The Best British Fantasy 2013 Page 2

  ‘You do not recall what it was that you were arrested for? It was quite a unique case. I have been reviewing your file and I can honestly say that I do not know of another like it.’

  I shake my head again.

  ‘Do you remember any of your time at Camp 25?’

  Was that the place with the blue room? It may have been. Nobody told me where I was at the time. They were too busy pushing bamboo under my fingernails.

  The Major shakes his head.

  ‘No. Judging by the treatments listed here I can’t say I’m surprised.’ He sits up, running his hand over his thin hair. ‘If I remove your gag you will not speak unless spoken to. Is that understood?’

  I nod. He stands, steps around the table, and unties the gag. It is a relief to have the taste out of my mouth. He takes his seat and pushes a cup of tea towards me.

  ‘Go on,’ he says. I reach forward and drink.

  ‘Thank-you, Sir.’

  He smiles again.

  ‘I was going to have you shot yesterday, do you know that?’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  He holds his belly like an expectant mother.

  ‘Your quarters over there take up a lot of space. I have only joined the camp this month and I couldn’t understand why you deserved such space all to yourself. A good thing I read your file. You have unique talents 11-17, which may be of use in the quest to complete our revolution. Do you understand?’

  ‘I understand, Sir.’

  If I can help I will.

  ‘Now before we can go any further I need to know exactly how badly they damaged you at Camp 25. From what I read they made a complete mess of you. I quote from your chief interrogator’s report: ‘Subject’s political re-education has compromised ability for independent action of the kind required by intelligence services.’

  The Major drops the file, lights a cigarette, inhales deeply. He taps ash onto the floor. ‘That’s the curse of our countrymen, I think. Trying to achieve too much too quickly. Trying to leap too far forward.

  ‘Well, even if you can’t be sent abroad you may yet be of real service. You’re clearly deficient mentally but what I need to know is . . . does your voice still have the same power? Can you still persuade people to do your bidding, 11-17?’

  I turn the shell over in my hand. The question makes a kind of sense to me. It is also completely meaningless. The Major claps his hands.

  ‘OK. Time for a simple test. I am going to call in one of the guards. When he comes in I want you to tell him to shoot himself. Do you understand?’

  I chew my lip, uncertain.

  ‘Look, 11-17. Let me spell this out for you. If you can’t do this there’s no reason for your accommodation here to go on. You’ve survived until now by slipping through the cracks, but that’s over now. If you can’t do this I will have to shoot you and demolish your little hut. Do you understand, 11-17? You need to give this everything you’ve got.’

  ‘I will, Sir.’ The Major stands, steps behind me, opens the door. He calls in one of the guards, who walks in and stands at attention. He’s lost his earmuffs.

  The Major sits on the edge of his desk and narrows his eyes at me.

  ‘Well?’

  I stare at the guard and say nothing. I don’t want to hurt him.

  The Major prods his cigarette out on the desk. I think I have made him feel foolish. I wonder what Jin-Song would advise in this situation? Probably something like:

  ‘Do what he says, you idiot!’

  I look up at the guard.

  ‘Hey,’ I say. He glances at me. ‘Shoot yourself.’

  The guard picks up his rifle, jams it in his mouth, and pulls the trigger. The back of his head blows out across the office.

  The Major steps carefully through the mess and kicks the solider with his boot.

  ‘Well done, 11-17,’ he says. ‘Most impressive. Now put that rag back in your mouth.’

  I replace the rag.

  ‘You have done well,’ he says, securing the gag. ‘You have done very well. We will work closely together you and I. We will be as close as lips and teeth.’

  He grins, as if he finds this very amusing.

  Camp 15, Yodok, 21 December Juche Year 100

  We are breaking up the rocks in the yard. Jin-Song is very excited by developments.

  ‘This is excellent. This could get us out of here. We might never have to smash another rock again.’

  ‘I don’t see why?’

  ‘I’ve been telling you this stuff for years. Your words have power over people. They do whatever you tell them to. Why do you think I’ve been begging you to speak to that farmer? You could have told him to break you out anytime and he’d have done it!’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  I bring him down with a crash onto a stubborn rock. He bounces off without effect.

  ‘It’s not nonsense. Don’t you remember what you did at University? You had 1000 students ready to burn down the Supreme People’s Assembly.’

  I laugh.

  ‘It’s true. You know it’s true, you cretin! They had to shoot that entire university to stop you!’

  I close my eyes and smash him onto the rocks harder than ever.

  ‘I would never threaten the Dear Leader.’

  ‘OK, let’s not get tied up in that again. You’ll only forget. The important thing is that this Major obviously wants to use your power for his own ends, which almost certainly means leaving the camp. He’ll have to take your gag off at some point, and that’s when you’ll strike! You tell him to drive you to the Chinese border. He’ll do it, believe me. Everyone does what you say.’

  ‘I want to stay here.’

  ‘I know, I know. That’s why you’re going to need to take me with you.’

  ‘You? Why would I take you?’

  ‘Because I’m the only one you can’t persuade.’

  23 December, Juche Year 100

  When we drive out the gates I can barely contain my excitement, but Jin-Song keeps me calm. The Major laughed when I asked to bring my pickaxe. Whatever makes you happy, he said.

  We drive along empty roads, passing people on foot. I’m not sure if they’re prisoners or normal people.

  The Major is driving us in an army truck. The heater is broken and we can see our breath. We go on and on for hours, driving through the night, until the Sun rises. I stare out the window, shivering, scratching at lice, wanting to laugh or sing or cry out.

  The Major doesn’t say anything for the entire journey, apart from:

  ‘Damn cold.’

  Then we meet a track and begin to climb up into the brown mountains. Something about the road is familiar. It makes me want to vomit. The Major lights a cigarette.

  ‘As you know 11-17, The Dear Leader ascended to the heavens this last week. What you don’t know is that our imperialist enemies have taken the opportunity to intrigue against us, to plot counter revolutionary activities. They have corrupted some of our weak-spirited comrades. They plot against the revolution and we have to stop them, do you understand? These are uncertain times, and uncertainty breeds trouble. We must be decisive. We must snuff out the flame of counter-revolution immediately. The eternal president himself has charged us with this mission, so we cannot let him down. Do you understand?’

  I nod. Jin-Song scoffs. The Major points at me.

  ‘You yourself plotted against the revolution at one time. But The Eternal Leader gave you the opportunity for ­re-education, and now he is giving you the chance to complete your redemption. Do not disappoint him.’

  He leans in closer.

  ‘Now listen, 11-17. In a minute we are going to reach some gates. You are going to get out of the truck and speak to the guards. You’re going to tell them to shoot themselves, just like you did with the man in camp. Understand?’

  ‘Thi
s is it!’ says Jin-Song. ‘Now’s your chance. When he removes the gag tell him to drive us to the border.’

  The Major removes orange plugs from a plastic case and presses them into his ears. Only then does he remove my gag. Jin-Song is angry.

  ‘Sneaky bastard. He knows what you can do.’

  We approach the gate. A large 25 is printed on a metal sign above it. Either side are two watchtowers. Behind I can see a driveway, leading up to a huge concrete cube.

  Camp 25, Chonjin, 23 December Juche Year 100

  The guards start shouting at us as we slow down. The Major pulls up, and they surround the truck. The Major rolls down his window and has a gun pressed into this ear. They ask him what he is doing here, demanding papers. I’ve never seen one soldier threaten another before. The Major punches my arm.

  ‘Do it, prisoner, now!’

  ‘Let the bastard die!’ says Jin-Song.

  I jump out of the truck. The guards prime their weapons and surround me, dragging me towards the gate. I see another two pull the Major out of the cabin.

  I scream out the words.

  The guards turn their guns on themselves and tumble in a hail of gunfire. The Major gets to his feet, nursing a cut on his head. I go to help him up. He strikes me hard across the face.

  ‘What the hell were you waiting for?’

  ‘Hit him back!’ yells Jin-Song from the truck. ‘There’s just the two of you. Pick up a gun and shoot him!’

  I can’t do that. Finally I am part of the revolution. Finally, somebody is telling me what I must do.

  We pass through the gate and drive towards the cube. Even in the gloom I recognise it. Somewhere in there is the blue room. Nothing stirs. Did nobody hear the shooting?

  We drive around to the back, and I am startled to see a small, pristine house, with a lawn. There are a few lights on inside. We park and walk to the rear. The grass is soft and strokes my bare feet. We walk up a flight of stone steps to a quiet porch. The Major presses a button in the wall. There’s the distant sound of a bell.

  A maid answers the door. The Major grabs her, puts his hand over her mouth, and looks at me.

  ‘Tell her to show us where her master is.’

  I do as I am told. So does she. She leads us down a corridor. Paintings of white people hang on the walls. There are no images of the Dear Leader or our revered Eternal President. The carpet is even softer and deeper than the grass.

  The maid shows us into a large room. A fire burns in a hearth. An old man in a dressing gown sits in a leather armchair, reading a book. He hasn’t noticed us. The Major pulls his gun and shoots the maid in the back of the head.

  The old man turns. He looks at me, then at the maid. The Major grins.

  ‘You backed the wrong horse.’

  The old man almost smiles. He lowers his book and removes his glasses.

  ‘That suggests we have a race. All I see is one half mad donkey running backwards. And you’re asking everyone to be excited.’

  The Major shakes his head.

  ‘Why did you do it? Why try to disrupt the succession?’

  The old man considers.

  ‘Guilt,’ he says.

  The Major shrugs.

  ‘OK, let’s get to the point. You’re going to tell me who else is with you.’

  The man snorts.

  ‘Never. There’s nothing you can do to compel me, Major. I know too much about pain to be compelled to talk. You know that.’

  ‘Well to be precise,’ says the Major, ‘you’re going to tell him.’

  The Major points at me. The old man peers almost through me. I might recognise him. I think I know him. I tell him to give us the names of who else is involved (in what?). Instantly he reels off a list of names, tears pouring down his cheeks. I wonder what else he would do if I told him to. I remember wondering the same thing as my fellow students stood in the courtyard, cheering me, ready to follow me. I remember the feeling of power.

  When he is done the Major claps his hands.

  ‘OK. Ask him where his family is hiding.’

  Camp 25, Chonjin, 24 December Juche Year 100

  The Major stands on the porch with me, smoking a cigarette. He even takes out his earplugs. I think about telling him to drive me to the border, as Jin-Song suggested, but I know I won’t do it. He seems to savour this moment.

  ‘You did well,’ he says. ‘You will live, 11-17.’

  ‘Will I be freed?’ The voice doesn’t sound like mine.

  ‘No. I need you to stay where you are. You are a useful tool. I may need to call on you again.’

  ‘Yes Sir, thank-you, Sir.’

  ‘You should be proud,’ he says.

  Cigarette finished, he replaces his earplugs. ‘Come on, time to get you home.’

  I trail after him, looking forward to getting back. In the camp I will forget what I’ve seen.

  Camp 15, Yodok, 23 January Juche Year 101

  ‘Proud of yourself?’ asks Jin-Song.

  It’s the first thing he’s said to me in a month. He wanted me to kill the Major on the way back from the mission, or jump out of the truck and run away. I ignored him and he is furious with me.

  The Major locked us up. I know I will never see him again. Jin-Song said he probably took the old man’s position in the new government. He said that is how things work. I told him I didn’t believe him and he started with the silent treatment. Now he’s talking again. I’m surprised.

  ‘Have you forgiven me?’

  ‘Of what? Murder?’

  ‘I didn’t kill them.’

  ‘No, no you just watched. Much better. I suppose I shouldn’t criticise. It was revenge on your part, after all.’

  ‘What? No it wasn’t!’

  ‘Yes it was. It’s just your dodgy memory doesn’t know it. I can understand you wanting to see the old swine suffer after what he did to you. Trouble is that he was one of the few people in this country who could have made a change. He was a brutal enough bastard to see it through. Probably had some kind of coup set up. It would probably have failed but you never know. He might have changed things more than you ever managed. And you had to go and kill him.’

  I am enraged. I have finally done something of value and still he finds fault. I grip his handle until my knuckles turn white. Heaving with all my might I throw him over the wall.

  I pace around in the yellow mud. I pull the shell out of my pocket and find that it is damaged, a hole smashed in the fat end.

  I stare through it and see the face of an old man, smiling in the blue room. I drop into the mud on my knees and ask the Dear Leader for guidance. Then I remember he’s dead.

  ‘Excuse me,’ says a voice.

  The farmer stands at the broken section of wall, smiling, holding Jin-Song.

  ‘Would you like this back?’

  I wave him away.

  ‘No. No. I don’t want it.’

  ‘Oh.’ The farmer frowns. ‘Can I help at all?’

  I wipe my eyes and look at him.

  ‘Well . . . perhaps you can.’

  Jin-Song sighs, swinging in the farmer’s grip.

  ‘Here we go again.’

  LAVIE TIDHAR

  The Last Osama

  I was riding through the lowlands, the horse’s hooves scattering dry dust into the air. An inflamed red sun hovered on the horizon like a damaged eye, leaking tears of yellow and blue and tendrils of puss-like white clouds. A group of men in the distance were hanging Osama. I stopped my horse on the crest of the hill and looked down. They were too busy, drunk with power and excitement, to notice me.

  That was a mistake.

  There were around seven of them. They were dressed in torn green clothes, like uniforms. The Osama was between them. They had formed a circle around it. One of them had a rope. He threw the rope ove
r a branch. There was a tree there, it was the only tree for miles. The second time they threw the rope it caught. The Osama was struggling against them – a young specimen, shiny black beard, strength in those wiry arms. They held him down, eventually. Got the noose around his neck. They were too busy to look up, and anyway the sun was setting. I couldn’t hear them, I was too far. I wondered what they were saying, and what language they spoke. They were ill kempt, their beards grew wild. I imagined the stench of their unshaved bodies. I readied myself. They strung the Osama up and pulled –

  I had it in my sight. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, focusing, my finger tightening on the trigger until, with a soft exhalation, I pressed it. The gun fired. The sound of the gunshot was loud in my ears. It travelled fast, but not faster than the bullet.

  It hit the rope and cut it. The Osama fell down to the ground. I needed it alive. The men reacted almost comically. They looked around them with bewildered expressions of surprise. I got back on the horse and cantered towards them, the gun at an angle. I didn’t hurry. I didn’t need to.

  They saw me approach. They had no guns or they would have used them already. They just stood there, seven burly, belligerent, tired men, the fight suddenly knocked out of them. They stood almost motionless, the Osama on the ground between them, and they watched me approach.

  When I came close I stopped. The men looked at me. None of them made a move. One, the closest to me, regarded me thoughtfully for one long moment then spat on the ground, a long string of juice hitting the earth wetly.

  ‘Move,’ I said.

  None of them did. I showed them my gun. It was usually my winning argument. ‘Sorry, boys,’ I said. ‘He’s mine.’

  Their faces changed. Resentment. Disappointment. I couldn’t read their faces, they had been feral for too long. I didn’t know if they understood my words. I didn’t want to kill them. I hadn’t been paid to.

  ‘He’s mine,’ I said again. I touched the butt of the gun for emphasis. Still they wouldn’t move. The Osama was motionless on the ground, but I could see it was still breathing.

  The man closest to me spoke. ‘One,’ he said. I could tell the words came at an effort. ‘One . . . man.’ He looked at his fellows, pointed, as if articulating a difficult proposition. ‘Si . . . seven,’ he said. He sounded proud. ‘Seven men,’ he said.