Gross Domestic Product: 24

Chapter 24.

There was a storm inside the body of Tommy Bryce, a raging force it could hardly contain. Buer was, once more, becoming frustrated by the limitations of the animal it found itself in. Aside from the deranged babbling of what remained of Bryce’s mind, the body had become fatigued during it’s revelry. He found himself unable to indulge in some of his more excessive imaginings and so, he returned to the car, and made for London, already sensing that he was now being hunted. That bothered him less than the struggle to remain aware as he drove towards The Capital. Tiredness, exhaustion it was called. It was the one sensation that it did not enjoy, limitation.

He sped down the motorway, his vast consciousness shrinking to a small point, avoiding smears of colour and light in the darkness in front of him. Time became a meaningless blur and it was not until the sun began to rise that he understood he was actually driving through the narrow, busy, filthy streets of London. The body was at the point of collapse as he spotted a hotel that seemed like the perfect place to hole up, to spend a day or to revitalising the body before continuing with the plan.

Buer parked the car and stumbled into the hotel and walked up to the reception. There was an unkempt skinny man in front of him who was being checked in first. Buer was not a patient creature by nature and so growled and huffed and paced back and forward until the man turned around and said, “Chill the fuck oot, Christ.”

A slow flare exploded in the scrambled mind of Tommy Bryce an image of recognition passed between both Buer and the man. “I know you.” Buer stated.

The gaunt man’s eyes went wide with fear for an instant, just an instant before he disguised it with front and bravado. “Aye, man. It’s Pete, Daft Pete. You look rough mate, you alright?

“I’m just tired.” Buer snapped.

“Aye, you look it, here, you go before me, get some rest.” Pete said and stepped aside.

Frowning, Buer nodded and walked past him. “We shall speak later.”

“Aye, get some rest, we’ll have a drink at the bar, my treat.” Pete answered but got no response. That was fine as far as he was concerned. Tommy Bryce had always been a shady and dangerous individual but that morning he looked like he had the devil in him. What he was doing in London was anyone’s guess but Pete thought it a striking coincidence. Still he’d done his best to keep on the guy’s good side, which might prove beneficial in his attempts to get a passport and get out of Britain for good. In front of him Tommy muttered to the reception staff, was handed a key and then set off to his room.

Buer turned and looked at Pete. “Drinks… later.” he said.

Pete nodded. “Aye great, big man.”

The room they gave Buer was adequate and he found himself falling onto the large bed and then shut down the body, releasing itself from the weight of physical reality.

It did not scheme or make plans, nor did it analyse the object to see what changes it had wrought, it held onto Bryce’s body with the tiniest of grasps and the rest of its manifold consciousness it returned to oblivion. The twinge of Bryce’s body, now rested after eight hours pulled it back, and Buer got off the bed and looked out at the London night. The city seemed to shudder, seemed tense, as if it was aware of Buer’s presence. Perhaps it was indeed some kind of organism, it’s streets working blood-vessels, it’s buildings functioning as organs. Buer wondered if, in fact, it could be possessed and if so, could countries? Perhaps the entire globe was just one vast life waiting to be inhabited and used. Such pondering was for another time, he had work to do.

The tensions between Kuwait and Iraq were historic and complex but had been exacerbated by the war debt Iraq still owed its neighbour state, and, as was often in this time, issues over oil. Buer’s plan was to increase those tensions using the money it had gained and Tommy’s own money to bribe officials, support either side and consequently push Iraq’s unstable despot into invading Kuwait. This would set off a glorious chain of events which would escalate for the next fifty years into a wave of insane butchery which would destablise the entire planet. He picked up the phone. “I need an outside line, the Kuwait embassy.”

Three rooms across and one floor up, Pete had just come back from a day out shopping for new clothes, for the first time in eight years. He wasn’t particularly elated by the experience. For some reason it seemed the fashion was all preposterously large flares, baggy hooded tops, tie-dye and paisley patterns everywhere. “Madchester” was all the rage, a hodge-podge of psychedelia, dance music and second rate pub-rock. He managed to get himself some clothes that wouldn’t be out of fashion within six months. A couple of pairs of 501’s, some shirts and jumpers, even a nice coat. Now, back at the hotel, the craving he’d tried to ignore hit him like a truck.

He needed a fix but that wasn’t going to happen. The drugs belonged to a different self. New town, new Pete, he was determined to kick the habit but the need was there, scraping down his nerve-endings like fingernails, itching his skin, causing the sweats. It was like something inside him, some junk entity that he needed to exorcise. A thing whispering to him, rationalising it’s sick desperation, ‘just one more time’ it seemed to say. The more he ignored it, the more it punished him.

Pete made a joint and then ran a bath, something to take the edge off. He looked out the window, staring out at the grubby city beneath as he smoked the joint. The place seemed vibrant, alive almost. There was a nervy energy about the town, or perhaps he was just projecting his own plight outwards, which seemed more likely. Even so, it was hard to not see the city as a living thing. Pete chuckled at his thought processes, he was already stoned.

Sitting in the bath until it got cool and brought a bit of colour to his grey junkie skin made him feel slightly, but not much better. The need was still scrabbling through him, an ache that was worse than anything he’d experienced in years. It tried once again, tried to bargain with him. His brain told him that this was a hard way to kick, that he’d be switching on everything at once and was likely to blow a fuse, that it would be much better to just take a small dose, enough to get him through the night. He ignored it. The threats came after that, if he didn’t take a hit, he’d end up in agony, his mind and body would be tortured. He ignored it. Then the pleading, he didn’t want to give up really, did he? After all he’d been through, the horrors he’d seen? He’d subdued all that with a nice habit, did he really want memories of Dunnoch, of Mammy, of those child things with their wormy skulls and black dead eyes bouncing around his brain forever. He ignored it.

He sat on the bed in a pair of new boxer shorts, struggling with the need as he tried to take his mind off it with television but that was such a depressing slew of idiocy that it made him feel worse. Pete sat up, sighed and began to get dressed. He’d be better off outside. The need liked that idea. He could always score outside, if things got too much.

Just then there was a knock at the door. Pete walked over to it, his bones aching, a pain that seemed to saturate him like the cold weather. He opened the door. Bryce was there, he had a smile on his face. “Pete.”

“Alright Tommy, what can I do for you?” Pete asked, as pleasantly as he could, which given the rebellion his body and mind were in against him was no easy task.

“A drink. You’re buying you said. I have something to celebrate.” Buer replied. To him Pete was a curiosity, a distraction from the plan, besides it had been a long time since he had been intoxicated by alcohol. Even the devil rested from time to time.

“Aye. Sure thing, just let me get my troosers oan, eh?”

“Yes.” Buer replied.

Pete went back into the room and quickly slipped on his trousers. “So what ye celebratin’? he asked. There was no response. He turned and looked to see Tommy still at the door. “Come in, mate.”

Buer nodded at being allowed entry. Pete could not have stopped him but courtesy was courtesy. He walked into Pete’s room. “I am celebrating a substantial change in circumstances.”

It was odd phrasing for Tommy, so Pete thought. “Oh aye?”

“Yes. I have secured meetings with an emissary of the land of Kuwait and of Iraq. I plan to undermine the latter’s bargaining position with the former with regards to oil.” Buer stated.

“Oil? You goin’ legit?” Pete asked.

“Legit… legal… Hah. Rules were made to be bars of the prison of the world. I have the intent to destroy the prison.” Buer replied.

Pete really found something off about Tommy but he had problems of his own to deal with. “Aye, I guess.” He answered, slipping on his shoes. “Right, ready. Let’s go, I fancy gettin’ hammered.”

“Be careful what you wish for Daft Pete. I once used a hammer to dispose of a priest.” Buer said casually.

Pete laughed at that as the two of them headed downstairs. “Same old Tommy.” he replied, but it was a lie.

At the bar Pete pressed him more on the oil deal. “So what’s the deal with Kuwait and Iraq.”

Tommy seemingly didn’t want to discuss it much and said only. “Tomorrow I meet a man named Abdullah Al-Jabar, from Kuwait. I plan to inform him that the Iraqi Ba’athist Government, under the direct instructions of Saddam Hussein plan to make a deal with China in order to supply them with cheaper oil and then I plan to tell a member of that Ba’athist Government that Kuwait intends to reduce the amount of oil they sell to Iraq to zero.”

“Whit for?” Pete asked.

“It doesn’t matter. Why are you in London Daft Pete?” Buer asked.

It was that, calling him ‘Daft Pete’ like it was a common name, rather than Pete or Peter that really cemented Pete’s suspicions that something was totally wrong with Tommy. “Came intae some good fortune, thought it might be the proper time tae kick, ye’ know?”

“Kick?” Buer asked.

“Aye, the smack, I’ve been oan it far too long, Glesga wis killin’ me. So new start.” Pete explained

“Smack?” Buer asked, his face puzzled, the expression unfamiliar.

“Fuck sake, ye selt it fur years, heroin.”

“Ah, of course. A lot on my mind.” Buer replied, smirking at the double entendre. “A slave to opium, eh?”

“You could say that, aye.” Pete said, the stark description leaving him feeling like shit.

Buer nodded. “It is a common issue, overcome by strength of will.”

“Fuckin’ torture though, comin’ aff it.” Pete complained.

“I have heard that the hashish of the Arabs can mitigate the symptoms of withdrawal.” Buer said.

“Just as well I’ve got half an ounce then, eh?” Pete said.

To that, Buer laughed. It was not often that humans surprised him, but he was finding this Daft Pete enjoyable company. The alcohol in his system was probably helping. “Shall I purchase some more drinks?” he asked.

“Good idea, big man.” Pete said, raising his half empty pint glass. Odd or not, Tommy was turning out to be a pleasurable drinking partner.