Jack is late for his appointment with Dahun. He is conscious of the library opening at Atewo, which has been moved to a later time. But they will wait, and Dahun is important if expensive. Dahun stands by the statue of Yemaja, just outside the door, holding an envelope. Jack ushers him in and takes the envelope in one motion. Lora, his assistant, leans against the south wall, and Dahun sits down while Jack reads the costing.
“This is steep,” says Jack.
Dahun shrugs. “You can find someone cheaper, your worship. Take your chances.”
“I’m the mayor, not a judge.”
“Price stays the same.”
Dahun is a slim guy, and short, maybe five-six. He does have a stillness to him, so there’s that. He carries no weapons—security stripped them. Lora found him and Jack trusts her judgement.
“What can you do? What will you do?”
“Everything. My team will keep your mayoral highness and missis highness safe along with your entourage. We will go on excursions for you, we’ll advise on security, and do all of this in complete confidentiality. We will guarantee our work. You will be untouched.”
“Don’t you mean ‘untouchable’?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Okay.” Jack steeples his fingers. They smell of aloe vera from the last time he washed them. “I’ll tell you what. I need to visit Atewo. Come with me. I need to think on the way and I’ll let you know after the event.”
“Why? You can simply phone or text your decision.”
“Because I want to watch you. I like to know the people I hire.” He nods to Lora. “We’re leaving.”
At the library opening there’s a platform and podium, but Jack has to work his way through a crowd to get there. Lora feeds him information before each encounter. He, in turn, tries to get Lora to smile, but it doesn’t work. She is focused.
“… Her son was mauled by wild dogs and had to have a new testicle grown in a lab somewhere. Do not mention it, but say everything with your handshake and warm eyes. Also, nod after thirty seconds. She will nod back. Behind her is Tolani, big donor, daft as a whole flock of dodos, but a football genius. The scores from last night’s game were 3–0 in his team’s favour. Mention that.”
And so on, and so on.
It is darker than anticipated since the event is much later than scheduled. Hastily set-up spotlights radiate heat, but Jack does not sweat. He slips into autopilot and his body becomes a political machine. He needs his mind free to focus on the president. Lora had looked at him after the disastrous meeting, calm, knowing, certain that Jack had a plan. He did not, but she didn’t know that or believe him when he told her. Still. Six months to the election. He’ll think of something. Nobody would dare run against him. Dahun is always at touching distance, no matter how thick the crowd. Good.
The front rows are packed with children, which Jack aims for. Children are easier, and they don’t smell sweaty. He catches the warning glance two seconds before Carter Adewunmi crashes into his space. One of his biggest donors.
“Jack,” says Carter.
“Carter,” says Jack.
“I heard there will be elections.”
So soon? How the hell did he hear? Is the story out?
“A formality,” says Jack. “The president wants assurances. We’ve had elections before.”
“Yes, Jack, but you stood unopposed.”
“If a viable candidate—”
“I heard there will be one this time.”
“What?” What?
“Ahh, your face. I believe this is the first time I have ever seen you surprised.” Carter laughs. It reminds Jack of the braying of a donkey. Lora is on an intercept course, parting the crowd to get to them. Dahun is impassive—difficult to know if he heard the exchange. There are uniformed schoolchildren converging at the podium with a bouquet of flowers.
Jack lowers his voice, tries to sound nonchalant. “Do you know who it is?”
“I do not. Look, Jack, you’ve been good to me over these years, and I’ve been good to you. I like you, you know that, so please don’t be offended when I say I’ll be holding off my support and goodwill until after the elections. Good luck, and I’m sure you’ll win. You have my vote.” He pats Jack on the shoulder as he walks away, a hint of peppermint on his breath. Lora arrives too late, her eyebrows raised: What do you need from me? All these years as his assistant, it’s like she and Jack have developed telepathy between them. Not like the government telepaths that died out or were executed or something. A human thing, this.
He is about to give instructions when he sees one of the schoolchildren seated by himself apart from the others. Jack likes talking to children. Their agendas are often simple, pure, refreshing. He walks over and sits next to the boy so that they are both on the front row, facing the array of other kids.
“Not joining in?” says Jack.
“You are Jack Jacques, the mayor.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to call me—”
“Stay still. Stay where you are.”
Something is off. The child has an adult voice, and raises his eyes to the darkening sky. The movement is fluid but mechanical. Before Jack can ponder this further Dahun is kicking the deckchairs out of the way and yelling for Jack to get out of the way. Dahun seizes the kid and plunges a combat knife into his neck. No blood, no pain responses from the boy. Dahun sticks his hands into the neck wound and searches, digs about, his face a rigid study of concentration. He pulls out a thing, a component. Now there is a whine, getting progressively louder, a sound Jack has heard before. He looks for the trail of a missile, but it is not visible yet. Dahun is crushing the component, trying to destroy it. He finds something critical and snaps it just as Jack spots the missile—too close.
People know the danger now, and they run and scream, push and hide. The missile explodes twenty feet above the library. The shockwave alone is devastating, and all the glass shatters. Nobody seems in charge, but one of Jack’s bodyguards is soon by his side. A few yards away the child-thing lies discarded like yesterday’s news. The podium is splintered, flower petals float about and here and there, the broken bodies of children lie scattered within the debris. There are some adult bodies, but most are just wounded. Sirens already. That was quick. The ringing in Jack’s ears begins to subside and he sees a dust-covered Dahun approach.
“You’re welcome. I’m hired. I get a fifty-thousand-dollar bonus for saving your life. American dollars. Oh, and as someone just tried to kill you, I want you to know that I could have jacked up the prices, but I didn’t, no pun intended.”
Jack nods and waves vaguely in Dahun’s direction. “Yes, yes, do what you do, and what you have to.”
Dahun studies him. “You seem a little dizzy. Maybe you’re concussed. I will ask you again tomorrow.”
Jack does not see Carter among the wounded. Pity. Lora arrives, leaking clear fluid from the left ear.
Jack says, “I’m pretty sure you need to get yourself fixed up.”
“I’ll go later,” she says. “The president just tried to assassinate you.”
“Yes.”
“How do you want to respond?”
“I will not respond. Tonight he’ll do a ‘thoughts-and-prayers’ broadcast, condemning this in the strongest terms. He may offer federal aid. Either way, it’s a distraction. What I want you to do is find out who is running against me for this election.”
“I already know,” says Lora.
Before he can ask, his phone rings and his wife is on the line. She has been informed about the explosion and listens to his account, then she says: “Mimi l’epon agbo nmi; ko le ja.” The billy goat’s scrotum may sway, but it doesn’t fall off. In other words, yes, your world is shaken, but you’re strong enough to weather this.
“I love you,” says Jack.
“Come home. You’ve done enough for today.”
Jack is home.
“White noise.”
No.
“Whalesong.”
No.
“Surf.”
No.
Jack is home. The first moments of silence he has had all day, but it is not silent. The churning of his mind will not stop. He cannot recall ever being this exhausted. It is not the first time he has cheated death, but the adrenaline reaction comes each time, like now. He shakes, does not resist, allows it. It feels like fear, but Jack is not afraid. He tips the chair over and allows himself to fall back. The weightlessness is brief, but it is a loss of control until the back of the chair crashes into the floor, clapping his upper back and his head. His calves scrape against the front legs of the chair and his legs fold rapidly at the knees. His hands have not moved. He takes the pain, absorbs it. A voice from his past says, This is the greatest lesson of life, boy. You sit, you pitch the chair over, you give up all control, you take the hit when it comes, then you wait in silence. If life does not talk to you, do it again, and again till that bitch gives up its secrets to you.
Jack waits in silence, but life tells him nothing, so he stands, rights the chair and goes again. And again. Blood sings in his head, his elbows hurt, his legs are bruised. Life, the universe, whatever, whispers to him. He has control again. He goes to the window, commands it to become transparent, and stares at the dome.
Jack is home.