Thursday, 10 July 2014
6:10 P.M.
“Why the fuck are we the ones who got punished?” asked Keaton, pacing around the room as Green listened. “Still being punished! We are good people—my family, your beautiful Abby, were good people!”
He sighed heavily as he stared out the window, the early evening sunshine warming his face:
“These Ragdoll murders,” Keaton started casually, “you’re following them, I presume?”
“Isn’t everybody?” replied Green, utterly drained by the conversation. He hadn’t managed a decent night’s sleep in over a week.
“Can you name the victims? Actually, let’s make it a challenge. Can you name them in order?”
“Why, Lucas?”
“Just . . . humor me.”
Green let out an exasperated groan:
“Fine. Well, there was Mayor Turnble, of course, and then Khalid’s brother. Something Rana? . . . Vijay Rana. Jarred Garland, and the other day it was Andrew Ford . . . Again, why?”
“Immortalized—a backpedaling politician, the brother of a child-murdering serial killer, a greedy and opportunistic journalist, and, finally, a disgusting, alcoholic specimen of human refuse. Their unworthy names etched into history simply because they died in an ‘entertaining’ fashion.”
“I’m tired, Lucas. What’s your point?”
“I have an admission to make,” announced Keaton without turning around. “I did some research into the Oslo and Utøya attacks.”
“Why would you do that?” asked Green. “I don’t understand why you’d—”
“The news stories mainly,” Keaton continued, speaking over him as he dominated the conversation. “‘Seventy-seven dead,’ ‘multiple casualties,’ ‘several victims.’ Want to know how many acknowledged Abby by name?”
Green didn’t reply.
“None. Not one that I found even bothered to report that your fiancée had been taken from you.”
Green started to weep as Keaton walked back over to sit beside him:
“All those people out there got to carry on with their lives, while ours crumbled . . . and they couldn’t even be bothered to learn their names!” shouted Keaton passionately, tears pouring down his cheeks. “None of them has suffered as we have . . . None of them.”
Keaton paused a moment to read Green’s expression.
“I’m not much to look at, Alexei. I know that. I’m successful, but people don’t listen when I speak . . . not really. And all the preparation and manipulation in the world isn’t going to get them to do what I need them to do. I need them to surrender themselves to me . . . to our cause, entirely.”
“Puppets?” asked Green, glancing up, recalling their previous conversation on the futility of holding an inanimate object accountable for its actions.
“Puppets.” Keaton nodded encouragingly. “I need someone who can inspire them, someone for them to look up to, someone to lead them . . . I need you.”
“What are you saying?” asked Green.
Keaton placed a hand on his shoulder:
“I’m saying, what if there was a way to make things right? A way to make these self-obsessed masses understand what happened to us. A way to ensure that every fucking person on this planet knows the names of my family, knows the face of your beautiful Abby and exactly what she meant to you.”
There was a long pause as Green absorbed what Keaton was saying to him.
Slowly, he placed his hand on top of his and turned to face him:
“I’d say tell me more.”