The Crash of Hennington. Patrick Ness
Have you met Tracy?
—It’s a pleasure.
—Interesting you should put it that way, Mr Odom.
—I beg your pardon?
Thomas paused. Was nothing ever easy? But then, easy wasn’t fun, was it?
—Surely you’ve heard one or two stories regarding all that we have to offer here at Hennington Hills.
—Oh, yes, it’s a beautiful course, and I hear the others are just as nice. The grounds are quite something.
—But you must have heard, I don’t know, a story or two? Regarding the facilities?
Tracy placed another drink in front of Odom. Thomas could tell by the small amount of blue at the bottom that this one was nearly pure alcohol. Good girl.
—I’m not following you.
—About the things we can also provide besides those things that are only, how can one put it, apparent on the surface.
—I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
—You didn’t just come to me for a round of golf and a country club membership, Mr Odom.
—What else would I have come for?
Odom took another long draft from his cocktail schooner, set it down on the countertop, and looked Thomas straight in the eye. He didn’t say another word. You’ll pay for this, Thomas thought. Literally, in amounts you’ll barely be able to afford but will somehow be unable to keep yourself from spending. I will take you down, and I will do it in the worst possible way, by making you beg me for it.
—We offer our members amenities not available at your run-of-the-mill country club. We are also expert providers in the more, shall we say, sensual areas of relaxation that the modern businessperson is so often in desperate need of.
—Uh-huh. And what would those be?
Enough.
—It matters very little if you’re taping this, Mr Odom. I’ve investigated your background, and I already have some interesting tidbits that would keep you from using any recording against me. So if you’re working undercover to take care of some past ugliness, why not turn it over to me rather than let the soiled hands of law enforcement make you a puppet? And if you’re recording this for your own protection at a later date, I can assure you from experience that such protection is both unnecessary and irrelevant.
Odom’s face went ashen. Gotcha, fucker, and on a guess, no less. Odom took another drink and remained silent.
—I can’t think of any reason why your entry into Hennington Hills should be anything other than a pleasant, worry-free experience for both of us. Come. Give me the tape.
Odom drank again, then slowly reached in his pocket and pulled out a micro-recorder.
—How did you know?
—It’s not uncommon. Trying to get me to say the first questionable thing and so forth.
—It was for the second reason, by the way, my own protection. I’m not undercover or anything.
—I know.
—How?
—Is it really important? What’s important is that you’re here, that we’ve gotten past these awkward formalities, and that you begin to learn all the wonderful things we can offer you at Hennington Hills.
—So what they say is true?
—Where have you been, my good man? I thought I’d at least gotten past the level of mere hearsay.
—And I can join?
—Mr Odom, I wouldn’t think of letting you leave without joining.
Thomas smiled as Tracy set down an already-completed application form in front of Mr Odom.
—You’ll see the membership fees are a bit steep, but we think they’re worth it. I’m sure you’ll agree.
Odom took the pen lying next to the application and signed it without another word. He set down the pen and took another drink.
—I’m sorry about the tape.
—Already forgotten.
—It’s just, you see—
—Say no more, Mr Odom. You were merely protecting yourself. It was admirable.
—So … I’m in?
—Irretrievably.
—When can I start?
—You’re almost there, Mr Odom. You just need to answer me one simple question.
Thomas took a last long drag and extinguished the end with a slow turn in the ashtray.
—What’s the question?
—I want you to think about this clearly, Mr Odom – may I call you Armand? – Armand, because it’s the most important part of your application, the most important question we have here at Hennington Hills. The question is.
—Yes?
—What do you like?
The young man in the apron swept the sidewalk in front of the store with a petulant snap of his wrists. He was the son of the owner and would naturally have rather been doing anything else in the world than sweeping the sidewalk in front of the store. It was hours before noon, but the sun was already promising another hot day, perfect for the illegal No Margin Surfing off of Darius Point that the young man, whose name was Jay, loved to sneak away to with his friends. NMS was a sport for those who thought themselves invincible, hence only those under twenty were ever interested. You paddled your board out over currents that could grab you and pull you down three hundred feet, collapsing your lungs before you even had a chance to scream, but that was only if the sharks, which were everywhere, didn’t get you first, which they would eventually. Jay had already lost three fingers on his left hand down the gullet of a hammerhead. No big deal. Forty-one stitches didn’t take all that long to heal. But the currents and the sharks were only the beginning. If you managed to make it around the Point alive, what awaited were waves sixty feet high traveling at forty nautical miles an hour. If you then actually managed to catch one of these monstrosities, you still had to navigate it perfectly to expel yourself out the end of the tube and into open water before the wave slammed you into the solid rock cliffs that comprised the western side of Darius Point. None of this was at all possible without being thoroughly twinged on itch which, if it didn’t help your navigation much, at least got you out on the water in the first place. No Margin. Meaning no mistakes.
Jay ran his hand absentmindedly over the flat packet of itch in his back pocket. He looked up at the sun again and frowned. Fuck, man, it wasn’t fair. He went back to pushing the broom angrily across the concrete. He was just about finished and ready to go back inside (and maybe, just maybe, say sayonara to the old man and take off for some NMS anyway, maybe if the old man was sleeping, maybe), when Maggerty stumbled down the street, heading right for the store. Jay looked around for The Crash and saw them passing along a cross-street one block up. Maggerty’s reason for straying was obvious. Jay’s father sold produce in slanted racks out in front of the store, packed full with the morning’s delivery of apples, oranges, cantaloupes, strawberries, blackberries, haggleberries, and huge, pink bonnet melons with the vines still attached, as well as a generous helping of yesterday’s white corn and a solitary jumbo kiwi sweating juice through its hide of erect hairs.
Maggerty reached the middle of the street and stopped about ten yards away. Somehow, without even looking up, he seemed to notice the young man with the broom standing in front of the piles of fruit. Traffic had been cut off by The Crash up at the main intersection,