The Outcast Hours Page 15

  We used to be an oil town until we ran out. Then we started milling water. There used to be another town in the valley, by a great lake and below a glacier. Now it’s gone, and so is the glacier, and the lake is even greater. The sea is closer, too. Cartel ships bring goods dredged from the cities, and we pay them in fresh water. We trade the goods to towns nearby. Ours is a thriving town with good people. We have two inns, a playhouse, and a fuck-shop. We had a church until we accidentally burned it down. And we had, for a short while, two drug dispensaries.

  BEReZOv

  Berezov’s drug-shop was a palace of silver, gold, and frosty glass. It had a counter with an ancient soda fountain hauled up from the Vanished Village. The fountain had an enamelled column with four soda spigots, each shaped like a bird in flight. It was topped with a brass globe of the world as it used to be. You could still see the marks where people had rubbed at the raised outline of the old islands. The world is a fluid thing, Berezov would say. Always moving, never stopping, more like a molten ball of brass than one that’s cooled. People would spend whole afternoons in his store, sipping long drinks and gazing at that globe while the old man stooped to dab at marks on the fittings. It was a place to sit and think, especially in the weeks before the Long Night, when the days and darkness start to melt into one another.

  Our parents went to Berezov’s with needs.

  “My kid has a mean sadness. Will you give her something to keep her quiet?”

  “My dingle is sleepy. Won’t you give me something to wake him? It’s the wife’s birthday.”

  He always had the medicine. He’d bear-hug the jars from high shelves and set them with a thud upon a square of felt. The pills crackled as he dashed them with his silver shovel. Sometimes us kids would come in to ask for a “penny-bag” and Berezov would measure out a selection of treats, nothing very heavy—some to help us concentrate on school-work, some to banish nightmares, some to quicken memories—but always just what we need. When my best friend’s brother, Jakob, started sleep-walking every night, Berezov had the medicine he needed. After that he only sleep-walked every other night. Berezov would shovel our pills into a white paper packet, twist the top tight like a lantern wick. When we left we always touched his fountain for luck.

  VAnzaNt

  Vanzant arrived just after the Long Night of my fourteenth year. I remember because it was the year we lost Mr Abderhalden, and the summer I caught a heavy lust for Jakob. Vanzant came in with his wife on a cartel boat loaded up with guns and pills and exotic teas. He set up business in Mr Abderhalden’s shop. None of us could believe it. That Abderhalden was dead, yes; but also that the town chamber would approve a new business that cut into Berezov’s livelihood. Vanzant used solvent and a chisel to scrape “Abderhalden’s Photography” off the window, without a hint of reverence or ceremony. Then he had his own name painted in gold lettering. “Vanzant’s Dispensary.” He took from the windows all the antique cameras; the faded family portraits featuring dogs and adults now dead, and children long since grown up.

  Some of those grown-ups went to Berezov’s to vent their rage. Abderhalden was our oldest and dearest citizen (until he died). Berezov, who with Abderhalden’s passing officially became our oldest and dearest citizen, had taken it hard. “I could have saved him!” he said. “I could have given him medicine!” We’d told him there was nothing he could have done, that Abderhalden was very old, and that there really is no medicine for drinking too much and going to sleep in a river.

  There were loud arguments over what to do about Vanzant. Some said we should run Vanzant out. Dad’s friend Jon Ming (whom everyone calls Jing) said Vanzant was clearly a cartel spy, and that we should throw the bastard in the sea. Dad reminded him how the Sheriff treated people who incited public disorder, and Jing calmed down.

  Finally Berezov spoke up. He said we should all stay calm. There was more than enough meat on the bone. “You lot have enough limp dongs and dicky hearts for nine dispensaries.” This got a big laugh. “We need to remain civilised.” And that’s why we all loved Berezov. Even when someone wanted to rob his livelihood, he was polite. He was the soul of our town, people said. Others said spirit. The arguments got heated, but they were basically talking about the same thing: Berezov was at the centre of who we were.

  For the first week, Vanzant’s bell hardly rang. We’d see his foggy shadow at his counter, nodding to no one as they passed. He had his own soft rag to dab at marks on the fittings, though the only one to mark the place was him—and sometimes his wife, who would descend from their big house with a plate of sandwiches for her husband. Some people spat as she passed. Not at her, or even near her. We’re civilised people. But they spat in anticipation of her passing, so she’d have to step over the spit. The gobs froze there, a reminder of our displeasure. It was a triumph for our local spirit.

  WeEKenD GALa

  The following weekend, the whole town was woken with music. Vanzant had built a storefront phonograph system with a ship’s battery to power it. He came out from his shop in a white coat to hand out samples. He strolled the covered promenade to laugh and joke with the bewildered folk who wandered by. We were surprised to see that the town’s new enemy was tall and handsome with a strong jaw. He had big, white teeth, incisors like a wolf. He gently teased the men, and he very gently flirted with the women. He would flirt with the woman, I noticed, while leaving a hand upon the elbow of the man, like he was sharing the joke with him, like: “Hey, fellow, watch me pretend to steal your wife.”

  My friend Nissi and her brother Jakob came down, and when Vanzant saw them he cried, “Stars! The angels have fallen!” Nissi was a year older than me then, and already fairly bulgy. Even some of the dads stammered and blushed when she spoke to them. Vanzant extended his hand and said, “Sweet beauty, dance with me, you must!” and Nissi flinched as she saw that Vanzant was offering his arm to her brother. “No, not you, lovely girl,” the chemist said. “If I took your arm the Sheriff would have to come and part us.” He took a stunned Jakob whirling off around the wooden deck hung with oil-lamps, whispering loud enough for all to hear: “Never drink, boy. Dance often, but dance only with men: that’s how you’ll stay young forever.” We were all amazed. I had recently started lusting heavily for Jakob, who, back then, was even more beautiful than his sister, even with none of her bulges. There was hardly a moment that year I wasn’t thinking about him. I once saw him letting a baby fox lick milk off his bare, hairless arm and had to sit down for twenty minutes. I had a hundred drawings of Jakob hidden under a floorboard, and a thousand scenes I could play in my head. Jakob swimming in an especially cold river. Me rescuing Jakob from a burning ship during a storm. It used to drive Nissi mad. The scene of Jakob close-dancing with a handsome older chemist was not one I’d created, but I added it, and made a note to extend it into a scenario where I had to defend his honour.

  People came from everywhere to see Vanzant’s performance. Even Berezov stepped out to smile and shake his head generously. That’s why we love him: his generosity. Finally the Sheriff showed up with three of his militia, and the crowd dispersed like a pile of dust blasted with an air hose. I was still paralysed by Jakob’s movements, so I stayed, even when Baikal came and stood right beside me. Baikal isn’t a giant like my dad. I’ve never seen him shout, or threaten anyone. My dad said the alligators who live in the lake don’t say much either, but you wouldn’t want to go poking them with sticks. Back in the old, lawless days, the Sheriff was known to have people who caused trouble in our town blackened with sticks, or hung up by the ankles. He’d even had one or two major troublemakers vanished, Dad told me. For a while I thought he’d said “varnished,” so I had a picture of prisoners with brown, shiny faces. Dad said someone once whistled politely at Baikal’s wife. Baikal almost drowned him by holding his head in a bucket of linseed oil. But Vanzant didn’t seem to worry at all about the menacing Sheriff peering at him as he expertly spun young Jakob around the deck. “Good day, Sheriff!” he cried. “Or is i
t night currently? I’ve lost track.” His poise impressed some people.

  By the following weekend, some had ventured inside his shop. It was even grander than Berezov’s. He’d imported a soda fountain—like Berezov’s, only bigger, and with dancing girls and goat-legged men on it. In the middle of the room was a tank housing a live octopus called Raymond, who Vanzant said he’d won from some fishermen in a game of cards. Vanzant had one whole wall lined with glass cases, and in each was a little scene from nature: a mongoose fighting a cobra; an owl standing proudly on the carcass of a rat, its talons pulling strands of sticky guts. He would mix fortifying tonics for his guests. His long, clever fingers would send the spoon clacking round inside the glass as he told his audience all about the restorative properties of CLyPHolium. CLyPHolium, he said—to people who until that moment hadn’t known CLyPHolium was missing from their lives—is a miracle drug. He’d send the fizzing tube along the marble counter to stop right in front of the person it was meant for. Everyone would applaud, and it wasn’t uncommon for a family to wander from his place much lighter in the pocket, and somewhat lighter in the head.

  During these “weekend galas” Berezov would sit in his store with his soft rag—though there were less marks to dab at now—and those who passed would pretend something puzzling had caught their eye. When asked about CLyPHolium he’d laugh and shake his head and say that CLyPHolium—along with METACLyPHolium and BETACLyPHolium and most of the PHoliums—was overrated. But he’d say it kindly. He was a kind man, and we are a town of decent people. We don’t get carried away, like we used to in the old days, when our town was peopled by refugees and former soldiers, and the sea was some distant thing, and there was another town down low in the valley.

  Most of all, we give new people a chance. Where before there was an ill-wind blowing towards Vanzant, now there was a gentle breeze of acceptance. There was a feeling that there was enough business in a town like ours for two dispensaries, especially since the cartel divers had discovered the old PharmCo factories. Even Dad said Vanzant seemed like an OK guy, “… with a lovely wife!” though he was careful not to blow too strongly on that around Mum, because all the women in our town were tuned to what an unnaturally beautiful woman Mrs Vanzant was. I had also thought about it a lot.

  THE lOnG DAY

  We live in the high north, so for part of the year it’s always night. During the Long Night, it’s dark for 800 hours. The lake gets iced over, so we can’t dive for treasure in the Vanished Village. We sleep as families on our stoves, under furs, reading, singing; dozing like we’re on a long journey. Which we kind of are. A long journey back to the sun. We keep jars of fresh water hanging above the stove. Families with radios search for voices, or music, or some other sign the world still exists. We live off tinned fruit, salted meat and birch juice. We know by the hopper’s croak the night is ending.

  As the days get longer, life in our town picks up, and, by the time the Long Day arrives, it is a joyous place. Too joyous, maybe. People drink a lot, and have new romances, and try things they’ve never tried before. A controlled dose of chaos is a good thing sometimes, Berezov always said, so long as people don’t take it too far. And when they did, the Sheriff and his militia were there to restore order.

  The Long Day was approaching, and I had been at the mossflow catching hoppers and dreaming up interesting scenarios. I’d found I came up with my best scenarios while walking. I’d hoped to spy on Jakob washing his pet turtle in the river, but they weren’t out to bathe that day. As I passed Berezov’s I spied my Dad’s big shadow up on one of the high stools, sipping a tall beer. Vanzant was waging open war for the town’s love. He’d shown up at school with some of Mr Abderhalden’s old photography equipment, even though it was supposed to be Berezov’s job now to take the school portraits. Nissi and Jakob’s portraits took twice as long as the rest of ours combined.

  Vanzant had also been quietly spreading rumours about Berezov. People were saying the old man had been filling out his jars with sugar pills. A rumour had started that he kept certain kinds of pictures in a safe in his storeroom. He was furious, and immediately called Baikal to come and make a thorough search of his premises. The Sheriff found nothing, of course, but somehow the water had been poisoned. Many parents stopped letting their children go to Berezov’s unattended. Someone carved “RAT” on the flawless enamel of his precious soda fountain. He put a small strip of gauze across the word. The world was changing.

  MidNIGHT MeETING

  Late that evening, Dad said to get my coat because we had a job to do at Berezov’s. I said I didn’t need my coat because it was warm out and it wasn’t far to Berezov’s, and he said, “Well, that’s up to you.”

  We found Berezov in the storeroom of his shop. I was surprised to find Jon Ming there, too. Berezov said, “Dan, Lidya, take a seat,” so I took my coat off and sat down. He poured us all a scotch and explained how we needed to tackle the Vanzant problem. “I try to be civilised. And kind. But there’s a limit.” We all grunted, both at the fact that he was civilised, and kind, and also at their being a limit to those qualities. Then he said he was calling in his favour. We knew exactly what favour he was talking about, and it was huge.

  AfTEr AFrica

  Dad and Jing came to settle here after the Water Wars. In a place called Africa they’d jumped from planes, at night, while chewing goat hoof soaked in a certain local leaf. That leaf does not grow here. So they hatched a daring plan to sneak into Berezov’s during the Long Night and take a very small amount of his better stuff, an amount so small he wouldn’t miss it. They went in with old army torches muffled inside socks. But they somehow set off the alarm (an angry parrot called Berthold). They heard Berezov coming. Jing dived under the counter. My dad flung himself inside a big cupboard and held his breath. (He can usually hardly breathe from laughing when he tries to tell this part of the story.) The cupboard turned out to be a glass display case intended for a stuffed emu, and when Berezov turned on the lamps he saw my dad’s huge mug grinning down at him.

  Berezov called him out of the case and poured him and Jing a scotch and put a deal to them: he’d cut them a dose of the medicine they were after each week, and a little less each week until they were off, and if they asked for a grain more he’d give them to the Sheriff. “You don’t want to end up in one of Baikal’s cells, do you?”

  They did not. At that time Jing’s face was still dark from being dunked in linseed oil.

  Berezov said if they stuck to his plan they’d be clean in four months—which is roughly when Dad planned to marry my mother. In a way, Berezov is the reason we’re a family, so that should tell you how much we owed him. Now he wanted our help running Vanzant out. It was for the good of the town, he said. Frankly, I was surprised. Then shocked. Then proud that I’d been brought in, and I said as much, and Dad said to drink a little slower.

  mIND StORM

  Berezov said we needed ideas flowing, so he took out a small leather kit. He asked if we’d ever done snuff, and Dad and Jing nodded quickly without taking their eyes off the kit. Berezov crushed a mound of bright green pills with a blade and demonstrated how to inhale the powder up our noses with a paper soda straw. Whatever was on that mirror seemed to scorch a hole right through the crown of my skull. The room turned a muddy violet colour, and I immediately felt like putting my coat back on.

  But how the ideas flowed! Berezov wrote them all on a big sheet of paper. “Develop a sales strategy.” “Stage superior open-days.” “Louder music. Maybe a band?” Dad suggested smearing Vanzant by planting some kind of contraband, maybe pornography, maybe of out-of-town girls or farm animals. Berezov said it’d be difficult and risky to source the material. Jing said we could probably stage the material, and made a quick glance at me, and he and Dad had a short argument.

  I said what about planting drugs on Vanzant, and then felt kind of stupid. So I said what about planting a rat in one of his jars, and that went on the list, so I said what about a break-in at the st
ore? That might scare him into leaving. And so now I was really flying. So I said, “What about kidnapping Mrs Vanzant and keeping her in a secret location, maybe making her wear different outfits?” But everyone went silent on that, so I just sat down.

  But they said my other ideas were interesting, and the agreement, after a long conversation which flew into many enlightening places, was that Mrs Vanzant was a very attractive woman, and that a break-in was the plan that most suited our talents. It would send a strong message to the intruder that there were limits to how he could treat Mr Berezov. Berezov said we should be ready to move the night after next.

  MidNIGHt MaraUDerS

  It was a fine sunny morning after supper when our gang met up at Berezov’s. It’d been a fine morning for weeks now, but on the promenade it was twilight. We watched people wander by. I saw Nissi out looking for someone, probably her brother. I thought it was interesting the way she was walking these days—like her brother, only wobblier—and I said so, and Dad said, “Focus.”

  We’d been arguing over what to call our gang. We’d toyed with Night Avengers, and a whole lot of other names before finally settling on a name I came up with: the Midnight Marauders. Dad said we weren’t marauding at midnight—or technically even at night. But I said Midnight Marauders sounded better than the After Dinner Raiders, and Jing agreed, and Berezov said he didn’t give a fuck, it was time to move. He would stay in his shop and keep watch. We visited Berezov’s mirror for one more fortifying snort. I didn’t know why, since we were staging a raid, not trying to come up with ideas. But I went with it.