Chase the Morning

I swallowed. Jesus, that was vivid! Where the hell was I getting all this! Maybe it had been creeping up on me since that mysterious call of his; maybe I’d sussed out something wrong about him them. Subconsciously, maybe – or I was developing a sixth sense. Telepathy I could just about believe in, but – No. Too many late nights with low life down at the docks, that was it. No wonder I’d dreamed up that sort of a fantasy round him, kept seeing it every time I nodded off. Though I’d have expected my kind of mind to come up with arms dealers or drug barons, something – well, more practical. Mundane, if you like. Just went to show what a funny beast the subconscious must be. I glanced up at the office around me. The familiar, the everyday, the solid – bookcases, plants, pictures, Dave’s desk (and where was he right now?). Usual, everyday things. Things a man would cling to – no, better than that. Things I could set my feet in firmly, and brace myself against whatever the world threw at me. Real things; or were they?

These weird visions, these sudden plunges into blackness, assaulting all the senses at once, consistently – could they be real? God knows, they felt it while they lasted. The old quibble – is the philosopher dreaming he’s a butterfly, or the butterfly dreaming he’s a philosopher?

The new twist being that here the answer mattered.

Whatever my counterstroke really was, Peters hadn’t liked it one bit – that was obvious. He shifted awkwardly in his chair and smoothed back his grey-streaked black hair. Where was I going to get stood on? Where was the real battle being fought? I tensed. He leaned forward and tapped the pen sharply on the arm of his chair.

‘Your confidence is admirable, but, I fear, based on insufficient experience. One might almost say ignorance. A crude frontal assault, possibly – but suppose it were simply too broadly based to resist? The devastation of your clientele – a flood of traffic at compelling rates that would simply swamp all available shipping …’

Already the cane was moving again – with it the right-hand fire. Not lifting but slithering, snaking forward – wider than a man’s reach, spreading – thecoarse bushes bursting into flame as it passed – worshippers who can’t move fast enough caught in its path stumbling, falling, vanishing with a hiss and a shriek into its blazing maw –

‘Watch him!’ said my inner voice. ‘Don’t just defend yourself! Bat it right back at him!’

You again! How can I? When I don’t know where I am, what battle I’m really fighting? When I can’t trust my own senses? My mind –

‘What’s it matter?’ said my voice, far too calmly.

What d’you mean, what’s it matter?

‘Real – unreal – it’s the same fight, isn’t it? In either world you ought to have the edge on him! Look for it in the one you know best. Find it, and the other will follow – then you’ll know!’

Right. Well, I had the answer to that quibble now. Stand on the butterfly, and see what happens next. If it dies, it’s real. But in the world I knew best, there was a way to deal with Peters.

I rubbed my hands. ‘Well then. In that case, I’d bring in more shipping of our own – and more backing, if need be. There’s no shortage of either, Mr Peters, elsewhere in the world – not for people who’ve a trustworthy track record. And we can play a wider gambit too; political dirty tricks won’t shift us, not with our competitors to help. Agencies stand together against this kind of badger game, and the banks behind them. We’ve helped beat it in the past – and others would help us beat you! I’d turn your own damned tactics right back against you –’

Somewhere behind me – a vast impossible distance – a voice croaking urgently

Ou fais kataou z’eclai’!

I ignored it. I knew already what I had to do. I found I was clutching the metal ruler tightly, and –

I thrust my sword in my belt – clapped my hands, hard. Stooping – snatching up the chains again – whirling them, one in each hand – hear them sing!

A whistle – on the same notes – loud – louder –