Founder, Installment 16

Chapters 31 and 32

Book VII

Chapter 31: Bruce, November 2021

One-seventy-five Moore Street is a dingy, two-story townhouse: off-white stucco with a portico entrance and four sullen windows. From just above the first-floor window, an awkwardly placed satellite TV dish cranes its neck toward the southern sky. The porch light is off and the blinds are all drawn, with only the palest hint of light radiating from within. Remembering Dory’s instructions to enter through the back door, Hugh proceeds past the house to the end of the block and down the alley. When he locates the rear of 175, he tries the door and, finding it unlocked, lets himself in. Once inside, he calls hullo into the darkness, but no one replies. He is in a pantry of some kind, with empty boxes stacked in a heap by the back door. Sidestepping the boxes, he moves past a water closet, through a small kitchen, into a sparsely furnished living room.

Hugh calls out hullo again.

Nothing.

He moves toward the foyer now. A Bressen-United poster is taped to the wall by the front door, and a framed portrait of Che Guevara hangs above the only bookshelf. Seeing some mail on a table by the door, Hugh picks up an electric bill and checks the addressee. Bruce F. Munson.

Good.

At least he didn’t just barge into a stranger’s house.

Now he goes to the sofa, removes his jacket, and sits down. He’s been there for just a few seconds when he hears footsteps on the stairs.

“Hullo?” he calls out, rising.

“It’s Bruce,” comes a voice from the stairwell. “Dor ain’t here yet,”

As Bruce descends the last few steps, Hugh gets his first look at Dory’s B-Opp comrade, a painfully thin fellow in his early 30s, of average height, with a pasty complexion and bristly blonde hair. He couldn’t weigh more than ten stone, and his black AC/DC shirt and jeans are so loose on his frame that he’s cinched his trousers tightly with a military-style belt.

“Propago Man,” says Bruce, eyeing Hugh coolly. He shows no sign of surprise, nor, in fact, of any emotion. His voice is surprisingly sonorous coming from such a slight instrument.

“Hope it’s okay I came in,” says Hugh. “I called out when I got here.”

Bruce holds up a pair of headphones attached to a small electronic device. “Been listenin’ on the police scanner. Just heard you now…”

Hugh nods. “Any word from Dory?”

“Nah,” replies Bruce. “Should’ve been here by now…” He reaches into his pocket and checks his mobile, then looks Hugh over and asks, “You alright? Want somethin’ to drink?”

Hugh eases back on the couch. “I’m alright,” he says. “Just really rattled, and I’m worried about Dory. A beer would be good, though.” As Bruce goes to the kitchen, Hugh rests his feet on the edge of the makeshift coffee table, a footlocker draped with a Bressen flag.

From the kitchen, Bruce calls out, “I got Guinness and Carling.”

“Guinness would be brilliant,” replies Hugh. “You hear anything on that scanner?”

Bruce returns to the living room with two bottles, hands one to Hugh, and takes a seat on a metal lawn chair by the couch. He drinks from his beer, the Adam’s apple on his thin neck bobbing as he swallows. “I heard them request a patrol car right afterward. Nothin’ since then, though.”

Hugh nods and drinks.

“You get a sense how bad Dor’s hurt?” asks Bruce in a nasally Oskin accent—the tough part of Oskin, where Hugh never goes.

“Jimmy caught him twice with a riot stick or something,” replies Hugh. “First on the shoulder and then on the back. I didn’t think he’d get up, to be honest. But he was able to walk when I saw him. If anyone could take a couple shots like that, it’s Dory.”

“Hmm,” says Bruce. Then, without another word, he slips his headphones back on and resumes listening to the scanner.

Hugh eases himself back against the sofa cushions and drinks his beer. The initial rush of adrenaline has long since passed, and a great weariness has settled into his limbs. For several minutes, he sits still, drinking his beer, looking vacantly around the room, at Che Guevara’s face, at the water stains creeping out from behind the crown molding. After a while, he finds his mobile and checks it for messages from Dory. Nothing. As he is setting his phone on the flag-draped trunk, he hears the back door open.

Hugh and Bruce both spring to their feet. As they do, Dory comes limping into the living room, his face wracked with pain.

“Fuck, Dor,” exclaims Bruce, removing his earphones. “I was thinkin’ the Sikkies got you.”

“Would’ve been alright with me,” mutters Dory. “I could’ve used a damn ride.” He holds up his phone to them. “Battery ran out.”

Hugh’s instinct is to go and hug Dory, but, seeing him in such pain, he settles for a hand shake and shoulder bump. Even that contact makes Dory wince. As the big man eases himself onto the sofa beside him, Hugh asks, “You in a lot of pain?”

“I’m gonna feel a lot better after someone gets me a beer.”

Now Bruce rises and goes to the kitchen. Dory, meanwhile, eases himself back against the cushions. Suddenly he grimaces, then reaches behind his back and pulls a large, stainless steel pistol from his waistband. He looks it over and places it on the trunk.

“You had a gun?” exclaims Hugh.

“Yeah,” snickers Dory. “And that motherfucker’s lucky he got me first, ‘cause I can actually aim.”

Hugh laughs as well, though he’s not disappointed if he only grazed their attacker. Then, reminded of his own gun, he takes the Glock from his jacket and sets it on the trunk beside Dory’s. The big man looks at the Glock, then leans over and picks it up.

“This shit’s been cocked the whole time?” he asks. He carefully decocks the hammer and sets the gun back on the trunk, its muzzle pointed away from them. “You coulda blown your foot off, jim.”

Hugh shakes his head dejectedly but says nothing.

When Bruce returns with his beer, Dory asks, “What’d you hear on the scanner?”

“Just the call for a patrol car,” says Bruce.

“How long’s it been now?”

“Not quite an hour.”

Putting his headphones back on, Bruce takes his seat on the folding chair. Dory kicks off his trainers and rests his feet on the trunk.

Hugh, meanwhile, studies his friend with concern. “Thanks for looking out for me tonight, D.”

Dory waves him off. “You saved my ass, yeah?”

“Be sure to tell your dad that,” laughs Hugh. “I called him to ask where you were, and he ripped me a new one.”

“Ah, he’s just worried about me. He’ll be fine.”

Hugh is about to reply when Bruce holds up a finger to silence them. “I think that was it,” he says, removing his headphones.

“Us?” asks Hugh.

“Patrol car left the scene. Sounds like it got called in as a civil disturbance.”

Dory sits up straighter. “They left? How do you know?”

“They called a 10-24, ‘assignment completed.’”

“So they didn’t see the blood?” asks Hugh.

Bruce frowns at the scanner on his lap. “I doubt they looked too hard, jeeves. That’s a feegie neighborhood, yeah? Sikkies don’t give a fock ‘bout feegies.” With this, he rises from his chair. “We oughta ice your ribs, Dor,” he says. “Then wrap ‘em good and tight.”

He disappears into the kitchen for several minutes, then reappears with his hands full of first aid supplies. Setting his materials on the trunk, Bruce sets about wrapping Dory’s torso with the ice pack and bandages. He approaches the task with quiet competence, his arms now seeming not so frail, the muscles flexing and easing like chords of pale rope. As Bruce works, Dory shifts from position to position to allow his friend to wrap the bandage more tightly. There is a solemn intimacy in how Bruce attends to his wounded comrade; and Hugh finds himself feeling all of the sudden like an outsider. It is a deeply unsettling sensation, as is the twinge of jealousy that follows it.

“You’ve done that before,” remarks Hugh, attempting to sound cavalier.

“Got medic trainin’ in the BSF,” replies Bruce without looking up.

“You were in the BSF?”

Bruce hisses softly between his front teeth. “Yeah, I was in the BSF. ‘Cause I love my fockin’ city. You alright with that, jeeves?”

Now Dory shoots Hugh a look that says, Careful, Hugh. “He did five years in the security force,” he interjects. “Ain’t that right, Brucie?”

Bruce nods sullenly. Then, when he has secured Dory’s bandage with metal clips, he skewers Hugh with his pale eyes. “There was lots like me on the force, yeah? Jimmies who love the city but hate the fockin’ divvies.”

“Divvies?

“The clans,” interjects Dory.

“Well,” replies Hugh, “Lucky for Dory you got that training.”

Bruce ignores this last remark, then shakes four ibuprofen tablets from a plastic bottle and hands them to Dory. “I think you busted a couple of ribs, Dor,” he says. “Nothin’ you can do ‘bout that. You just gotta ice ‘em and make sure you take deep breaths, yeah? So you don’t get pneumonia.”

Dory nods, thinks for a second, and asks, “If the teep Hughie shot shows up at a hospital or files a Sikstand report, is there any way we could find out?”

“Doubt it,” replies Bruce. “We could ask around, n’ all, but I doubt it.”

“So there’s no way to know if we’re in the clear with the Sikkies…”

“Thousand bone says nothin’ comes of it,” replies Bruce. “If you’re right ‘bout these jimmies bein’ from Propago, they’ll want to keep this quiet, yeah?”

“That’d be a relief…” sighs Hugh.

Bruce shoots him a reproachful look. “That don’t mean Propago’s backin’ off, jeeves. Hear what I’m sayin’? Just they don’t want the Sikkies in their business. But shootin’ one of their boys probably didn’t make you any friends, yeah?”

Suddenly Hugh remembers his conversation with Tommy earlier that night. “Ah, shit,” he says to Dory. “I never told you about Tommy…”

Dory’s eyes widen. “Silvia’s Tommy?”

“That’s where I was coming from when I saw you. He asked to meet me for a beer…”

Dory turns to Bruce. “Hugh’s old flatmate dates a gantling lawyer,” he explains.

Now both Bruce and Dory lean forward to hear the story, and Hugh, struggling to clear his lingering mental fog, recounts the conversation with Tommy, which feels like it took place a month ago. When he finishes speaking, neither Bruce nor Dory says anything. Eventually Dory rests his bald head against the cushion, frowns, and says, “Fuck that gantling motherfucker. He’s just tryin’ to sound noble so he gets Silvia back. His daddy can’t call anyone off.”

Bruce, who has been scowling in concentration, nods his agreement.

Now Hugh sits up. “You know, I actually believed him. He may be a complete gobshit, but he never struck me as two-faced. He said his dad was out of town and that he’d make the call when he gets back.” He looks hopefully at Bruce, then back at Dory. “Maybe Propago moved on us before he had a chance to get involved.”

Dory closes his eyes and runs his hand over his scalp. Then, with his eyes still shut, he says, “If that’s true, I wonder if tonight changed anything. You know? Like maybe Tommy’s daddy won’t get involved ‘cause things escalated.”

No one replies right away. Bruce keeps his eyes on Dory as if he might answer his own question, but Hugh eventually speaks up.

“Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but I think Tommy’s dad might come through.”

Bruce turns to Hugh, and Hugh, feeling another reproach coming his way, braces himself. When Bruce speaks, however, there is no aggression in his tone. “What’s this Tommy’s last name?” he asks.

“Brucie knows all about the families,” Dory explains. “He’s like a search engine on clan shit.”

“Payne-Havissom,” replies Hugh. “He lives in West Gursey, near Ubie.”

Bruce thinks for a moment, then takes out his mobile and checks something. “Yeah,” he says after a minute. “His dad’s a big deal at the Ministry of the Interior.”

“He is?” asks Hugh, wondering why he never thought to check out Tommy’s family himself.

“Cabinet level,” continues Bruce, still reading. “I bet he could do it if he wanted.”

“Call off Propago?” asks Dory.

Bruce laughs. “Yeah, jeeves. He’s one of Parringden’s boys.”

Neither Dory nor Bruce says anything more about this discovery, but for Hugh its immediate effect is to lighten the burden he’s felt since the black Peugeot first followed him. With this flicker of hope gaining strength in his mind, he allows himself to drift more deeply into his own thoughts. Dory and Bruce, meanwhile, move in and out of conversation. After a while, Hugh goes to the kitchen for another round of beers and hands them out to his exhausted companions.

And so the evening wears on, in an atmosphere of vigilant weariness.

Two hours later, a half dozen more beer bottles have accumulated on the footlocker. An eternity has passed since Hugh’s forefinger applied five and a half pounds of pressure to the trigger of his Glock 19 and the stocky, bearded man spun around as if slapped by a ghost. And, now after drinking beer, listening to the police scanner, and debating the night’s potential outcome, the three fugitives have slipped into a sort of foxhole camaraderie. Bruce no longer radiates the low-grade hostility Hugh sensed earlier; and Dory seems less determined to translate Hugh’s remarks into terms less offensive to Bruce—or to shoot him cautionary looks. There is a greater ease in the room now, a product of their collective exhaustion or the hope that tomorrow the senior Payne-Havissom will make Propago disappear like a bad dream. The time is just before 2 AM and, though Hugh is by profession a nocturnal creature, he wants nothing more than to sleep. He is reluctant to let himself nod off, though, out of vigilance or a sense that, by surrendering consciousness, he would lose hold of the one hopeful thread they identified earlier that evening. Dory has drifted off twice already, only to rouse himself with a start. When he dozes, Hugh and Bruce speak in lowered tones. Now Dory nods off for a third time, his chin slumping onto his chest.

After a moment, Hugh asks, “You think there’s a chance Tommy was telling the truth?”

Bruce, who has remained in the metal lawn chair all night, looks hard at him. “‘Bout his father callin’ off the dogs?”

Hugh nods.

“Hard to say,” replies Bruce. “I don’t know him—but from what you said, it ain’t out of the question.”

“Right,” says Hugh. “And if he’s lying?”

Bruce exhales wearily. “Then this shit is far from over, jeeves.”

Chapter 32: Reprieve—November 2021

The curtains are not his bedroom curtains; and the light in the window is all wrong for his flat. He is in an unfamiliar bed, or rather on it, fully clothed except for his boots, which he sees on the floor. The white plaster walls are veined from floor to ceiling with fine cracks; and aside from the bed, the only furniture in the room is a wooden fruit crate from a place called Derby Hill Orchard. Then, as if a switch were thrown, the memories of last night come rushing back into Hugh’s mind. Tommy. The gunshot. Dory prostrate on the sidewalk. How his life blew up.

Sitting up in bed, Hugh locates his mobile on the floor by the bed and is about to turn it on when he remembers Dory saying not to use it. He scratches his head, looks once more around the room, then goes in search of the toilet. After relieving himself, he heads downstairs to the living room where Dory and Bruce are drinking coffee and reading on their phones. Bruce has swapped his AC/DC shirt for a Bressen-United jersey; Dory is wearing the same clothes as last night. Both men look up when Hugh enters the room.

“I guess someone got some sleep last night,” grumbles Dory.

“You didn’t?”

Dory gestures at his midsection. “Can’t get comfortable. Brucie’s tryin’ to find me some Percocet.”

Without looking up from his phone, Bruce points an angular elbow at the kitchen. “I made coffee, Propago Man.”

When Hugh goes to the kitchen, he sees on a wall clock that it’s nearly half-past ten. He slept almost eight hours—unexpected given the circumstances. He pours a cup of coffee, then returns to the living room where he sits on the recliner.

“Where are the guns?” he asks, pointing at the foot locker.

“I got a place in the basement,” says Bruce, leaving Hugh speculating what else political dissidents keep in their basements.

Hugh looks around the living room and sighs, “So now what?” He means to pose the question rhetorically, as if to ask, Well, isn’t this a mess? but he comes off sounding as if he expects someone to answer. He is aware, of course, that a question mark hangs over everything in his life now, and only time will provide clarity. As he considers the full weight of his dilemma, he feels his body begin to tense up; then he reminds himself of his one, tenuous hope—about Tommy’s powerful father—and decides, if only to keep panic at bay, to focus on that.

After a moment, Dory inhales heavily and, with a grimace, adjusts the cushion behind him. “Well, beezers,” he announces. “I’m goin’ home today.” When both Bruce and Hugh look at him startled, he adds, “I got no choice, yeah? I’m gonna lose all my clients if I cancel any more sessions.”

“What if they come after you?” asks Hugh.

“Then we’ll see what happens,” replies Dory. “But I’m not hidin’ out anymore.” Then, to Bruce he adds, “Just find me some of that Percocet, Brucie, and I’m good. Fuck those motherfuckers.”

Hugh hadn’t anticipated this moment would arrive so soon or abruptly. When he doesn’t respond to Dory’s announcement, Bruce turns to him and says, “You can keep stayin’ here if you want Propago Man,” to which Hugh says thanks but if Dory’s heading home he will, too. He has no idea, after all, where he’ll be safest. For all he knows, 175 Moore Street is on some Sikstand list of dissident strongholds—and is marked for a raid in the coming days. Other than his place on Morton Mews, there’s nowhere else to go. He could ask to stay at Louis’s flat, or maybe rent a room outside of Gloven, but both options seem premature.

An hour later, Hugh and Bruce are in the living room talking when Dory comes in wearing a puffer vest over his sweatshirt, with his overnight bag in hand. Bruce watches as Dory sets his bag down in the foyer, then rises and leaves the room, eventually returning with Dory’s .45 in one hand and Hugh’s Glock in the other. He hands the larger pistol to Dory, and, as Hugh rises, offers him the Glock. The moment feels desperate and heroic at the same time, two outlaws from some old Western, arming themselves before charging an army. Dory takes his pistol, checks that he has a round in the chamber, and slips it in the waistband of his joggers. Hugh checks his Glock as well, placing it in the same pocket as last night.

For the next several minutes the three men discuss their contingency plans—how to stay in touch or signal for help, where to go for safety, how to obtain more ammunition. Hugh listens intently, making mental notes of every detail. For all the apprehension arising from these words, he also takes from them a bittersweet gratification, to be included in such a grave discussion, to trust in these two men and be trusted by them.

Now as the three head toward the back door, Bruce reminds Hugh, “Don’t use your mobile ‘til you get home, you read me jeeves?”

Hugh promises that he will not, thanks Bruce for all his help, and steps out the door. Dory hugs Bruce loosely and tells him, “I’ll ring you later, yeah?”

It is the last day of November, a Tuesday, and the weather is fine and bright. Walking down the alley and out onto the city sidewalk, Hugh can almost deceive himself that last night never happened, that December lies before him as benign and uncomplicated as ever. For several minutes he is able to sustain this illusion, breathing in the cool air as he walks, turning his face toward the late-autumn sun. Then, as they are approaching Bursey Park, Dory touches him lightly on the tricep.

“I’m peelin’ off here,” he says. “Ring me when you get home so I know you’re alright.”

Hugh nods.

“And keep your eyes open,” the big man adds.

Hugh watches Dory make his way across the street and down the park path. When Dory disappears around the bend, Hugh resumes walking, now struggling to find his earlier equanimity. He continues heading north for several blocks, forcing himself not to rehearse his list of anxieties. There is too much to worry about, and so little he can do to affect the outcome. Let’s just get home without being picked up by the Sikstand, he decides, or shot dead by some guy in a black Peugeot.

Then I’ll unpack all of this.

If the black Peugeot is out there somewhere, it hasn’t found him yet; and the people he passes on the sidewalk have no idea what happened last night, or that he has a pending claim with the Ministry of Genealogy. Bressen is an ocean of people—two million anonymous souls. If all other options fail, Hugh could lose himself in this ocean, change districts, get a different job. Or he could leave Bressen altogether, emigrate to the UK the way Delia did, or maybe to the States. If he dropped his claim, Propago would have no reason—other than a desire for vengeance—to pursue him.

He has options.

When he turns down Morton Mews and comes to his flat, he finds he is not terrified at the prospect of going inside, but, rather, overcome with relief. After letting himself in the main entrance and mounting the stairs to his flat, he unlocks the door and nudges it open slowly. Nothing inside has changed since he left to meet Tommy. No one ransacked the place. Silvia’s throw is resting tidily on the arm of the sofa, and the living room window is filled with late morning sun.

After removing his coat, he settles on the couch and, after a moment of hesitation, turns on his mobile. When the phone powers up, he sees no calls have come in. There are seven unread text messages, however, two from Maggie asking when he’s coming by the hospital today, and if he can bring a cinnamon bun from Poule Rousse. One is from his manager, asking about his return date to work. Another two are marketing messages, which he deletes. The last three are from a number he doesn’t recognize. Hugh taps on the thread and reads it. Then he reads it a second time more carefully.

Immediately he rings Dory, hoping he switched from his burner phone back to his regular mobile. After two rings his friend answers.

“You got home alright?” asks Dory.

“No problem,” replies Hugh. “You?”

“I’m good. Now keep an eye out and call me if something comes up, yeah?”

“Okay,” says Hugh. Then, before Dory can hang up, he adds, “Something came up.”

“Something bad?”

“Nah,” Hugh laughs. “Something good.”