We Float Upon a Painted Sea

2065. One year earlier

The rain had been relentless and Bull’s clothes were soaked through to the skin. He sat in the garden of a shisha bar on Maryhill Road, trying to light a cigarette. Patrick stood over him, holding his umbrella at an angle, in a futile gesture to keep the rain off his brother. Patrick was looking above his head, his attention drawn to a large drone cruising across the skyline. Making a thunderous roar, it came to a halt and hovered several hundred feet above a cluster of tower blocks. Finally, it split into a formation of smaller drones, all speeding off in different directions. When they strayed from his sight he said, “Getting back to the subject. So you returned to your narrowboat and she was gone. Are you sure? She’s relatively small. Did you check to make sure she wasn’t in the bath or had fallen down the back of the sofa?” Bull looked reproachfully at his brother.

“That’s not funny Patrick,” he said, “I’m in bits here.” Patrick swirled red wine around in his mouth. He gagged. He examined the contents of the bottle in his hand and said,

“Viticulture, as we know it, has ended but what the hell is this stuff? Cough medicine?”

“What do you expect, the Greenland ice sheet melted, it screwed up the North Atlantic thermal conveyor belt and devastated the vineyards of Southern Europe. What an awful inconvenience for you. Here, try this.” Bull took a hipflask from his pocket and passed it to Patrick. Sipping the malt whisky, Patrick smiled with approval. He said,

“Tastes expensive.”

“It also comes with a guarantee you won’t go blind, unlike the moonshine from the Islands.” Patrick held the whisky up to the light and examined its clarity. He said,

“Are you sure this place has a license? I saw people smoking pot. They have hashish for sale behind the bar. It better not get raided. I can’t afford a criminal record.” More large drones passed overhead. Bull ignored them, concentrating on his cigarette disintegrating in the rain. Turning his gaze to the sky, Patrick said,

“It’s well bad up here. Lots of dibble drones. It’s the same in Manchester. They’ve been using terra-drones for crowd control. It’s a disturbing development.”

“Have they? They use drones for everything now. Surveillance, military, crowd control...”

“That’s a thought. She could have been arrested. Folk get lifted off the street or taken away in night raids by snatch squads all the time, particularly nihilist types like Saffron. Have you checked the fed’s database?”

“No, she left me a note and told me she was leaving me, and taking Boris with her.” A thin smile spread across Patrick’s lips. He said,

“Being honest about her new fella, you have to admire her.”

“Boris is a Terrapin, Maurice is her new fella.”

“You have to adapt brother, its evolution. Those who adapt survive and those who don’t perish. Change is a natural progression. We all have to make sacrifices.” Bull sobbed,

“We were meant to be together. Forever. Like Siamese twins,”

“You mean conjoined twins. You didn’t actually wish to share the same internal organs with each other. Although, if you did it would have been much harder for her to leave you.” Bull groaned as if in pain,

“Is this an attempt at humour, Patrick? It’s not working. How would you feel if you came home one day and the wife had left you?” Patrick thought of his own marriage and how the initial elation, he had felt after the wedding, didn’t last: like a passing aura displaced by a perpetual fog of disenchantment. He thought of the lonely nights he had endured sleeping in the spare room, the frosty silences between him and his wife and the feeling his children had turned against him. But what infuriated him most was the prospect of having to move out of his family home. He had already viewed a number of flats, all homogenised bachelor pads with 4D printer furniture, downloadable from Ikea. Putting a hand on his brother’s shoulder, Patrick said,

“Now then, I’m just being honest. Anyway, isn’t it you who always evangelises on the subject of humour being the finest remedy when life is a mither – well that’s what you said to Deirdre when she found out her boyfriend, Thomas, from the margarine factory in Eccles, was cheating on her. Didn’t you say, some guys just liked to spread their love more than others and you were utterly butterly devastated for her. So don’t criticise me for serving you up some of your own medicine. I’m sorry she left you brother, but a dose of realism is what you need right now.”

“I just didn’t see it coming. She had been spending quite a bit of time with this Maurice fella. He’s a French photographer. We were going through a rough patch but out of the blue, I get a letter telling me it’s over?” Bull handed his brother the note Saffron had left him. Patrick studied both sides of the piece of paper and said,

“Cute. You don’t see many of these anymore. Did the digital revolution pass her by?”

“She knows her way around a computer for sure. Once I had a problem with some software I was running and she fixed it like it was a kid’s puzzle. She just doesn’t like digital methods of communicating. I think she might have been a hacker in her past life and maybe that’s why she doesn’t trust computer networks, mail servers or the internet. She doesn’t own a passport or use credit. She hates all electrical appliances. She doesn’t eat cooked food so she doesn’t even own a microwave or a toaster. She gets everything she needs from a network of independent cooperatives in exchange for her artwork.” Patrick wasn’t listening to Bull. He was rubbing his chin and reading the note. Finally he said,

“She likes a good metaphor doesn’t she? Suppose it makes a change from the usual drivel.”

“Meaning?” Patrick affected a whining voice,

“It’s me, not you, or it’s just not working out the way I thought it would, or I’m changing into something I’ve always despised.” Patrick crouched down. He looked into Bull’s face to see any reaction but detected only grief. He continued, “Relationships end, it’s a fact of life, just enjoy them while they last. At least she was honest enough to explain her feelings to you in a letter.” Bull took a slug of tonic wine and Patrick took another sip of malt whisky from his brother’s hipflask. He cast his glance across the city and to the rows of grey high-rise flats, their rooftops lost in the low lying cloud. Each building paraded a large brightly coloured number for aerial identification. To the south of the city he could see thick black smoke rising from several locations. Police sirens wailed in the distance. Patrick said,

“Saffron was right about one thing, we are all just tiny cogs in a greater machine.”

“Not you Faerrleah. You’re like a spanner in the works.”

Patrick sat down on the bench, closer to Bull who sat with his head in his hands, listening to the muffled sound of the rain thumping against the umbrella. Under his impromptu shelter he wrapped himself in warm memories of Saffron: a particular time they spent together on the Isle of Jura. They had taken a boat out to watch the Corryvreckan whirlpool. He recalled the image of two opposing currents colliding to create a vortex. He imagined himself being pulled under. He thought of the hydrostatic pressure within the whirlpool, exerting its force upon him. Bull’s eyelids started to flicker. His body went into a brief spasm. Equations flashed in his mind. Patrick said,

“Why don’t we go inside? It’s full of mind bending smoke fumes but at least it’s dryer than out here?”

“No I’m fine. I’ll take my chances in the rain.”

“Are you sure you are feeling fine? You don’t seem yourself.” Bull rubbed his forehead. He felt the onset of a migraine. He said,

“Thanks for rushing up here from Cheshire to be by my side.”

“I didn’t rush up here to be by your side, Faerrleah. I’ve got a meeting with PwC in Glasgow. I was busy packing when you called me last night. Why didn’t you call Deirdre? She’s usually better with these delicate matters than I am.” At last he said,

“I did but she’s doing double shifts at the hospital.”

“Treating all the injured from the riots. The trouble seems to have reached Glasgow by the look of things. There’s black smoke rising in the south of the city. It’s spreading.”

“What is?”

“The riots. Haven’t you been watching the news? The curfew is being rolled out across the country. It’s not just the shanty towns in London anymore. They say we’re at war, a cyber war. That’s why I had to drive up to Glasgow. Our system was hacked. The news said the national grid, transport and even the military networks have all come under attack.”

“Who said?”

“The woman who reads the news...”

“What would she know about it?”

“She’s not some investigative journalist who broke cover to spill the beans on a big story. She just reads what’s in front of her. There’s no point having a go at the woman.”

“Sounds like you have a crush on her.” Patrick sighed,

“What if I do? She’s very attractive.”

“She’s not real, she’s a fake.”

“Who cares, everyone’s a fake. I can’t believe I’m the first person to tell you this. It’s the Change. Have you not heard about the last set of floods in Europe? The world is turning to shit. Scientists are saying we told you so, but nobody would listen and all those freaks from the Lords of the New Church are saying it’s an apocalypse and the beginning of God’s vengeful wrath. One thing is for sure and most agree, there is no way back and the planet will be unrecognisable within our lifetime. Things are looking bleak. The word extinction is being used quite a lot.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I am telling you about it. Where have you been living, in a cave? You certainly look like you have been. Just because there’s an impending apocalypse, doesn’t mean you can’t shave.”

“Well I’ve been a wee bit preoccupied. I haven’t had much time to watch the news.”

“Or eat or sleep or take a bath by the looks and smell of it.” Patrick brought up some news feeds on his shackle and tried to show them to his brother. Bull grunted and looked away. They sat in silence. Finally Patrick said, “What about Dad? Did you tell him Saffron dumped you and ran off with a good looking French bloke?”

“I never said he was good looking.”

“The French are always better looking. They are sensitive lovers and fantastic cooks.” Bull rubbed his head with his fingers and then drained the last of his beer. He said,

“I did tell Dad. He said things are tough and the world was cruel and I need to move with the times. Then he banged on about the plight of the Levellers after the English Civil War. You know what he’s like – he has a tendency to start talking about historical tragedies rather than personal tragedies to avoid engaging on an emotional level.”

“He’s right, Faerrleah. You need to stop crying into your beer and get moving on with your own life. Saffron and Boris will be moving on with their lives.” With sceptical eyes Bull said,

“You mean Maurice.”

“Sorry, Maurice. There’s no mention of him in her note. Maybe you are just focusing your resentment at him in preference to where the real problem lies.”

“And where is that?”

“You deceived her, remember?” Bull remembered his alcohol induced discussion with Patrick on his shackle. He gave Patrick an aberrant look and said,

“Can I borrow your umbrella for a moment?” With a baffled look Patrick handed over the umbrella and watched as his brother withdrew a container from his rucksack. He began spraying the fabric. Patrick protested,

“What are you doing to my brolly? These are hard to come by these days.” When he was satisfied with his work, Bull attached a magnetic clip to the metal shaft of the umbrella.

“What’s this all about?”

“Did you know Umbra is Latin for shadow and parasol derives from the French parare which means to shield?”

“Ok, Faerrleah, no more booze for you.”

“This is an electromagnetic spray so what I’m about to tell you can’t be detected by surveillance drones or satellites and this device attached to the shaft of the brolly scrambles sound waves. I’ve been lying. Lying to you, the family and Saffron.”

“I know, you told me about your lie. You told Saffron you were overseeing flood prevention projects, but in reality you were working for the fossil fuel industry.”

“I was advising them on drilling methods and procedures, but I wasn’t working for them. Quite the opposite.” Patrick’s face stood to attention. He said,

“I thought you were working for an engineering company who kept sending you to Svalbard?”

“This is the lie I’ve been trying to tell you.”

“Go on,” said Patrick, his face stiffening. Bull sat his bottle on the table and took a deep breath. Under his brother’s umbrella he felt a strange sensation, like he was inside a makeshift confessional box. He rubbed the temples of his head with his fingers and said,

“I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I need to speak to someone. I’m going to go mad by bottling all this up inside. Do you remember when I did time in prison for disclosing classified information about BAe Systems and Government defence contracts to the Press?” Patrick nodded his head and listened to his brother intently for the first time. “Well,” continued Bull, “They put me in a MoDs prison, not the state system and wouldn’t allow me access to a lawyer. They said they were going to make me disappear and it happens all the time. I didn’t budge but then they threatened the family. They showed me surveillance information they had gathered on you, the kids, Dad and Deirdre. They threatened to destroy all of our lives if I didn’t cooperate.” Patrick was aghast. He said,

“The bastards. Why didn’t you tell me earlier? I know some good lawyers.”

“These people are beyond the law, Patrick. They offered me a deal. I was to work as a filter for the Defence Intelligence Committee, part of the MoDs. They work out of GCHQ in Cheltenham. I had one job to do and at the time it seemed pretty straightforward. I had to infiltrate the environmental protest movement.” Tears welled up in Bull’s eyes, but with them came a perverse sense of relief. After years of secrecy and deception he could finally come clean. Bull continued, “They said some of the groups had links to underground anarchist organisations, which were a threat to national security.”

“They’re right. A few of those groups are pretty hardcore. Radical. The Financial sector has been hacked hundreds of times by some of these groups. They’ve stolen millions of dollars and medical records and used them to blackmail staff. They were sending you into a snake pit.”

“They didn’t specify any group or person in particular. That’s why I eventually agreed. They just said I had to go to the Protest in the Park rally in Kelvingrove Park, sign the Green Covenant and join the Green Movement. It was there I met Saffron. She was the leader of a fringe environmental group affiliated to the GM but they were relatively minor - mostly a bunch of disillusioned students and peaceful intellectuals who like to demonstrate at animal testing facilities and indulge in a bit of graffiti. I wasn’t recalled by MoDs so I just continued with life, almost forgetting what I was doing. I think I got in way over my head.” There was a moment of silence. Bull looked at Patrick’s face, eagerly awaiting his penance. Patrick said,

“I don’t know what to say Faerrleah? I don’t know what to believe with you anymore. Are you like an informant? What about the engineering company you have been working for? How do they come into it?”

“This is where it gets complicated. The Green Movement contacted me through one of Saffron’s friends and asked me to apply for a job as a hydraulic computer modeller. The company is contracted by Gazprom who are extracting methane hydrate in the Arctic. I got the job and I’ve been manipulating data and supplying them with duff information ever since. We’ve disabled many of their drilling activities in the Arctic, but it won’t be long before we’re caught out.”

“So they just accept everything at face value? They don’t validate or run sensitivity tests?”

“Fuck no, my findings are corroborated by other modellers, but they are also GM people. Even if they find a discrepancy, it delays the process and gives the ELF enough time to arrange a sabotage operation.” Patrick scratched his head.

“Are you on medication Faerrleah? Who are the ELF?”

“The Earth Liberation Front.”

“Never heard of them.”

“Nobody has heard of them because every attack they carry out on gas pipelines or shale rigs are blamed on Islamist terrorists like Al-kabab or whatever.”

“It’s Al-Shabaab. You’re not particularly good at this are you?”

“It’s close to lunchtime and I’ve sunk a few ales. Get off my case. They are the military wing of the GM but it’s always denied. Most of them are ex-military who have become disillusioned with the system. They’re not the type of people to be messed with. They are very secretive, very well funded and impossible to penetrate. A few filters tried and have never been seen again.”

“Does Saffron know what you have been up to?”

“No. I wanted to tell her but it might have put her at risk.”

“What are your real employers going to say about your extracurricular activities?”

“There was no remit, just get involved with the GM. I had carte blanche to do as I wanted.”

“Hence the ponytail, earrings and tattoos? And I thought you were having a midlife crisis. So what’s the end game? I take it your employers don’t come round one day, rap on your door, sit you down and ask you some questions over a nice pot of tea?” Bull grimaced,

“They use a FMRI – a brain scan. One of the reasons I started drinking more. To protect her. I thought the alcohol would cloud my memory, but I’ve probably just damaged my liver. In the original briefing I was told to go deep, it didn’t matter how or what I did, only that I penetrated them.”

“I think you’ve been doing your fair share of penetrating for king and country, Faerrleah.”

“That’s a bit harsh, Patrick. I didn’t ask for this.”

“Fuck me Faerrleah! How the hell did you get yourself trapped in this sordid web? Why would you introduce her to the family if you were one of these filters? Or were you penetrating us too? Will this conversation come out in the brain scan?” Bull rubbed his temple lobes with his forefingers and said,

“I won’t allow them to scan me. I’ll go on the run first. I’ll leave the country if I have to.”

“That might be an option for you, but are you planning on taking Dad and Deirdre with you? No, I didn’t think so. Still only concerned with yourself aren’t you?”

“I’m sorry, but contact with family members was part of the procedure. In the past, when the old Metropolitan Police used to infiltrate anarchist groups, their informants all had the same profile – they were only children or orphans with no friends or family. They had no baggage, so no way of being traced, but most of them eventually got sniffed out.”

“It’s still wrong Faerrleah. You shouldn’t have got the family involved and put us at risk.”

“You were all already at risk. I’m sorry I lied to the family. I’m sorry I lied to her. I should have told her but I was afraid of losing her. It’s a big fucking mess. I wish I could explain to her.”

“To hell with her Faerrleah. It’s one thing lying to some hippy chick you just met but you’ve dragged us into your big lie and now you think she might have found out? Well boo fucking hoo. She lives in a twilight world, on the fringes of society, but we have jobs and livelihoods. They could be ruined if the secret service seeks to punish you in some way. Is sabotaging drilling activities and disclosing it to your brother in a Glasgow hookah lounge part of the contract? I hope you are right, for all our sakes.”

“The strangest thing, it started off as a lie, but I started to believe in what she believes. She’s converted me.” Patrick was startled by what he was hearing. His eyes darted around from side to side as if looking for something to settle on. He noticed the green covenanter bracelet on his brother’s wrist and said,

“Are you involved with these eco-terrorist? This ELF? Is she?” Bull’s eyes flashed. He said,

“No, she’s totally opposed to violence. I can’t for the life of me comprehend why she would be of interest to the Government. As far as I could see into her life, she’s just a hedge monkey. She was like a door - the way in to their world. I got connected with the GM through her contacts and it was they who got me the engineering job in the Arctic.”

“It’s like what Mam used to say, if you tell a lie you need to tell another to cover it up.”

“Dad used to say, why tell the truth when a lie may fit, but I think he was just winding me up.”

“So what are you going to do – resign?” Bull picked up the wine bottle and examined the label.

“It doesn’t work like that. I wish it did,” he said. Patrick looked at his watch and sighed,

“To be honest I don’t know what to say. It’s a big mess.” Bull gazed at the distorted image of his sodden boots through the green tinted glass of his bottle. Patrick said,

“Look, I need to go. I’m going to be late for my meeting. There’s an air quality alert and I haven’t bought a respirator yet. I hate the city life!”

“Here, you can borrow mine, I’m going home. I won’t need it.” Bull passed him his respirator. Patrick stared at him critically and then he took a call on his shackle. Finally he said,

“That was work. The meeting has been cancelled. Apparently the riot has spread to the city centre and they are evacuating staff.”

“You can stay at my gaff tonight if you want?” said Bull, “There’s plenty of room.” Patrick took a final sip of his whisky and said,

“I’m going to head back to Cheshire. I need to make sure the kids are sorted. Will you be alright? At least get out of the rain, you’ll get pneumonia again.”

“Oh, you know me, I’ll get by.”

“You always do Faerrleah, nothing seems to get you, not pneumonia, meningitis or even falling three storeys from a building and nearly braking every bone in your body. You always get back up, you’re a survivor. Laters brother.” Patrick punched his brother on the shoulder and left him sitting alone in the rain. By late afternoon Bull was drunk. He left the shisha bar and staggered back along the road to the narrowboat at Maryhill Locks.