The Crash of Hennington. Patrick Ness
for toothiness. This memory too, though, floated away into the shimmering mirage of the drug.
—Certainly, Mr Banyon. What time?
—Say ten?
—All right. Ten it is. Usual place?
—Usual place.
—I’ll be there.
—I truly appreciate that, Jacks. I’ve got some really wonderful merchandise here that I had been hoping to share with you. I want to thank you for giving me the opportunity.
—I’m grateful for your indulgence, Mr Banyon.
—You’re a good girl, Jacks.
He clicked off. Jacki closed her eyes. She was deep into butterscotch warmth now and glorious waves of light and color filled her head. The anguish, thank the heavens, was winding its way clockwise down the drain, spiraling blissfully out of her presence.
God bless Forum. Forum’s name be praised.
—Mr Noth?
Eugene Markham knocked again. After a lengthy pause, Tybalt ‘Jon’ Noth opened the door. He was wearing one of the Solari’s bathrobes. His hair was wet, and he held a towel in his hands. Still, he smiled when he saw Eugene.
—Eugene! What can I do you for?
—I was just checking to see if everything is to your satisfaction.
—Slow day for you then?
—Yes.
—And you still have yet to manage a proper smile.
Eugene almost smiled at this, but not quite.
—That was pitiful, Eugene. And enough of ‘Mr Noth'. I told you to call me Jon.
—All right, then. Jon. Is everything to your satisfaction?
—I’ve only been here long enough for a shower, but the bathroom fulfills most accepted definitions of nice.
Jon smiled again, more warmly this time. Maybe he was a preacher. Maybe that was it.
—Are you some kind of preacher?
—How is it that I just know this surliness is something you’re trying to overcome and that there’s a perfectly personable individual in there somewhere struggling to get out rather than just plain old dour Eugene?
—You smile a lot, is all I mean.
—Your perception is bizarre, Eugene, but somehow, perhaps accidentally, it may even be correct. Interesting.
Eugene blinked. He wasn’t sure if he was being agreed with.
—So …
—I have been called a preacher in my time, Eugene, but even then, it could have been wrong. As for now, definitely not.
Eugene blinked again.
—'Why don’t you come on in and talk for a while, Eugene’ is what you’re waiting for me to say, yes?
—I don’t mean in any male-male sex kind of way, but—
—I didn’t think you did. Why don’t you come on in and talk for a while, Eugene?
Eugene, surprising even himself, smiled, stepped over the threshold, and entered Jon’s room.
Once, early on in her time as leader, the search for food had forced her to take them across the bridge that flung itself over the bay away from the city, a difficult, frightening and lengthy journey. The whole way along she could only smell salt water and the noxious metallic scent of the boxes that the thin creatures rode in. The wind drowned out all sound as the herd picked its way through the stopped boxes, the thin creatures inside staring out impassively. It was slow going, with much nervous lowing and braying among the members of the herd until, perhaps inevitably, disaster struck. About two thirds of the way across, some of the older animals started to panic, the confinement of the bridge causing a claustrophobia unknown to them even in some of the city’s starker alleys.
She attempted to keep some sort of order, firmly shaking her head, stepping forward and back. She snorted and affected a prance to try to hold their attention, but the wind snuffed her out. An old male began to get aggressive in his fear, knocking some of the smaller animals out of his way. An old female stumbled, accidentally pushing over a pregnant mother. The final stroke was the appearance of a flying box carrying some of the thin creatures. (— … so avoid the Firth Roundabout if you can at all. And finally, it looks like we’ve got a serious traffic jam on the Harbour Bridge, caused by The Crash of all things. As you can see from SkyCam5, cars are just at a standstill. Looks like rush hour’s going to be even longer tonight all over the city. Back to you in the studio . . .) Hovering to the side of the bridge, the box brought a swirling roar that proved too much for the more nervous animals. They turned and charged, running full gallop back the way they had come, leaving her and more than half the rest of the herd standing near the far end of the bridge.
The herd must not divide.
She ran to overtake the fleeing animals, to try to get in front of them to lead them again, to get them off the bridge and back into a calmer state. She arrived too late for some. The aggressive old male had given himself a mortal wound charging into the scattered boxes over and over again, his horn cracked, his ears bleeding. The old female who had knocked over the expectant mother had been turned against and was being forced over the side by a cadre of enraged herdmembers blinded by fright. She reached the group only in time to see the old female vanish over the edge with a low, terrified moan.
She quickened her pace, passing charging herdmembers on her right and left, weaving through the thin creature boxes, some of which were trying to move out of her way and only causing more problems. Her mouth foamed at the effort, her ears filled with the roar of her blood, but near the end of the bridge, almost a mile later, she was in front of the herdmembers that were fleeing. Assuming her entire authority in what she did next, she turned, faced the entire herd, and stopped right at the line where the bridge returned to the soil. Astonished, the escaping herdmembers careered to a halt in front of her. There were pile-ups as those charging behind were slower to stop, but eventually she faced the herd in its entirety, save for the two now lost. Even stopped, chaos still rattled the members as they jostled and tussled, some still panicking to get off the bridge.
She paced in front of them purposefully, walking back and forth, back and forth, until all heads were turning following her movements. With a loud snort and without slowing her step, she turned and headed away from the bridge. The animals followed her in shaky unison. In a short amount of time, the bridge was cleared of all animals except for the dying old male, who thankfully had knocked himself into unconsciousness before he died.
It was difficult to lead, but she led them once more.
Thomas Banyon was born with legs so bowed he was said to have been straddling his mother’s womb rather than resting in it, that his mother had wished for a boy and had given birth to the wishbone instead, that his parents had copulated on horseback, in a tunnel, with pliers, et al. Fortunately, his parents had been – his father still was – very, very wealthy: erstwhile Hennington City Council Members, owners of the Hennington Hills Golf Course and half of everything else in Hennington, stables full of horses, maids in the houses, unused yachts. These remarks about his legs were never said to Thomas Banyon’s face. This did not mean he was unaware of them.
Before Thomas had been alive a year, his parents had paid for five surgeries