Gross Domestic Product:16

Chapter Sixteen.

Buer could sense the sun going down. He had waited in the lock-up for hours, going over what his actions would be over the following few hours, a plan was put in place. Bryce’s mind had spilled out all sorts of useful information as it fell apart. By now Alec Morton would be looking for him. It was time to put his plan into action.

He stretched out of the sitting position he was in, and in one movement was up on his feet. The night was cold outside, he could feel it before he exited the railway arch. He locked the door, got in the car, and drove out from the city towards one of the southern suburbs. He knew exactly where he was going.

The journey wasn’t far and so Buer amused himself by turning on the radio, listening to the mindless chatter from the humans on it. Their child-like music, so simple and repetitive, amused him greatly. The news came on. Germany was to be re-unified. When he had last been here it hadn’t even been torn apart by the events he had engineered. Buer decided there was some cruel irony at play, some mocking coincidence that meant he could not see the beauty of his work, only the distant end of it, once the fire had fizzled out and the ashes swept away. The fascists were nothing but a bad memory, the communists were falling apart, even allowing opposition parties. The Europeans would be cautious for a while. America, nor certain factions within the Middle East, had no time for caution.

Buer saw the burning oil fields, could smell that black stinking cloud that hung over them like some sickening doom. He saw the bombed out school buses, invasions, the terrorism, the toppling skyscrapers, the executed leaders, the invasions, a region on fire, it’s white hot embers exploded across the globe, bright, blazing zealots and raging death-cults.

This, all of this, would occur. However, this time, Buer intended to witness the chaos it intended to create. He was now in a functioning body that did not seem to struggle in an attempt to reject his presence, what else could it do, now he was free to walk the Earth? He had so many ideas, so many hypotheses. He wondered if he could somehow take their eyes, and their minds. An engineering project, have them shuffle through the aftermath of their enlightenment passively staring into television screens.

A phone rang.

Buer was not aware there was a phone in the car until it rang, which sent a flare, a flash of memory from Bryce. He picked it up. “Greetings.”

“Hi, there, uh-I’m Simon from Exceptional Windows, we’re in your area at the moment and I was wondering if you would like me to arrange appointment for you with one of our experts?”

Buer had not expected this. “Experts, eh? In what?”

“Oh, aye… heh, sorry. Double Glazing.” the boy at the other end of the phone laughed.

Buer was interested. “Double Glazing eh? Tell me Simon, you’re a young lad from Scotstoun, sure, you’re no genius but you’re not an idiot. You love your younger sister, Emily isn’t it? You love your mother Cathy, would do anything for them, so you tell yourself...”

“Errr.. D-d-d-do I know you?” The boy stuttered.

"You tell yourself you would do anything for them. Anything.” Buer said, making sure the last word was so laden with guilt, opportunity and obligation, that the lad understood perfectly.

“I-I-I-I-I really think that I should hang up.” Simon said.

Buer ignored his words and continued to harangue the lad, knowing Simon would not. “This is anything? This is the best you can do? You think that arranging appointments for double glazing experts is somehow an adequate expression of your love for them, or are you, Simon, my dear boy, lying?”

“Fuck you! Seriously, fuck you!” The boy screamed down the line before the call was disconnected.

Buer found himself laughing as he veered incautiously and at speed through the sluggish rush hour traffic. This lead to others irritation expressed as a cacophony of rapidly pumped horns with angry shouts from drivers. Buer thought it better, more expressive music than the mumbled garbage that spewed out of the radio.

The phone rang again. He was popular tonight. He picked the receiver up. “Thomas Bryce, how can I help you.”

“You don’t even sound like Tommy.” A stern voice responded.

“Alec Morton!” Buer exclaimed. He recognised Morton’s voice from Tommy’s shattered memories. “Big fan, Alec, almost as much as Tommy is, well, was, maybe. This is a coincidence, I’m on my way to yours right now.”

“Are you indeed? Well that’s good.” Morton replied. “You and I need to have a little discussion.”

“Oh I’m hoping for more than that Alec. Much more.”

“So, what should I call you?” Alec asked.

“Tommy is fine.” Buer replied. He wasn’t about to get caught out that easily.

“Fair enough, hurry along now, we’re waiting.” Morton said then the line went dead.

Caution. That was all that was swirling through the various magnitudes of Buer’s mind. He was not going to allow himself to be tricked and Morton was far too confident. Still, Buer was intrigued.

By a large park he turned into a leafy one lane road, a long lane with large detached homes hidden behind lush green hedges. He drove the car along it, far quicker than was legal, keen to get to his destination, keen to enjoy the unpredictable meeting that awaited.

It did not take long before he arrived at outside Morton’s location. The black iron gate was tall, intricate. Behind it was a well kept stretch of grass, and a gravel path that led to the red sandstone two storey house. All the lights were on, blazing in the surrounding dark. Unlatching the gate, Buer pushed forward with a smile on his face. He thought it novel, interesting and walked up to the four brutish young men dressed in expensive suits who stood outside. To Buer they may as well have been guards outside the palace of some medieval noble, or some desert warlord. All had shaved heads.

“I would assume I am allowed to pass and enter?” Buer asked glancing at the tallest, roughest looking of the four, immediately recognising the leader.

“Aye,” the man replied. “They’re expecting you. Follow me.”

Buer smiled and nodded at the others, who returned his gestures with looks of icy stone. These were the sort of men he could put to good use, he decided.

Inside he was confronted by a large square hallway, with a stairwell running up the left hand side. The place was mostly white and cream colours and various pieces of art rested on furniture or hung on the walls. He supposed this is what Morton considered tasteful. “This way,” the guard said and walked down the hall to the second room on the right, he swung the door open and gestured with his arm. “Mr Morton, your guest.”

Buer walked into the room. It was centred by a square table, oak with a red-brown sheen that seemed leagues deep. There were men sitting around the table, one standing over by a drinks cabinet, near the huge bay window that faced out onto the garden. Buer knew who they were. Willie Boyle was the thin man with the long sharp nose; Jimmy O’Hara, stocky, short, red hair thinning and being swallowed by grey; Neil Bailey, shifty looking, like a rodent, but with eyes that exuded vindictiveness and spite; Donny Stephenson, younger than the rest by a decade, tall, confident, with a mop of black hair and a moustache that was excessive. Morton’s crew, he’d called them all in. The last at the table, sat alone on the other side of it was the stranger Buer had assaulted. This oddity, this Skinner, sneered at him.

By the window, Morton turned, looked him up and down casually and said. “So, can I get you something to drink?”

Buer grabbed a seat, scrapped it across the lacquered wooden flooring with a sound that caused Boyle to wince. “No, let us get down to business.” He said resting his elbows on the table and making a steeple of his fingers.