General Victor Newson, member of the Legislature and owner/publisher of The Vancouver Evening Star, occupies a corner suite on the top floor of a brick cube, with windows overlooking Pender Street.
His office could be taken for a command post, having no carpet and nothing on the walls but a map of the battle zone. Since the election, the electoral map has been replaced by a street map with red dots indicating liquor outlets, as though Vancouver has the measles; a livid rash spreading over the downtown core, diminishing to isolated pimples at the edges.
In the field, the general was known as Old Lime Juice, for refusing his men their customary tot of rum before climbing over the top to be blasted to bloody bits. Civilian life has not changed his leadership style other than to increase the level of bombast, and give free rein to his hazardous whims.
“Sit down, lad.” Already McCurdy can feel Newson’s stare burn through his forehead, exploring for ulterior motives.
McCurdy takes the only seat available: rock hard, straight-backed, with legs that seem to have been sawed off so that the seated visitor is forced to look up to his host.
Custom built to look like a field table, Newson’s desk is strewn with notes in his tiny, tight handwriting. Before him sits a pile of blank foolscap, and a field artillery shell containing a bouquet of sharpened pencils. Broken pencils litter the floor—not with broken leads, but broken in two.
For Newson, having lost a plebiscite and then won a seat in the Legislature, the past few years have been a mixture of victory and loss. Throughout the war it was victory or death—General Newson’s victory, someone else’s death. In peacetime, however, with his glory years behind him, comes a creeping awareness that the day will soon be at hand when other people will be alive and he will not.
Someone must pay for this.
Thanks to McCurdy’s chair, Newson looms overhead, elbows braced, arms splayed like a human field gun.
“‘The hottest places in hell are reserved for those who maintain their neutrality in a time of moral crisis.’ Who said that, son?”
“It’s from Dante’s ‘Inferno,’ I think.”
“You’re wrong. It was General Haig. I heard him say it with my own ears. He was talking about the Swiss.”
“If the Swiss are in hell, then where are we?”
Lately, McCurdy has heard himself blurt such phrases often, remarks he wishes he could haul back into his mouth. Of course, it might be the powder he takes as a bracer for meetings such as this.
But the general doesn’t seem to have taken offence, in fact doesn’t seem to have heard him at all. Instead, he has moved on to another thought.
“Son, is it right for a man to be judged in heaven and not on earth?”
“It seems unfair. But even so, I should think hell is sufficient punishment.”
“Wrong again, son. Hell is too good for some people.”
McCurdy is beginning to suspect where this is going. The general isn’t about to call a truce just because his enemy is dead.
“Sir, if you’re referring to the late Attorney General, now that Mr Cunning has pegged out perhaps it would be better to—”
“Bury the hatchet? Let bygones be bygones?” Newson would sneer if had an upper lip. “Thanks to Crooked Cunning and his goddamn moderation, the Liberal Party is a cesspool of graft. What is to come next? Government whorehouses?
“The bible calls for judgment—in heaven and on earth. And we will do our part, lad. We will do our part.” On the word will, the general stabs his desk with a forefinger, splitting the nail; he doesn’t appear to notice.
“Sir, it sounds as though you propose to use Cunning’s death to fight the temperance issue all over again.”
“Well put, lad—but on a wider field. We are going to war against Gordon Cunning and his whole gang of moderation mercenaries. And you, sir, will lead the charge.” Newson’s two fingers become a pistol aimed at the reporter’s face.
He was afraid of this.
During the war, General Newson was known for his astounding casualty rates, thanks to night raids on heavily fortified positions; it was Russian roulette for the troops, with the general well out of danger framing a report that would fetch a commendation, if not another gong.
Having no idea where else to go, McCurdy continues the military metaphor: “And what’s our strategy, sir?”
“For the present, we keep our powder dry. As my top writer, you are to stockpile ammunition. Soon I intend to desert the Liberal Party and sit as an Independent.
“Then we go at them lad—guns blazing!—and force an election.
“Timing, lad.” For some reason the general taps his temple; beads of blood leak from his split nail, unnoticed.
“If you don’t mind my asking, sir, what then? Bowser and his Conservatives form a government—What is the point? Where are you going with this?” And a glimmer of understanding comes to him.
The general sits back and makes a tent with his long fingers; a lipless line widens into what might be a smile.