Only one remained. An awkward holdout delaying the project and with it the new future they had all worked so hard for. Or rather the new past that heralded a new future.
Others had had doubts but they had been convinced, or at least brought onside after the proper encouragement.
Jane Silver wouldn’t be quite so easy to bring around. She was well known for being fearless. More awkwardly, she was richer than all of them put together and had no weaknesses anyone knew of – the best researchers and investigators had found nothing in her life, nowhere and no one where pressure could be brought to bear, no fissures, no soft spots, no cracks in her armour of any kind.
A tough nut to crack without a doubt. Apparently, she cared about nothing – but if that was really true, why was she so motivated? So driven?
Silas prided himself on his ability to understand people, to hone in on their core essence and prime movers – grasp those essentials and people could be manipulated rather easily he found in a great many cases, not all of course, but surprisingly many. That was a fact that saddened him. He valued a challenge. He looked forward to grappling with Jane Silver to an extent he hadn’t for a long long time.
And so to work.
Attention to detail was Silas’ watchword, and so first he needed to check in on his other partners, to be sure that none of them had developed a case of wavering convictions.
There were thirteen in all, including himself and Jane. One by one the other eleven reconfirmed their loyalty and conviction. Let the real game begin.
Silas called in his two most trusted operatives. Bernard Craion was no one’s idea of a quintessential goon – the man had degrees from Oxford and the Sorbonne and three books to his name – but this organization was as much about the ability to use one’s brain as wield a weapon. Rodrigo Cassus, on the other hand, looked precisely like the movie depiction of a violent heavy, and yet he too was more than he appeared, with a top-notch intellect and a surprisingly delicate sensibility he could express in five languages.
‘Gentlemen, you already know we have a problem. Jane Silver. Time is running out for this project to succeed, she must either be finally convinced or neutralized for all our sakes.’
Silas looked both men in the eyes, just before both their heads exploded.
Brain matter and fragments of bone splattered Silas full in the face. He stumbled backwards in shock, tripped over a chair leg, cracked his head on the side of his desk as he fell and faded into unconsciousness.
How long he was out he couldn’t tell. When he came around he found his hands and feet were tightly trussed up, his eyes blindfolded and his mouth gagged. From the steady vibration he could feel through the hard surface beneath his body, interspersed with a slight roll sideways every so often, Silas guessed he was in a moving vehicle of some sort. Other than that, all he was aware of was the astonishingly vicious pain in his head and a sense of utter bewilderment at the turn of events that had just unfolded.
Since he had nothing else to do, he tried to figure out what had gone wrong, how he had been taken so badly unawares – and most importantly, by whom. Up until some hours ago, he had been the mastermind of a scheme so audacious he was still taken aback at his own nerve and ambition. He remembered the moment when the idea had first come to him. A junior researcher in one of his labs had come fresh from a phenomenal discovery: cold fusion. Unlimited inexpensive power. He had had teams working on the holy grail of energy research for years, the only way he could see of keeping his failing nuclear plant corporation in business.
His real stroke of genius though had come next. Instead of sitting back and reaping the laurels of his (well his employee’s) discovery, he had seen a far far more wondrous possibility. Initially, it was merely theoretical, no more really than personal whimsy founded on a long-time fascination with books on futurology. Ever since he began reading them, one seemingly impossible but oft-mentioned invention had fascinated him – time travel. Author after author had raised the notional possibility of going back and forward in time according to the latest and best brains in physics, but then each writer had decisively dashed any realistic prospect of such an immense achievement by pointing out the vast quantities of raw energy required to power such a process.
Impossible to ever bring about they said. But Silas had brought it about. Very nearly anyway. Even his own vast fortune couldn’t underwrite such a project, so he had needed co-investors, other people as rich as he was. Twelve billionaires had eventually signed on after careful and discrete approaches. Each had seemed as eager and as enthusiastic as he was, so what had gone wrong? Why was he hogtied in the back of this vehicle?
Shortly after, the vibration underneath him stopped. He heard the crunch of tyres on gravel. The hiss of air brakes. And finally the drawing back of bolts. A loud clang and cold air enveloped him. Without warning, he was picked up bodily, hefted on a shoulder and then surprisingly gently deposited on a cold hard level surface. He felt his wrists and ankles strapped down efficiently but not brutally, which gave him hope of surviving whatever this was. Maybe it was just a garden variety kidnap? A coincidence? Nothing at all to do with his project? Ever the realist, Silas couldn’t bring himself to give that comforting flight of fancy serious consideration.
His blindfold was whipped off. His eyes were dazzled, taking time to readjust to light again. The gag was removed and he felt the rim of a glass brought to his lips. The cool water was welcome. Little by little his eyes began to make out blurred shapes. Then more distinct images began to emerge. And finally, unbelievably, but he supposed logically, Jane Silver’s face moved into view inches from his own. He wasn’t sure whether to be worried or not. After all, she knew nothing of what he had been planning for her, or did she? Time would tell he supposed.
‘Silas, you’re looking almost revived already. Excellent. I do hope we won’t have to play any games here. We have a lot to do in a short time.’
Silas glanced around him. He was in what looked like a large aircraft hangar. In each corner stood an armed guard, shouldering a type of weapon he had never seen before. The guards’ faces looked odd, like they were coated in plastic. So were their hands he suddenly realized. Slowly it dawned on him that what was seeing were machines not men. He wondered if he might be concussed.
‘I won’t cooperate Jane. I wouldn’t be a part of your schemes, and you need me, I’m the core of this organization – there’s nothing you can do to me. Except try to intimidate me, and that won’t work. You should have known that.’
‘I do know that Silas, I really do. You see it just doesn’t matter at this stage. I can see from your eyes that you’re confused and uncertain. How often have you been told you don’t matter Silas, rarely I’d say, maybe even never? Is that right, never? You’ve always thought yourself integral to everything around you, eh? This must be hard to come to terms with? Being strapped to a table, powerless and utterly irrelevant?’
‘Tell me what’s going on Jane. Tell me what you want – you must want something, or want me to do something?’
‘Only one thing Silas. Say cheese’.
Before Silas could finish the word, a particle beam generator above the table angled into position. An instant later it fired. Silas’ face bloomed momentarily, glowed and bubbled, and then reconfigured itself into a plasticized mask, devoid of life and expression. The beam moved over the rest of his body. A few short minutes later, what had been Silas and whatever he was now rose and stood to attention beside the stainless steel table. He saluted Jane, who gave a curt nod, and then he, or maybe it, marched toward a corner of the building and took up station, for all the world indistinguishable from the other sentinels.
Jane activated a device on her arm. ‘Problem fixed your Lordship’.
And several millennia in the far distant future, Silas smiled.
The dramatic cover of this book caught my eye several times over a few weeks, online and in the real world.
Eventually it seemed that it was virtually stalking me, so I gave in and acquired a copy. I’m glad to say that in this case at least nothing is lost by judging a book by its cover.
The Dry is set in Kiewarra, a tiny South Australian farming community beset by drought. Rain has been absent for years, the countryside is parched, times are hard, tempers are frayed and tensions are high all round.
Aaron Falk is a Federal Police detective based in Melbourne, specialising in financial crime. Originally from Kiewarra, one day he gets a phone call telling him his best friend from his school days in the town, Luke Hadler, is dead – along with his wife and young son. All of them shot with the family’s own shotgun, apparently by Luke.
However, Falk’s own past ties to Kiewarra are far from straightforward – as is the reason why he left the town so many years before.
When he returns ‘home’ for the funeral, his own unfinished business comes back to haunt him in unexpected ways.
Can Falk unravel the intensely personal and intricately intertwined mysteries of the past and the present?
And stay alive while he does it?
Only fools make predictions – which is why Historians leave such risky ventures to economists.
Breaking with established wisdom and any modicum of good sense I might have, I’m going to make a prediction, right here, right now.
Hats for men are back!
From being an exceptionally rare sight on our streets, and worn only by men of a certain age shall we say, hats are back on male heads of all ages.
Hipsters have adopted/usurped the Irish farmers go-to statement fascinator – the cloth cap beloved of generations of mountain men everywhere. Grafton Street sometimes looks like a band of Richard Harris lookalikes are trying to recreate ‘The Field’ – without the muck and soggy sandwiches.
Slightly more stately/less hairy men have taken to the old classic – a Panama hat, as well as slightly wider brimmed variations. These gentlemen are generally rather well-heeled, blazer or suit wearing, and invariably for some reason carrying a bag.
Further along the spectrum are those brave souls who try to rock a pork pie hat – the type made famous, depending on your age and viewing habits, by either Gene Hackman in The French Connection or Bryan Cranston in Breaking Bad – or indeed both, if you’re having none of this categorisation and stratification nonsense. Wanna-be wearers of this crown-topper bear in mind that things didn’t work out all that well for either of the two fictional aficionados….
And then last but not least, well actually it probably is least – the choice of those whose heads seem afflicted by a cold that even the hottest summer sun cannot effect: beanie hats. What’s there to say really? Only that, honestly, those successful musicians and singers you’re trying to ape are successful in spite of the silly headgear and not because of it. Seriously, it doesn’t matter how long you wear it, even if you never take it off between now and Doomsday, success will not come tripping from inside the murky confines of a mystical beanie, fleas yes, outlandish world fame, no – you’d be better off actually practicing. Or washing. Or both.
Like or loathe hats on men, keep a weather eye open in the next wee while and I think you’ll see that the trend is evident – and growing.
Mark my words, you heard it here first – hats for men are back!
Manchester and then London. And London before. And Paris and Brussels. And Stockholm. And Berlin. And Damascus. And Kabul and Mosul. And Istanbul.
Terrible tragedies and awful, senseless loss of life.
No one place is more worthy of expressions of sorrow and condolence than any other, none is more human, nowhere is life less valuable.
That being said, when something dreadful happens in London or Manchester I think it’s understandable that it resonates and reverberates more in Ireland. It’s close, only a few hundred miles away in London’s case, while Manchester is closer to Dublin than Killarney. Many of us have been to both cities, many of us too have family and friends there. And, sooner or later, many things that happen in the UK happen in Ireland. We’re entangled, whether we like it or not.
So, should we be afraid on this side of the Irish Sea?
Maybe that’s the wrong question. The geography that matters today is that of the internet cable and broadband access, the satellite signal and mobile phone reception. Physical remoteness may not save us.
Our creaky infrastructure just might slow things down. However, it would be too easy to dismiss the possibility entirely.
Many of the people who carry out these attacks are broken and disillusioned, with nothing to lose. They seek easy targets, presenting as little a challenge as possible. Almost anywhere can be chosen to be a ‘legitimate target’ when logic and reason are entirely absent – and anybody: it is well to remember that vast majority of the victims of ISIS, Al Qaeda and the many other loosely affiliated groups plying these mass slaughters are Muslims going about their everyday lives in Damascus or Kabul or Istanbul – though we hear far less about those killings.
The grim fact is that the people who carry out these attacks can be ‘radicalised’ anywhere and can decide to attack anywhere – willing to shed their own (often, in their own eyes, burdensome and worthless) lives for their cause, they have no compunction about who else or where else they kill.
Realistically, the next attack could be anywhere; it’s not possible to protect everywhere.
The best response would be to try to understand why these attacks happen – it’s a far from simple task. The reasons are complex and many – and different in each specific case, though with commonalities. A matrix of rage, and despair, and arrogance, and resentment, and hatred, and hopelessness, and dreams, and longed for meaning – the gospel of the lost and the lonely, determined to draw others into their nightmare with one final dreadful act to give their existence purpose.
How to combat that? You can’t bomb, shoot or imprison a sentiment.
Perhaps a starting point might be a book by anthropologist Scott Atran – Talking to the Enemy: Sacred Values, Violent Extremism, and What it Means to be Human Penguin, 2011.
No easy solutions, but maybe somewhere to start grappling with the web of woe ensnaring us all.
Have you ever been truely bamboozled by something? Brought up short by an incongruity your senses just cannot reconcile?
Let me give you an example and see if you know what I mean.
Navan in Co Meath is the fifth largest town in Ireland (according to Wikipedia anyways). 25,000 people live there.
It’s an hour or so from Dublin by road. Thousands of commuters travel everyday to work in the city.
Now, you might be thinking that such a large sized town would have a rail link with the capital. But no – you can’t get from Navan to Dublin by train.
Here’s the astounding thing though. Navan does actually have a railway station. And train tracks. And level crossings. All working and operational. Everything you need for trains to run. And trains do run from the town.
The rub though is that they don’t carry people. Only lead/zinc ore from Tara mines to Drogheda port.
So here’s the situation that flummoxes me.
One of the largest towns in Ireland and main dormitory centres for Dublin has a working railway line. But it doesn’t transport passengers. And the situation has been like this for over twenty years. Yet all the way through the Celtic Tiger years very little was done.
Is there a context where this makes sense? Is there a logic I’m missing?
Surely the investment would have been worth it to remove cars from the road?
And still is?
Yours in befuddlement.
The Irish Times reports a proposal being considered by the Irish Government to implement a limited subsidised childcare scheme.
It might be surprising to realise this doesn’t exist already; maybe even more surprising that there is opposition; and perhaps most surprising that those opposed to caring for children consider themselves ‘pro-life’.
Does David Quinn know it’s not 1950 any more?
And the same point as with abortion, applies to this scheme – if you don’t want to avail of it, fine, but don’t set your own personal perspective as the inflexible arbitrary norm for everyone else.
And has he seen the costs of living recently? Does he know how much the average person earns? And that in the vast majority of cases one income is not going to keep a family fed, clothed and housed?
I’m guessing most of the people he knows are rather well to do, upper middle class, as comfortable financially as they are conservative socially.
But his little world is a fantasyland, a mental Jurassic Park of an imagined society that never actually existed, except for a tiny number of very privileged people.
For everyone else, life isn’t and never has been as Quinn imagines – it’s rather more demanding and at times desperate, with worries about making pennies stretch and holding everything together day by day.
A little subsidised childcare might go a ways to making things a bit easier. I can’t for the life of me see what’s wrong with that – I don’t have any kids, I won’t benefit, but I think it’s a really good idea, and not unfair or unjust to me in the least. I’m fairly certain a lot of people think the same way.
I can’t fathom how or why Mr Quinn views the world as he does, but his outlook seems to lack, or expressly deny, understanding, empathy, and basic humanity.
I suppose we live in hope, and one of these days, like Mr Scrooge, he might yet develop a heart…..
Spotted this chap on Grafton Street.
The message resonated – well worth reflecting on…. the people we pass everyday sleeping on the streets are people, just like us, with hopes and dreams and fears and pride…. unlucky in life, not lesser beings….
There, but for the grace of fortune, go I…… And you…….