feel the immensity of the task ahead, the sheer effort of creative will, let alone the courage,
