Two Tribes Read online

  TWO TRIBES

  ALSO BY CHRIS BECKETT

  Novels

  The Holy Machine

  Marcher

  Dark Eden

  Mother of Eden

  Daughter of Eden

  America City

  Beneath the World, A Sea

  Short Stories

  The Turing Test

  The Peacock Cloak

  Spring Tide

  CHRIS BECKETT

  TWO TRIBES

  Published in hardback in Great Britain in 2020 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

  Copyright © Chris Beckett, 2020

  The moral right of Chris Beckett to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Hardback ISBN: 978 1 78649 932 5

  E-book ISBN: 978 1 78649 934 9

  Printed and bound in Great Britain

  Corvus

  An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

  Ormond House

  26–27 Boswell Street

  London

  WC1N 3JZ

  www.corvus-books.co.uk

  For Aphra, hoping you’ll find out

  that other futures are available.

  ONE

  Harry Roberts describes a shallow valley, like an indentation in a quilt, with green pastures and trees on either side. A pair of crows cross the sky ahead of him, three women outside a bus shelter turn to watch him pass.

  I managed to obtain a permit to visit the area. The shallow valley is still there, of course, but in place of pasture there are sunflowers and maize growing out of bare brown earth. There are shacks by the roadside and on the low ridge to the south stands an automated watchtower built during the Chinese Protectorate and still in use, a steep cone of stained concrete the height of a ten-storey building rising out of the sunflowers to bring forth its own strange flowers in the form of satellite dishes, cameras and remote-controlled cannons. Beside the road is an old sign, so rusty as to be almost completely unreadable apart from the initial letter W, and pierced by multiple bullet holes from the time of the Warring Factions. (Give guns to a bunch of barely trained young men and they tend to want to play with them.) What we now call the Eastern Prefecture was then a stronghold of the Patriotic League.

  I feel the holes with my fingertips: Thomas testing the wounds of Christ. The past is so tenuous, so small and far away, that it always seems slightly miraculous to me that pieces of it are still around us. Driving through that soft green quilted landscape two and a half centuries ago, Harry passed the very same sign that I saw and touched. ‘Welcome to Suffolk’, it read and he reached it at half past six. He doesn’t mention bullet holes. The Warring Factions were still in the future and, though he thought of the time he lived in as a troubled one, the idea that British politics might degenerate into civil war would have seemed to him far-fetched.

  I look back across the old county boundary into Essex and towards London and close my eyes to make the fields green again, with big green billowy trees, and crows high up in the cool blue sky. And I imagine his car approaching from the Essex side, billowing out its invisible fumes. It was a fairly small red car, somewhat old and scratched, and, though it had four seats, Harry Roberts was the only person inside it. He was forty-six years old. It was 26 August 2016, 250 years ago, before the Protectorate, before the Warring Factions and, I suppose, before the Catastrophe, though 2014, 2015 and 2016 had each in turn been the hottest year ever yet recorded and far off in the Arctic regions, the ice was already breaking up.

  Something shifted when Harry crossed into Suffolk.

  The way he puts it in his diary is that he’d been experiencing life as ‘hollow’, like the toy food that was made at the time for children to play with: hollow oranges and apples and hamburgers, moulded from coloured plastic. And yet as he crossed the county boundary, he suddenly noticed the world had become nourishing once more: the trees, the fields, the winding road, the women chatting at the bus stop in the evening sun . . . It was sufficient again, somehow. He was savouring the feeling of being alive.

  Harry was an architect. Janet, his wife of many years, had left him eight months previously. They had no children, their only son Danny having died five years previously of meningitis at the age of two. Harry was driving himself, as people often did then, in a metal car with an internal combustion engine that consumed a litre of refined oil every ten minutes, to the weekend retreat of a couple called Karina and Richard. Karina was what was called a ‘food writer’ – strange as it now seems, she made a living by describing the food in restaurants – and Richard ran his own ‘actuarial consultancy’ in London, which was at that time a global centre for lending and borrowing money. They were friends of Harry’s twin sister and only sibling, Ellie. Ellie and her husband were also going to be there, and it had been Ellie’s idea that Harry should join them. ‘You spend much too much time moping around on your own, bro.’

  Crawling his way out of London, whose streets at that time of day were packed with several hundred thousand crawling lumps of metal (each one of them burning a litre or so of fuel every ten minutes, and emitting the acrid residue into the air), Harry had been resenting Ellie’s interference, her attempts to organize him and make him conform to her idea of what a person in his situation ought to be doing. Why on earth would he want to waste a whole weekend with her friends, he’d been thinking, when after all he had friends of his own? But now, he had to admit, he was looking forward to it.

  *

  Karina and Ellie came out to meet Harry as he pulled up into the drive of the half-timbered cottage. Karina was tall and imposing, dark-haired and dark-eyed, and wearing white; Ellie was a short, lively woman in a pretty red dress, who observed her twin brother with her characteristic combination of affection, pride and exasperation. She’d worried about him a great deal during the months after Janet left, and he knew she found his passivity irritating. There were things a person could do to move on from a setback like that, and Harry seemed to her to stubbornly refuse to do any of them.

  Karina led them through the house. In the living room Richard, Karina’s husband, and Phil, Harry’s brother-in-law, stood up to greet him from one of three elegant grey sofas. While Karina was very good-looking in a dark-haired Mediterranean way, Richard, with his untidy red hair, short legs and slight pot belly, could almost be described as ugly if it were not for a smouldering energy which was apparent as soon as you met him. Phil, who’d been a friend of Harry’s even before he’d got together with Ellie, was a tall thin man, rather intense, with large hands and a pointed head that he kept completely shaved.

  The room was beautifully laid out, thought Harry, looking about him with a professional eye. Modern design had been cleverly married with many of the original features of the three separate workmen’s cottages that this had once been: the black wooden beams, the uneven floor.

  There was a pleasing smell that mingled wood polish and old woodsmoke with the warm scented fat of a lamb dish cooking in the kitchen.

  *

  The two largest bedrooms, each with its own bathroom, had been allocat
ed to the couples, but there were two smaller bedrooms, and Harry had been given one of these, at the back, which had a bathroom right next to it. (This all seemed quite opulent to Harry, given that this was Richard and Karina’s second home, but it wouldn’t have seemed as luxurious to him as it does to us now, for this was a time when almost all English homes had at least one bathroom with hot and cold running water.) He unpacked his bag, laid the notebook he used as a diary on the bedside table and checked his hair in a mirror that hung over a chest of drawers. He had a pleasant, nicely proportioned face, open and friendly even in repose or sadness. Harry smiled at his own reflection. Outside the bedroom window, the pleasantly rolling Suffolk fields glowed in the evening sun.

  Downstairs the others were talking about their teenaged children but tactfully stopped when he came to join them. (Harry had learnt from his sister that the two couples had become friends because of their children: Ellie and Phil’s older son, Nathan, played in the same rock band as Richard and Karina’s son Greg.) Karina asked him about his work and where he lived. She was a very attentive host. Having put a question to him, she would compose herself into the optimal posture for conveying attention. Richard, on the other hand, rapped out his questions, one after another, absorbing the answers with a slight frown, as if continually puzzled by Harry’s reasoning.

  When the evening meal was ready, Richard sat at the end of the table, with Ellie and Phil on one side and Harry on the other. By the time Karina brought out the lamb dish – her being a food writer, it was of course exquisite – they were talking about ‘Brexit’. Britain was in those days a member of a supranational body called the European Union, which, while not a federal state, had acquired many of the characteristics of such a state – a currency, a parliament, a court, a legal system, a president, free movement within its borders and so on – and it was unpopular with a substantial section of the population for that and other reasons. Strange as it seems to us now, this was a time in which virtually the entire adult population of the country was entitled to choose the government. Very occasionally other more specific matters were also put to the public in a kind of vote known as a referendum. Recently, and against the advice of almost all of the major British institutions that embodied authority and expertise, the country had voted in such a referendum to leave the European Union. British Exit. Brexit.

  From our perspective, when the European Union and the British state no longer exist, this all seems pretty trivial stuff by comparison with what was to come, but it was a big thing then, and the five of them round that table were members of a class in shock. They’d been unhappy about political developments before, of course, but this was completely different. It felt personal somehow, as if they themselves were under attack. And so they grieved and raged, obsessively itemizing, over and over again, all the precious things that would be destroyed by this reckless vote, all the reasons why the vote should not have happened, all the ways in which it had been unfair.

  Phil and Richard, in particular, were very agitated. In fact, they were almost shouting. Everyone in the room had some version of the received pronunciation accent, ‘RP’, characteristic of the professional middle class at the time, which lacked the marked regional variations found in the speech of less educated people. (It was the rough equivalent, I suppose, of the somewhat Sinified English pronunciation of our own more educated classes.) In the earlier conversation, before they got on to Brexit, all five of them had to varying degrees slightly softened this RP speech, as they habitually did, by making small concessions to the demotic speech of London and the south-east – ‘a glottal stop here,’ as Harry puts it, ‘a nasal twang there’ – but now, in their anger, Richard and Phil had ramped up their accents to the register with the highest possible social status. It made Harry think of frightened animals fluffing up their fur to look as big and fearsome as possible.

  ‘If Parliament had any guts it would simply disregard the result of the referendum,’ Phil boomed, and Richard roared that it had been ridiculous to ask the general public to make a decision on a matter as complex as this. Ellie observed more quietly that, since many blatant lies had been told by the ‘Leave’ side, the referendum result was surely invalid.

  ‘Absolutely!’ her husband bellowed. ‘Absolutely! And a question of this complexity can’t be reduced to—’

  ‘And what about Scotland, for God’s sake?’ Richard butted in. ‘There’s no mandate for Brexit there, or in Northern Ireland, or in London, or in—’

  ‘Or in pretty much any city with a reasonably high concentration of educated people,’ interrupted Phil, for they kept interrupting one another, not to disagree but because their need to agree was so vehement. ‘We shouldn’t beat around the bush here; this is a victory for ignorance and stupidity!’

  ‘Ignorance, stupidity and racism,’ Karina amended. She was worried for Sofija, her lovely Lithuanian cleaner. There’d been an ugly upsurge of verbal attacks on foreigners by strangers on the streets and on public transport, and Sofija had been told to ‘fuck off back to whatever shithole you come from’ by a total stranger at a bus stop.

  Harry wondered whether this had happened to Luiza, the Polish cleaner who he’d recently let go. Luiza actually wasn’t particularly lovely, and he’d decided he’d had enough when, thinking to be humorous, she’d referred to her black neighbours as ‘dirty monkeys’.

  ‘Yes, and we need those people here,’ Richard growled. ‘The economy needs them. Hospitals, service industries, farms, the care sector: they all depend on immigrant workers.’

  ‘Apart from anything else,’ Karina said, ‘where are we going to find a decent plumber? Most of the British ones are either incompetent or crooks. And that’s assuming you can even get hold of one.’

  The group shared stories for a while about various impressive services they’d received from bright, courteous, hard-working migrants from Eastern Europe until Richard moved the conversation on again by suggesting there may have been some Russian interference in the election: a relatively new theme, but one that was to become more prominent and better substantiated in the months ahead.

  Then they returned, as if to the chorus of some long and tragic folk song, to a lament that the vote had happened at all. Why, why, why had a decision of such great importance been entrusted to people who were simply not qualified to understand its complexities?

  They were still at the early stage, this little group, still reeling, still trying to construct a shared narrative about what had gone wrong. But they were also, though they were not aware of it, constructing a new story about themselves and their relationship to the world.

  *

  Harry felt oddly detached. Their aggrieved, frightened mood was out of kilter with the contentment that had come over him so unexpectedly somewhere between London and the Suffolk border. For a while he zoned out completely and instead contemplated this exciting new feeling of being reconciled with the way his life had turned out. There were new possibilities now, there was no longer a wall holding him back.

  ‘This country’s reputation is in tatters,’ Richard was pronouncing when Harry next paid attention. ‘We’ve made ourselves an utter laughing stock.’

  ‘Perhaps you could clear the plates, Rich,’ Karina suggested, and, without answering her or breaking the flow of his tirade even for a moment, Richard duly gathered up the crockery with his powerful, hairy hands. (There was a particular way, Harry thought, in which very bright, very driven, very focused people stacked plates.)

  ‘The smart money’s already looking elsewhere,’ Richard went on. ‘But these people don’t seem to either know or care just how much damage that’s going to do the British economy . . . ’

  ‘I’ve made a summer pudding,’ Karina said, ‘but shall we have a fifteen-minute break before I fetch it out?’

  Harry took the opportunity to go outside for a cigarette.

  These days the small road that goes past the cottage is a cul-de-sac ending in a marsh just half a kilometre further on, but
the cottage still stands. It’s three dwellings again now, each one inhabited by a three- or four-generation family. Behind it is a yard with vegetable plots, chicken runs and various sheds, backing on to a field.

  Maize is grown in that field now – this is a crowded country, too poor to import food – but back then it was pasture, and a row of mature chestnut trees divided it from Karina and Richard’s garden, with a bench beneath them where Harry went to sit and smoke. I close my eyes and do my best to imagine Harry there under those big, dark, rustling trees that no longer exist: a handsome, muscly, solidly built man – he played rugby football in his school days – with thick, curly brown hair. He liked to dress well, and I picture him in a light grey summer jacket, nicely pressed trousers and fashionable shoes. Like his sister he has interested, lively eyes. He was about the same age then as I am now.

  Harry drew in a treacly cloud of smoke. It was a habit of his youth that he’d given up for many years but had taken up again in the aftermath of his separation from Janet. He’d stop soon, he decided. He didn’t like the clogged lungs in the morning, and he no longer really needed the primitive comfort of something warm to suck on, sorry as he’d be to give up this simple pleasure.

  He exhaled slowly. How good that smoke tasted! The light was fading, the leaves were jostling about above him in the evening breeze and, even through the smoke, he caught the earthy aroma rising from the cooling ground. A car passed on the road in front of the house and a cow flicked and snuffled in the field behind him. He leant back and wriggled his shoulders into a more comfortable position. Several small bats were working the air above the garden. Mysterious creatures, he thought, and, as he smoked, he watched them make a long series of zigzag passes between him and the cottage, sometimes one at a time, sometimes two or three all at once.

  Presently Ellie came down to join him.