THE VAN SHUDDERS.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Mike struggles against the handcuffs, half asleep.
The side door rolls open.
The harsh spray of a flashlight finds his face.
‘Fucking hell,’ says a voice. ‘This guy needs a shower.’
Another voice commands the others, ‘Pull him out.’ It’s a woman.
Mike’s delirious. He fights them off, kicking and scratching. Amid the tussle, someone grabs him by the face and screams at him to stop. ‘Calm down,’ says the woman. ‘Just breathe, you idiot.’
He knows her.
It’s Buddy Winters’s personal assistant. The tall woman.
They pull him outside into open air. More flashlights in his eyes. Darkness everywhere else.
‘Where am I?’
The assistant towers over him. ‘You’re at the end of the canal.’
‘What’s … what’s happening?’
‘Calm down. You’ve been invited to dinner. The big man would like a word.’
Mike turns and looks back at the van. It’s parked in a shed in some sort of industrial area. There’s service works in fenced cages all around. Gear stores. Tractors and machinery. As they trundle along a gravel path, Mike’s eyes adjust, and he sees familiar scaffolding in the night sky. An in-progress roller-coaster.
Fantasyland.
They pass through thick scrub out into a field.
The lights of a house in the distance.
They’re taking him to the Winters family compound.
Mike gets out of the shower and shakily stands on the white bathmat. He’s in the pool house bathroom. That’s what they called it. The pool house is lavish—about the size of the home Mike grew up in. The bathroom is like something out of a magazine: seamless white surfaces, gold trimmings, a wall of mirrors.
They have a suit picked out for him, hanging from a rack.
He puts it on, and it fits.
He combs his hair.
There’s a small window above the toilet pedestal and Mike figures that, at a stretch, he could squeeze through. He carefully slides it open.
Takes a look.
Buddy Winters’s tall assistant is standing out there under a house-light, looking at a clipboard.
‘Bad idea,’ she says.
Mike shuts the window.
He brushes his lapels.
There’s a knock at the door. ‘Dinner’s ready.’
The Winters’ mansion looks like the White House. It’s a long rectangle, broken up in the centre by a broad, protruding column. On either side of the column are rows of pale two-storey pillars, holding up the eaves. Every light in the place is on, but Mike can’t see anyone moving inside. They lead him in through a rear door, and only the assistant follows. ‘That way,’ she says. ‘And don’t do anything stupid.’ They walk through a service kitchen and into a long dining room where a small party is silently seated for dinner. The guests watch him settle into his spot.
Mike notes familiar faces.
Amy Owens, dressed up for a change.
Fantasyland owner Noah Winters, in a tux.
Buddy Winters, the son, also in a tux.
And across the room is God himself: the minister.
‘You’re late, Mister Nichols,’ bellows Noah.
Mike spreads his napkin across his lap. ‘Sorry about that. I was tied up.’
A waiter steps in and offers Mike a pour of wine. He takes the red. ‘Hold on,’ Mike says, and slugs back the entire glass. ‘Yeah, that’s good.’ He holds his glass out for another and receives it.
‘Mike,’ says the God Minister.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Steady on.’
‘Can we eat, please?’ says Buddy. ‘I’m starving.’
The entrée is French onion soup. Mike isn’t sure he can stomach it, but as soon as he forces down the first mouthful, he remembers he hasn’t eaten in days. He finishes first and wipes out the plate with table bread. He requests another glass of wine and waits for something to happen, but no one speaks. They all sit there listening to the ticking of an ornate clock in the adjacent room. Mike ducks his head and whispers to the assistant beside him. ‘Am I supposed to do something here?’
The assistant shakes her head.
The main course is steak. It’s a little undercooked for Mike’s taste, but he demolishes it.
Then Noah Winters swallows a mouthful and says, ‘Do you know how my family came to this country?’
Mike assumes the question is for all of them, but when the assistant nudges him, he responds. ‘Uh, no, no sir. I don’t.’
‘We came here as thieves and whores. That’s who I’m descended from. That’s my genetic stock. But within one generation, we owned the place. We had the beginnings of a respectable life, after just one generation. That’s all it took. But do you know who ran the show once we had it?’
‘No.’
‘No one ran the show. The men sent to colonise this place were lunatics. Religious fools, deranged monarchists, you name it. God and Queen types. Zealots, every last one of them. In the end, they were no better than the convicts they lorded over. The people who sent my family over here couldn’t even manage their own jails, and yet they presumed to make this whole country into a prison. Doesn’t make sense, does it? Then, within a few years, half the colonial police force were ex-convicts of one form or another. In short, my people took over. And it’s been the same ever since, from then to now, because a convict—’
‘Dad,’ says Buddy.
‘—because a convict is a convict is a convict. They became us and we became them. The police are just … they’re nothing. Uniforms and badges. A veneer. And say what you like about this arsehole of a place, but it really strips everything away in the end. It reveals everything sooner or later.’
The old man takes another bite.
‘That’s a bit much, Noah,’ says the God Minister.
Noah’s eyes darken. ‘Oh, that’s right, Russell, I forgot that you’re the Minister of Police. Case in point,’ he says. ‘Fat lot of good you are. Another leader of men who can’t keep himself or the rabble in line.’
The God Minister slowly clenches his fists on the tablecloth. ‘Let’s not squabble with one another, Noah. I’m not sure you’re one to talk, either.’
‘Are you talking about my son? Are you sitting at my table, talking about my son?’
Buddy Winters—who, up until this point, seems to have been barely listening—looks around. ‘What? What’s this about?’
‘I’m just teasing, Russell,’ Noah says. ‘And yes, Buddy, we’re talking about you, you little shithead. We may as well get on with it. You nearly ruined everything.’
‘Dad, I—’
‘Shut up. You think I didn’t know about your little deal? Your stupid little venture is why we’re all here. It’s also why I’m out there pretending to dig out the canal every night, or did you think I was failing, son? Did you underestimate your father? I should cut your throat right here. It’d be the best thing for you.’
The assistant beside Mike bolts upright, knocking her chair back.
No one else moves.
‘Dad?’ says Buddy.
‘I should cut your throat,’ he mutters. ‘We should be eating you for dinner.’