Conversation · The Deserter

"We communards still hoped and they needed to snuff that hope out. The East capitulated, Martinaise and Coal City were turned to dust..." He looks south. "But Jamrock, Faubourg, even Couron; and Boogie Street of course -- those fucking kipts had Mazov coursing through their veins..."

"And others too. Some cordons of Revachol were still fighting. There were cells, I tried to contact them..." He shakes his head. "Soon they all went silent. The frequencies, dead."

"How did you get between here and the mainland?"

"At night. I used a dinghy..." He nods toward the deflated tyre in the reeds. "I only went after dark then. When I got to the city I stayed underground. Patrols. You lot. The commons too, they'd started snitching..."

"In the city you move underground?"

"From bunker to bunker..." He nods. "Not anymore, no one cares now, I don't even have to hide. They think I'm another antisocial vagrant. I could walk straight into that town if I wanted. I just..." He falls silent, his gaze fixed on the shacks huddled together across the water.

"Why don't you just walk there?"

"I don't want to. They're all traitors -- pigs, rabbits, and dogs. Men without ideals are only animals."

He does not want to see life moving on. People forgetting. Drinking. Laughing.

"There's a small bunker under the Feld building. Have you stayed there?"

"The propaganda bunker?" He coughs. "I used to, but not anymore."

"Propaganda bunker?"

"They stored leaflets there, broadcasting equipment too. Made broadcasts, I think. Propaganda officers... I buried them with their leaflets. They killed themselves. Two young boys."

"Killed themselves?"

"A lot of our boys did... I spent some winters there. Never liked it. Kept thinking of them..." He stares at the ruins of the Feld building. "No need to go underground anymore. It's better in the ruins on the ground."

"Propaganda bunker?"

"The weapons cache under Saint-Ghislaine 22B." (Point to it.) "In the basement. Have you been there?"

"So you finally found it." He looks at you -- then pulls the raincoat tighter around his neck. "There must have been a small squadron's worth of arms in there. Belle-Magraves, right?"

"They were."

"Useless now. Rusted away..."

"So you've been there?"

"Sleeping..." He coughs. "Some nights. Ammo-scrounging on others. Those Magraves were shit even before they corroded -- some had bullets in the chamber, however."

You feel the dots connecting. Little dots on the map he's walked across.

Wait! How did he get down there?

Not important.

Are you sure? Forget about it then...

"How did you access the building? It's locked, at least now it is..."

"I didn't have to. Came in through the storm drains."

"Storm drains?"

"There used to be a system that connected the bunkers. Tunnels and such. Under the church and... everywhere. Most of them are gone now, collapsed -- just bricks. All the old infrastructure has..."

"Storm drains?"

"So you've been there?"

"They were damaged beyond use."

"I know."

"One more question -- do you smoke Tioumoutiri cigarettes?"

"I do." He coughs.

"Ever smoke them on the mainland?" (Point to Land's End.)

"They're good." He nods. "Plenty of tar. I like that boy on the pack too. Reminds me of the last century."

The lieutenant exchanges a quick glance with you, then turns to the man...

"Do you go to Martinaise often these days?"

"Only when my health permits." He shrugs. "I check my old haunts..."

Like the secret route in the Whirling-in-Rags? This is one for later. When you really need it.

"Hey..." The kid must have some idea. "You go to Martinaise lately? Cuno hasn't seen you around..."

"Tell me another thing..." (Conclude.)

The old man looks across the water: at the city, the ruins, the motorways rising above it...

"So in the city you move... underground?"

"What was it like?"

"What was it like? There was hope, a little hope. They needed to snuff it out. Martinaise and Coal City were turned to dust..." He looks south. "But Jamrock, Faubourg, even Couron; and Boogie Street of course -- those fucking kipts had Kras Mazov coursing in their veins..."

"Another thing..."

He opens his eyes and looks at something, to your left... then at you.

"How long have you been on this island?"

"Forty-three years... No." He looks into the fire -- a wisp of smoke rises from somewhere between the charred logs. "I've been on other islands too."

"Wait-wait!" he turns to you, mouth open. "Like the fucking... ancient army?"

"You're a holdover from, the ICM, the Insulindian Citizens Militia?"

"Yes. Recruited from Jamrock in '07, trained in the Ecole de Contrôle Aérien; consigned to emergency defence duties in '08."

"You're a holdover from the Army of the Commune of Revachol?"

"Yes, I am from the Insulindian Citizens Militia. Recruited from Jamrock in '07, trained in the Ecole de Contrôle Aérien; consigned to emergency defence duties in '08."

"What, specifically, did you not like about what you saw the night of the murder?"

"What have you been using this gun for?"

Pick up the gun lying in the sand.