Читать книгу No Harm Can Come to a Good Man - James Smythe, James Smythe - Страница 10

Deanna wakes up. She lies perfectly still at first, because she loves these moments of being awake, of being in control of everything for just a second, before the day allows itself to interrupt. She can hear Laurence breathing, a harsh snore that’s developed over the past few years into something akin to a growl. She can feel the slow rise and fall of his chest travelling through the mattress. After a while she rolls over and looks at him. He’s still propped up as he was when she was falling asleep, his back against the giant pillows that they have taken to using as a headboard. His reading glasses are hanging off his face and his tablet is on his lap, his hands clutching it. He doesn’t move much when he sleeps these days, she thinks, not since he became a senator. He tends to sleep so heavily that he stays perfectly still. The world could shift around him and he would somehow stay static.

She doesn’t want to wake him yet – the alarm isn’t set to go off for another half an hour, and he needs his sleep for today – so she turns away from him and slides to the edge of the bed. The floor is freezing cold on her feet, the house so draughty, always carrying a breeze up through the floorboards. She pads to the bedroom door and he doesn’t even shift slightly as she opens it and sneaks out.

She heads downstairs, turning the lights on as she goes, straight into the kitchen. The glass along the back wall, looking out into the backyard, is darkened and she flicks the switches on the counter to bring it back to a clear state; no glare from the rising sun, just the light pouring in. She loves the feeling of the warmth of it coming through the glass, heating up the kitchen while she makes the coffee, selecting pods for the machine – they each take a different flavor, and she has to do nothing past setting the thing going. She stands at the counter, both hands on the marble, propping herself up; and she basks for a few seconds. All is silence.

Laurence wakes up as she comes back into the room, because she’s not trying to be quiet now. He feels his glasses on his face and swats them away, a knee-jerk reaction; and then he opens his eyes and looks at Deanna front on. He sleepily smirks at her. This isn’t the first time it’s happened.

‘I slept like this?’ he asks.

‘You did.’

‘I’m so tired. I was so tired. You know.’

‘I know,’ she replies. ‘You need to get dressed. The car will be here soon. I’ll get the shower going for you.’

‘You let me sleep, curse you.’ He reaches for her and pulls her close, kisses her. ‘I wish they’d let me drive myself,’ he says. ‘I feel like such a prick in that thing.’

Staunton is a small town, and Laurence has worked hard to win its people over. He came from the city but Deanna grew up here. When they left college, Deanna pregnant, they came back here at her behest, and he did his best to persuade the townsfolk – who knew her, who had known her parents before they moved away, before he got her knocked up and forced a retreat, law degree between his legs – that he was a good man. He’s spent the best part of the last seventeen years earning their trust. The showmanship of politics sets that trust back a good decade, he thinks. Because New York City is drivable, if there’s ever a TV show appearance they send tinted-window town cars, and that always makes Laurence embarrassed. Every time Deanna has to remind him that he has to get used to it; that if he gets what he wants from his career, he’ll have an armed escort everywhere he goes. Soon he won’t be allowed to drive anywhere by himself. He rubs his face and clambers out of bed. He stretches. ‘What tie, do you think?’

‘The lemon one.’

‘Lemon? Jesus. You want the crowd to turn on me? Start some riot about fence-sitting with my colors?’

‘It’s smart. It’s bright. You want potential voters to think you are as well, don’t you? At least, until they know you as well as I do.’

‘Ha ha.’ She kisses him as she leaves the en suite, and he strips his boxers off. She looks back at him: slightly looser around the edges than he used to be, but not totally out of shape; love handles, a slight belly, a sagging of his chest. It’s only the effects of age, of a more sedentary lifestyle, of being comfortable. ‘You want to come in?’ he asks. ‘I might not wash myself properly.’

‘I’m sure you’ll manage,’ she says. ‘I have to wake the girls.’

She goes to the twins’ room first. Alyx, their youngest daughter, is curled up on her bed, her feet hanging off the side, her arms splayed into a position not far off that of a crucifixion: spread out, extended from the shoulders. Sean, their only son, is almost textbook fetal on the other bed, rolled up as small as possible. Deanna thinks how curiously defensive it is. She wonders if he had bad dreams.

‘Hey, campers,’ Deanna says, ‘it’s morning – rise and shine.’ She raises the blinds and stands out of the way of the window, so that the light can hit her daughter in the face. Alyx giggles, and wriggles herself under the duvet. ‘Nope, not today,’ her mother says, pulling it away from her, ‘you’ve got school.’

‘I don’t want to,’ Alyx says. She’s stubborn and defiant, in that way that kids can be. All three of the children are, something that they get from their father. Sean pulls himself to sitting and then to the floor where he stands in front of the bed, swaying slightly, like a zombie. Deanna goes to him and prods him with her finger, making it rigid, and he tumbles backwards to his bed, collapsing into laughter.

‘You guys have got five minutes to get up and in that shower, or I’ll be back, and I’ll be mad as all get out,’ Deanna says. She tugs on Alyx’s ankle as she leaves the room, and the girl slides down the bed, giggling again; and then Deanna lets her go, and she tumbles gently to the floor.

The next room on her rounds is the bathroom that the kids all share. Deanna flicks the switch for the shower, letting it warm up, and then heads down the corridor to Lane’s door. She knocks on it once, a single, solid rap, but there’s no answer; so she turns the handle. The room is dark, but she can see the clutter through it. The clothes thrown everywhere, the books and vinyl sleeves scattered around the place, her daughter in bed still.

‘I’m awake,’ Lane says. ‘It’s fine, I’m awake.’

‘Just checking,’ Deanna says. The room is painted dark, grays and blacks, because that’s what Lane is into. Deanna opens the door wide and steps in, tapping Lane’s leg through the blanket. ‘Your dad’s got his thing today, so stress-free morning, please.’

‘Fine.’

‘You know what I’m saying. You want eggs?’

‘Sure.’

‘Straight home tonight as well. Like I say, no crap today, okay?’

‘Jesus, okay.’ Lane doesn’t stick her head up to look at Deanna the whole exchange; but she reaches up, to itch her head as it stays still on the pillow. She scratches at the bit where the neck meets the skull, through her hair; and Deanna sees the tattoo on the inside of her wrist, the logo of one of the bands that Lane is obsessed with: three intersecting geometric shapes, a block of symmetrical color in the center of them. It looks like a puzzle, but it’s not (or at least, it’s not one that Deanna’s been able to solve). The tattoo was the first real mark of rebellion from Lane: the lie that she told to be able to get it, and the months of hiding it to pretend that it didn’t exist. But, she promised no more.

Deanna hears the bathroom door slam shut, meaning that one of the twins is doing as they’ve been told, and she tells Lane that she’s next. Lane won’t shower: she’s started cutting back on that now, letting her hair get greasy. It’s a thing, and Deanna knows it’s only a matter of time before she cuts it off. That’s what the kids in her school are doing now, her friends: shaving their hair right back. Deanna’s begged Lane not to, simply because of Laurence’s impending campaign. They have a deal: she won’t be made to wear floral dresses as long as she covers up the tattoo and does her hair for the cameras every once in a while; and as long as she smiles when the cameras are out. It won’t be forever, but Deanna used the words consideration and family a lot, and eventually Lane agreed. Still, her second act of rebellion was to shave the underside of her hair on the sides over the summer, and then argue that she could hide it by wearing her hair down if she was ever at a public event. Besides which, Laurence – she calls her parents by their first names, a stupid and totally forced gesture which makes Deanna’s skin prickle – hasn’t formally announced yet. They have spoken about vacation and the cabin that they have bought and spending time with the children. There’s no press to worry about for just yet, she reasons. Another few months, they can have that argument all over again. I’ll even pay for the dresses we end up forcing her to wear, Deanna thinks.

She goes to the kitchen and puts the eggs into the poacher and starts the cycle. She hears the crack of their shells, the splash as they hit the water. Perfect every single time: no shell in there, no mess. It does it all for her.

‘Television,’ she says loudly. The set reveals itself in the corner of the room, the screen turning from its camouflaged setting – matching the wallpaper behind it, making it as inconspicuous as possible – and automatically boots onto the news channels, showing the four that Laurence watches most in its different corners. They’ll all be covering the announcement; they’re already hyping it, talking about what they can expect. They know, of course they know; there’s an embargoed press release already gone out, she’s sure. She hears everything from here, because you do in these old houses: the sound of the showers switching off; of feet padding across the floors; of drawers and wardrobes opening and shutting. And still, there is that feeling of the sun on her face; still, something that she will never ever tire of.

Alyx is first down, and she walks to the refrigerator and takes out a bottle of juice. Deanna passes her a glass from the cupboard, and she puts it on the breakfast bar before climbing onto a stool and pouring the juice for herself. She watches the news (not understanding it, necessarily, but it’s something to occupy her) while Deanna puts bread into the toaster and pops it early so that it’s barely browned. She puts the eggs directly onto one slice for Alyx and deposits it in front of her. The little girl breaks one with her knife and the yolk sluices down onto the bread, soaking through it. She tugs it apart with her nearly blunt kids’ cutlery, using the spork to scoop the sodden bread and egg into her mouth.

‘You’re so messy,’ Deanna says. She gives her a paper kitchen towel, and Alyx wipes her mouth with it, and her hands. ‘Mucky pup.’ Sean runs in then and sits next to Alyx. No ceremony: he just waits to be fed.

‘I don’t want eggs,’ he says.

‘No? So what do you want?’ Deanna asks.

‘Can I have a Pop-Tart?’

‘Fine. But if you have that today, you have eggs tomorrow. Deal?’

‘Deal,’ he says. There’s a trade-off in the house, Laurence and Deanna constantly trying to do what’s right by the kids, to balance and manage their food, their exposure to TV shows and music. They want to do this right – that’s their motto. She puts the pastries in the toaster and clicks it down. She stands and looks at the kids, both of them watching the news now, as if the world is something that they even comprehend yet. The toaster pops, and she puts the tarts on a plate.

‘They’re hot,’ she says, so Sean blows on them. She thinks about how cute he is; how she should relish these moments. Everybody tells her: this is all too fleeting.

‘Deanna?’ Laurence calls, from the top of the stairs. She finishes loading the dishwasher and heads out to the hallway. He’s wearing the suit that he had custom-made earlier this year; the first outing for it, having saved it for a special occasion.

‘How is it?’ he asks, raising a leg as if he’s a catalogue model. It’s something he’s always done when he should be taking himself seriously, a deflection. And it’s always made her smile. He opens the jacket at the sides, to show off the shirt that he’s wearing, and the lemon tie, and he twirls, posing again at the end. He sucks in his cheeks. She’d bought the tie for him, knowing how good it would look; how it would complement his complexion, his salt-and-pepper hair, the almost gray core of his eyes. He walks down and towards her and stands on the first step, even taller than usual next to her.

‘Perfect,’ Deanna says. ‘The tie is lovely.’

‘You would say that.’

‘It’s joyous. It makes me happy. It’ll make other people happy, and that will make them want to vote for you.’

‘Good. I’m stressing and I need to not stress.’

‘This is true,’ Deanna says. ‘Not-stress is always better.’ She reaches up and straightens the tie for him. She thinks about what she’s doing, and how many times she has done this. How many more times there will be, if the future that they are working towards all goes to plan. ‘You’re going to be amazing,’ she tells him.

‘You always say that.’

‘That’s because it’s always true.’ Lane comes down behind him, and he steps aside to let her through, pulling a face at her as she goes. She is wearing one of the band tees that she near-as lives in and jeans that Deanna’s never seen before, and she’s got a beanie carefully balanced on her head, her hair tucked up inside it. ‘Right,’ Deanna says to Laurence, beckoning him down, ‘food time. In there, sit down. Today, you relax.’ She stands and points, watches as they both go into the kitchen, then follows them. Sean finishes his breakfast and gets down from the table, and Deanna sends him to get his bag. ‘Leaving in three,’ she says.

‘I hate school on days like this,’ he says.

‘Only a few weeks until the summer,’ she reminds him. ‘Then you can have days like this over and over and over, until I’m sick to death of you.’

‘Mom!’ Alyx says. ‘You won’t get sick of us.’

‘I will. I’ll be on Xanax by the time you go back.’

‘What’s Xanax?’

‘It’s nothing,’ she says. ‘And you,’ she says to Alyx, ‘bag, now.’ They disappear, and Lane walks off, clutching an apple in her hand. Deanna turns to Laurence as he eats his toast. ‘I love you,’ she says. ‘Knock ’em dead, you hear?’

‘If they’re dead they can’t vote for me,’ he replies.

‘Then knock ’em into a coma until the election.’

‘Better.’ She kisses him, and she tastes the butter, the marmalade. The same taste every morning for eighteen years.

‘Right,’ she says, pushing away from him. ‘Time to go. Call me.’ She shouts for the kids and Laurence leans to one side and watches down the hallway as they all leave. They wave at him from the front door and wish him luck, and he smiles and waves back. He watches them as they get into the car. The Hendersons are walking on the other side and Deanna talks to them, as she always does, every single morning. She tells them that she’ll be along later to pick up one of their fresh loaves. They tell her that they’ll put one aside. She laughs, because every conversation about anything here is somehow gently amusing. Laurence watches it happen; he’s seen this a thousand times before. His car is waiting as well, and he grabs his jacket and briefcase. As he gets into the car he asks which way they’re going because there’s probably going to be traffic going into the city their usual way. The driver tells him a route.

‘You want me to go a different way?’ he asks. Laurence brings up the ClearVista app and searches the route finder. All the options are just as likely to get messy at this time of day.

‘It’s fine,’ Laurence says, ‘whatever you think is best.’ He watches as the driver lets the app pick the route for them. Hell or high water, it’s what’s easiest.

Deanna is at home and writing – or rather, the laptop is open, along with document that’s meant to be her new book; and she has reread what she wrote the last time, deciding that it’s fine and can stay, for now, when she hears Laurence’s name mentioned on the news, saying that it’s time for the live coverage of the press conference. She turns the volume up and watches him at the podium, surrounded by blue banners and badges. And his tie has been replaced with one that matches the color of everything else, a blunt-force sign of unity and support for the party that he seems so estranged from, at least on paper. He’s a new breed, a potential future. These are the words that he’s introduced with by the ex-President who stands by him, who is diametrically opposed to so many of his policies, but is tucking that behind them for the sake of what Laurence could do. This is an opportunity, they all know.

‘So – and I realize that I am getting ahead of myself, but what the hell, that never did me any harm before in life – let me introduce you to the future candidate for the Democratic party, and the next President of the United States, Laurence Irving Walker!’ He stands to one side and applauds so loudly that it’s all that can be heard for a beat over the microphones on the podium. Laurence looks slightly sheepish, humbled by the words, and he shakes the ex-President’s hand, almost cupping it, a gesture that’s focus tested and proven to show security, strength and power. He stands up at the front, and he smiles. The crowd cheer and he works it like a comedian; letting them have their moment, stepping back as the applause overwhelms him. He nods, and he laughs, and he steps back.

‘You’re too kind,’ he says. ‘I haven’t done anything yet.’ That gets a laugh, and he puts a hand on the podium, the other into his trouser pocket, which brushes back his jacket. Deanna can hear Amit telling him the things he can do, the gestures and phrases that will work in this situation. Humble, but not too humble; strong, but also showing that he’s human; a leader, but not unable to listen. She recognizes these things as being a part of Laurence, but not like this. This way they’re exaggerated, offered up like evidence. ‘But I hope to. And that’s what today is all about, really: hope. That’s something that the people who live in New York State tell me all the time. They say: we feel like our hopes for our children, our health, our homes – our hopes for the future – they’re being lost in the chaos of life. You wouldn’t believe how common it is to hear that.’ Everyman, but not too casual. The camera focuses on him, shows him in a good light. He’s got make-up on, Deanna thinks, and his hair has been coiffed, like something from that old TV show about advertising, a slick and neat look that’s pushed back from his face. It says he’s a family man, but not too married.

She’s heard the speech, and she knows he won’t fumble it. He’s never fumbled a speech in his life. He’s going to slyly announce his intentions, set this all up. This is how it works, now. It’s all about starting a quiet storm. She shuts off the TV and walks around the kitchen, thinks about what happens next. This house will be gone, sold to somebody else. They’ll start a family in it, and the place will get its own memories. And Deanna and the family will live … where? An apartment in Georgetown until they move. She doesn’t want to think about the end of this: a giant house where their every movement is monitored, where they can’t go for a walk without somebody wondering if they’re okay; what they’re doing; if somebody might make some foolish attempt on their lives.

She sits at her laptop and minimizes her book, and she opens a browser window. She types www.ClearVista.com into the window, and the site loads.

Will Laurence Walker ever be President? she asks. The site does its thing, the little icon spinning and folding itself into itself, a perpetual loop of folding and unfolding, and then spits out an answer. There is a sixty-three percent chance of Laurence Walker becoming President.

She stares at the screen. That’s based on today. It’s based on right now, the data mining – she hates the idea of it, as if thoughts, emotions, journalism and tweets and whatever else can be broken down into something that’s utterly tangible and totally immutable – having trawled the latest reactions to Laurence’s statement. She imagines that Twitter is full of #Walker2020 advocates, buying into both the message and the man.

For a second she hates this. For a second, she wonders what might have happened if she’d given a different answer when he told that her wanted to run; when he asked her if she thought it was a good idea. She had said, ‘It’s what you’ve always wanted’, and now she thinks that saying that wasn’t really an answer at all.

Laurence’s team takes a detour to Nassawa after the speech is done, already arranged but spontaneous-seeming. This is the start of the process: a meeting with Laurence’s current constituents, the beginning of the handshaking and baby kissing. They stop off at the town hall, and they walk in, unannounced, and the people working there laugh and smile and take photos. Somebody from the Nassawa Tribune comes down and writes an article, takes a short interview with Laurence.

‘Earlier on, your speech? Seemed like you were hinting at a bigger platform for your message. Any chance you can confirm, absolutely, your intentions of running for office?’ the interviewer asks, and Laurence almost laughs at their moxie, at their attempt to get an answer far bigger than their paper probably would usually get. Despite what others are saying, he hasn’t shown his hand yet. Everyone in the room smiles; they all know what the reporter is asking.

‘Not a chance am I answering that one,’ Laurence says, with a smile, and that gets a laugh; and he shakes the journalist’s hand and grins for another photograph. They move on, to a local café, and they eat lunch with the locals there, and Laurence fields questions about the current government, the policies being pushed through. He takes his platform stands: he believes in free healthcare for all, and he believes in the right to a free education that stands head-to-toe with the best that private education can offer. That’s where money should be going. He wants to siphon off far more money from the richest 0.5% – this isn’t about the 1%, he says, it’s those earners who manage to somehow take in the bulk of the country’s income in one fell swoop – and put that back into the country itself. ‘If you’ve got an income that would allow us to give everybody in the country a personal doctor and teacher, why shouldn’t we be taking more from you? If you’ve got money you won’t miss, that you won’t even notice is gone from your accounts, why shouldn’t you help where you can?’ That gets applause, the people cheering over their sandwiches and salads. When they’re done they go to the local high school, and there’s a buzz because this doesn’t happen often – Nassawa isn’t big on the map, one school and one hospital – so there’s an impromptu assembly, all the kids brought into the gym for the chance to ask Laurence questions. He’s one of them, and he sells it like that. He grew up in the city, sure, but he lives in the sticks now – ‘The boonies,’ he says, and that gets a laugh, because he’s old and he’s using language like that – and he answers more questions. One younger boy asks if he wants to be President somebody. ‘Someday, sure,’ Laurence says. ‘That, and an astronaut. But President most of all.’

When he’s done, Laurence calls home.

‘How did it go?’ Deanna asks.

‘Good,’ he says. ‘Met some people. All very nice.’

‘That’s what it’s about,’ she says.

‘It is. Love you.’

‘Good luck tomorrow,’ she says.

‘With the big shots? They’ll take what they can get, I’m sure.’ He breaks everything down to casual dismissals. ‘We should go out for dinner when I get back. A proper night: dinner and drinks. A hotel. Maybe a weekend away, before this goes insane.’

‘It’s not insane already?’

‘It’ll get worse.’

‘I don’t even know who you are any more,’ she jokes.

‘Probably for the best,’ he replies. ‘We have a party tonight, for the team.’

‘Party hearty,’ she says, ‘then get some sleep.’

‘Yes, boss,’ he replies.

The party runs all night. Laurence’s people have hired a bar in Midtown, taken the entire place over, and they’ve had a cocktail created for the occasion, some luridly blue thing called the Walker All Over ’em, that tastes like Jolly Ranchers and the cheap flavored wine that teenagers drink. Laurence necks two before he’s even found a seat, and then is handed a third when he’s asked to make a speech. This, he’s told, is the speech for them. Not self-aggrandizing: boosting the troops. He drinks faster as he starts to slur his words (‘Couldn’t have done this all without all of you,’ he says, letting the façade slip only slightly) and then a fourth. There’s an area at the back with a dance floor and somebody puts on some new song that’s been a huge hit pretty much across the world, music made for memes, and he’s dragged out to dance, which he does. Amit stands at the side and watches and laughs, and he takes a photo – expressly banned at the party, because this stuff lingers on the Internet, and there’s always somebody on one of the political blogs who’s desperate to print anything that looks as if it could be the start of a scandal – and shouts that he’ll use it as leverage.

‘You ever fuck up, guess what’s being sent to TMZ?’ he says, and his whole team laughs.

Deanna has trouble sleeping. It begins to rain, and the weather’s so close that she can barely stand it, even with the air-con jacked up as high as it will go. It’s something about the sort of humidity they get here, because at its worst it’s a warm breeze off the top of the lake, dragging along whatever from the base of the mountains, the warm smell of somewhere else entirely, somewhere with a logging industry and factories and a whole other way of life.

She gets out of bed and goes downstairs, and she opens her laptop and the file for what’s meant to be her new novel, years in the making. It’s a book that’s three years late already, if only by her own deadlines rather than those of a publisher that it doesn’t yet have, and she’s so behind. It used to be that she could sit at a table and just write the things, and the words would come out exactly as they were always meant to: from her head to the page, in the right order, the way that she had imagined them (for better or worse). But this one has become stuck, and she can’t move past it until it’s done. She can’t abandon it, that’s for sure. She never gives up on anything. When she first hit the wall she was frustrated: a year of struggling against certain words, of rearranging sentences until they fit the best they could into what was inside her head. After a while, she almost got used to being blocked. The wall was there every time she tried to write, and it never left. Some writers she knows have cats that sit with them while they work; she has the wall.

She tells herself to not rush, because there’s no contract. She never had a real audience, the previous books appearing on shelves one day and then slowly fading from them, until you had to go online to track them down; and how would you even know to? Her agent emails every so often, asking how the book is, how life is, if she’s still writing, and she says that she is. She tells him that she’s working on it, that it’ll be worth it when she’s done. But then she hits send and looks at the word count: not quite static, but close. A few words here and there, up and down. She thinks that she should give up almost every day of her life. Laurence tells her that it’ll be different when he’s done whatever it is he’s going to do. He laughs that people will be desperate for a novel written by the First Lady. It’s only half a joke. She wonders if that’s the pressure that she needs: that maybe the scrutiny of her earlier books, people tearing them apart, looking for truth between the words, might actually drive her to finish this one. And maybe that’s why this book has been so hard, she thinks. It’s more personal than anything else she’s ever written. It’s part of her, in places: of her childhood, and about her sister Peggy, who has been missing ever since she was a small child. It’s about family, mostly, and she knows what will happen to it. The women will be read as proxy for her, the men for Laurence. She wonders if that’s why she’s so hesitant to get any further with it. She began it when Laurence first mentioned running, back when he was doing a talking-head spot during the previous election, and it’s been written in the shadow of his career ever since.

She writes the same sentence over and over, tweaking words. She tweets – which she does anonymously, because these things never die on the Internet and one day some of things she’s said could really bite her in the ass. She exercises on the floor of the kitchen, lying flat on the dark slate tiles, the moon outside, the blinds left up, doing push ups and sit ups until she leaves a patch of sweat the breadth of her body on the tiles themselves.

Twenty-three words. She counts them, and reads them, and tries to evaluate them, two sentences that she knows can’t live up to, and that can’t actually mean anything, not taken like this. She reads them so many times that they start to disintegrate, ceasing to look like actual words any more, starting to be just shapes on the page that she happened to type.

In his hotel room, Laurence dreams: of his children and his wife. And there’s a pale room, pale because the light is so bright, and pale because it’s not a place that he knows. Maybe that’s how dreams are, he thinks through it, because he knows that he’s dreaming. If they’re not grounded, if they’re not somehow stolen from what is actually real, maybe they’re just faded before they even begin. So Deanna and the kids are clear as day, but the room, the background – it’s not a thing that exists and they are taken away from him. They’re pulled backwards into the pale, and there’s nothing that Laurence can do to stop it.

When he wakes up, the dream is a memory that is barely there.

The representatives from the party’s higher echelons all stand to shake Laurence’s hand, and they smile and laugh and pat him on the back.

‘You ready for this?’ one of them asks. ‘You ready for what’s going to happen to your life, son?’

‘Not especially,’ Laurence says, moving around the room, ‘but I’ll do my best.’ They grin, waiting for him to speak more. This is him as a show-pony: put him in front of a crowd and watch him perform. ‘I’m highly adaptable, that’s my thing. That’s always been my thing. Adapt, don’t stop talking, don’t let the others get a word in edgeways.’

‘It’s his major skill,’ Amit says, ‘and it means that he never ends up listening to me as well.’ That gets a laugh, because they know it’s not true. Amit knows his own reputation, and he knows what he’s worth to the campaign. Everybody in the room does.

There are two empty spaces at the table, the chairs already pulled out for them, the glasses already filled with water, and the two men take them and sit down. The smiling doesn’t stop, nor the gentle laughs that accompany the comfort of the situation for the panel.

‘So, you’re going to be formally announcing Monday,’ an older woman at the far end of the table says, ‘making sure that we get the full week’s cycle. Are you ready for that?’

‘Yes,’ Laurence says.

‘Of course, it’ll mean you’ll have to slightly scale back your day-to-day work, but you’ll still be working for them for a good while yet.’

‘And there’s no race? No contest?’ Amit asks.

‘Nobody with any weight,’ another man says. ‘A few senators are batting their lashes, but your man here tests off the scale.’

‘What about Homme?’

‘He’s thrown his hat into the ring, sure. But you throw a hat onto the floor, it’s likely to get trodden on.’

Another of the old guard interrupts him. ‘Senator Walker, you have our full support. You go out there, you work the states you have to work, shake the hands and kiss the babies. That’s a cliché, Laurence, but clichés exist for a reason. There’s always truth packed inside them.’

‘How long are we talking?’

‘Usually it’s a twelve, fifteen-month race from announcing the intent. This time, we’re winding it back. Let’s try for six before anybody else concedes and then we can concentrate on putting the pressure on POTUS, see if we can’t get him a little scared about what we’re bringing to the table.’ The man who says this, who once ran for President himself, back in the latter part of the last decade, grins. ‘Laurence, you’re a threat. You’re what the party needs, let’s be honest. You’re going to shake this up. You’re going to drag voters in by their bootstraps and coat tails, and you’re going to win this thing.’

‘Thanks for your faith,’ Laurence says, looking around at them all. He makes eye contact with every single one of them; he wants them to know that he’s serious, that their support means something to him. That’s been one of his major arguments the last few years: politics has become about empty words and even emptier eyes, promises made that are made for self-aggrandizing reasons rather than because somebody believes that they are the right thing to do. This is how he’s become popular, a man of the people.

‘There’s paperwork, of course, and we have to talk strategy.’

‘What sort of strategy?’ Amit asks.

‘Well, for one thing, the very reason that you were hired,’ the ex-nominee replies. ‘We’re going to have to talk about ClearVista.’

The bar is in a hotel that’s full of people who shouldn’t be there at a quarter of four in the afternoon, so nobody bats an eyelid when Laurence and Amit take a table. Laurence orders an Old Fashioned, Amit lemonade. He and Amit don’t talk until the drinks arrive, brought by a waiter, brandishing them on a polished silver tray, like some service from a time long before this. Laurence sips; the drink is sharp enough, and good. The meetings with the higher echelons of the party always terrify him; they bring out the prospects of the future, and the reality of what this all could mean over time. Amit brings out the paperwork and the contracts.

‘They’re footing the bills,’ he says.

‘But this feels like bullshit,’ Laurence argues.

‘Necessary bullshit,’ Amit says. ‘Look, they want this, and everybody’s going to be using it. You know that POTUS’s team have some Here’s what Four More Years will mean stuff prepared, and you know that if they don’t, the press will. Anybody can use these stats; better we’re first out of the gate with them.’

‘So I fill this in, and then it tells me if I should be President?’

‘In theory.’ Amit flicks through the pages. ‘All this stuff, it’s all designed to use as a jumping-off point, that’s all. You answer this stuff honestly, the data miner verifies it – and then the concept of you as an honest candidate rises. It’s not rocket science, not like people think it is.’

‘It’s numbers.’

‘It’s math; they’re different things.’ Amit turns to various questions. ‘I have never cheated on my wife. You tick the True box, and you move on.’ He leans in close. ‘That is true, right?’

‘Of course it’s true.’

‘Just checking. Because this is when there’s no chance for secrets, Laurence. This is when you have to be honest. All those things people hide, they come out. Clinton never inhaled, remember? But Obama did. And that stuff seeps.’ He finds more questions and picks them out. ‘These are easy wins. I have fought in a war. I have been honest about my policies. I have never lied about my sexual preferences. These are so easy, Larry.’

‘What’s the deadline? Realistically.’

‘No more than a couple of weeks: this is new tech; you get to be the first up to bat with the new, more polished algorithm.’

‘How different can it be?’

Amit smiles and leans forward. ‘When I stopped working for them, what we were doing was small fry. Compared to that … I mean, Jesus, Larry, the software will know you. That’s how it works. It finds out everything about you, and it learns you, and it predicts you. That’s the next wave.’

‘It’s ridiculous. So my word means nothing?’

‘Of course it does. But this reinforces that. You know their slogan? The Numbers Don’t Lie, Larry. Never have, never will. The public believes math. They believe computers. People? People are harder to believe.’ He looks down at Laurence’s hands, which are shaking, the ice rattling in the bottom of the glass. He raises his hand at the waiter walking by. ‘One more,’ he says, pointing to Laurence’s glass. ‘Listen: you can’t lie, though. Seriously, I know you’re full of integrity and all that stuff, so whatever. But we all lie. You lie on that, you’ll get caught. What I’ve heard about the algorithm now, the data mining? That thing will find out any secrets you’ve got.’ He finishes his own drink. ‘Look, this is fine. It’s totally fine. It’s you and answers and some bullshit video that’s going to run and run because it’s the first of its kind. We do this, we win the election. That’s what you want, right?’

‘Yes,’ Laurence says. The drink is put in front of him and he gulps it in the way that you shouldn’t. ‘That’s what I want.’

Laurence’s hotel room is functional. He lies on the bed, his head slightly swimming, and switches on the news. There’s a picture of him on the screen, between the two anchors: the shining, smiling one that’s on the front page of his website. The hosts are discussing the rumors.

‘I think it’s safe to say that they don’t qualify as rumor any more,’ one of them says, ‘because, come on. Look who he’s hired. Look where he’s been. And his answers to questions about it have been—’

‘So who’ll run against him?’ the other anchor asks. ‘Because, for my money, there’s only one other viable candidate, unless we’re dredging up one of the failures from last time.’

‘Which they won’t do.’

‘So, Homme?’

‘Makes a lot of sense. Good profile. Family man – I mean, they’re both family men, but still … and maybe more inclined to appeal to the more traditional members of the party.’ Laurence thinks about how little he likes or trusts Homme: they’ve met a few times and their politics do not have many natural points of intersection. His would-be opponent is as red as the Democrats get, he’s wavering on choice, healthcare, war. Everything is structured as a response to the last few governments, a way of suggesting that the soft touch that has been taken hasn’t been enough. His platform is a return to more old-school values. ‘But I don’t think he’s got a chance. Walker’s going to take this. He’s going to take the White House back, and maybe he’s what’s needed. You know, he’s got some real guts.’

Laurence switches the set off. He thinks about sleep, but instead he takes up his phone and searches for his name on Twitter, on Google, on Facebook. He reads all the comments, and he tries to let the negative ones slide away from him.

Deanna shouts at the twins to stay quiet and they do. She has a voice that she uses to get the desired effect – total, gently terrified silence – and she engages it only rarely, because otherwise it will lose its effectiveness. But she snaps at them, and she peers out of the windscreen at the streetlamp-lit junction, trying to see Lane coming from one of the directions. She’s already an hour late and she’s not answering her phone or tweets or messages. She said it was a party somewhere around here. Deanna thinks about driving the streets to look for it. She knows what teenagers are like when they’re Lane’s age: they can’t help but turn the music up a little too loud which makes them much easier to find from the sidewalk, at least. There aren’t many streets in this town – Parkslide being only a little bigger than Staunton is – but she worries about Lane coming here to find her and having to wait around on the corner. She knows what it will look like; she saw what Lane was wearing when she left the house, an outfit that Laurence would have freaked out about. She tries to call Lane again, and talks to the twins as she holds the phone to her ear.

‘Guys, Mommy needs silence for a little while. This is important, okay?’ It’s an apology for what she said. She wants to scare them, but not that much.

‘Okay,’ Sean says. ‘Mom, where’s Lane?’

‘I don’t know, sport,’ she says. ‘She’s on her way, I’m sure.’ The cell goes to Lane’s answering service, but Deanna doesn’t leave a message. She sees somebody walking in the distance, a girl – the figure is slim enough to be Lane, certainly – but as they get closer she sees that she is tottering along on heels. Lane wouldn’t be caught dead outside her boots, even at a thing like this. The girl is drunk, swaying and swerving along the sidewalk, stepping into the road every so often, stumbling down the lip between the pavement and the gutter.

‘Excuse me,’ she shouts at the girl. ‘Hey, excuse me?’ The girl stops and looks up at Deanna from across the road. ‘Have you been to a party?’

‘Sure,’ the girl says. She looks Lane’s age – actually, Deanna thinks, she looks younger, because Lane doesn’t wear make-up that looks as if it’s been put on by a child playing dress-up with her mother’s beauty products – and there’s a good chance it’s the same one.

‘Could you tell me where?’ Deanna asks.

‘Tim’s house. I mean, Tim’s parents’ house,’ she says, seemingly angry, as if there was ever any chance of Tim owning the place, and how could Deanna not know that? ‘They came back early, so … whatever.’

‘And where do they live?’

The girl waves behind her. ‘Just down there,’ she says. She belches under her breath and sits down by a streetlamp, pulling a packet of cigarettes from her bag – Deanna stretches her brain to think when she last saw somebody with this brand – and fumbles to light one.

‘Guys,’ Deanna says to the twins, ‘your sister is in so much trouble.’ The twins laugh at this, a shared secret. They understand: Deanna will use her angry voice on Lane. They drive in the direction that the girl indicated and soon Deanna sees where the party was: a large house, shining white with the lights that are turned on inside it, a flood of teenage bodies outside it, milling around in the front yard. She pulls over and rings Lane’s phone again, winding down the window and hearing it ringing, the tinny echo of a song that Lane loves cutting through the hubbub. Lane cancels the call, so Deanna steps out of the car. She turns back to the twins. ‘I warned her,’ she says.

She shouts Lane’s name, her full name: Lane Alexandra Walker.

‘Oh shit!’ comes Lane’s reply. The crowd seems to part like it’s a trick, and there stands Lane. She drops something as Deanna gets closer; a bottle of some cheap, sweet-smelling liquor. She reeks of pot, that sweet, sweaty smell that Deanna remembers from her own youth.

‘Get in the car,’ Deanna says. She isn’t even putting the voice on this time.

They drive home in silence, even the twins. When they’re parked, Deanna tells Lane to get inside and to take her brother and sister with her. Lane does as she’s told. The car smells of smoke and alcohol and sweat and Lane’s hair products, used to push her hair into something that makes Deanna think of the punk hairstyles that she used to toy with in the nineties. This, she thinks, is cyclical: teenagers do this. I did it, she tells herself. I was exactly like this, living in Staunton and rebelling in my own little ways. She stays in the car while they all go inside and watches the lights flick on throughout the house. The twins are well past their bedtime, which means tomorrow she’s going to have two seven-year-old nightmares on her hands. Better a weekend than a school day, she thinks.

She gets out and goes to the downstairs bathroom, finding air freshener, and she sprays the inside of the car with it, almost pushing it into the fabric of the seats. She thinks of bug bombs, and filling a space with something to purify. When she’s got a good cloud of the stuff going she shuts the doors and goes into the house. The twins are in the living room, Alyx on the iPad, Sean on the Xbox.

‘No,’ Deanna says. ‘Well past bedtime.’

‘Mo-o-om …’ Alyx says.

‘Come on,’ Sean pleads.

‘Don’t screw with me tonight, you guys. Bed!’ They both sigh – the same sound of exhalation, the same exasperation – and they put down their games and march past her. ‘You guys go to sleep, you get to pick what we have for dinner tomorrow.’

‘Can we get pizza?’ Sean asks.

‘Sure. Pizza. Deal. Clean your teeth and get to bed.’ She stands at the bottom of the stairs and listens to them doing their routine, finely tuned as it is. Always Sean into the bathroom first, then he cleans his teeth in the hallway while Alyx goes in. Then she cleans her teeth and both of them stand at the sink. They spit the toothpaste out at the same time. They get into bed, and she tucks them in, kisses them on their foreheads. ‘Pizza – if I don’t hear a peep from you,’ she says. ‘That’s the deal.’ They both do the same gesture: zipping their mouths shut with invisible zips, and they smile. She doesn’t understand them, not all the time, because there’s something she simply can’t get close to there, that only they share. She worried, when she knew that she was having twins, because she was older than she thought she would be when having another child, and because she thought that they might be too much for her to cope with. But now, eyes shut, they’re what she wants, two perfect halves of a perfect whole. She wonders if they’ll always be like this.

The sound of music, wafting down the corridor from Lane’s room, stops her daydreaming and reminds her what’s gone on here. She pulls the twins’ door shut and strides down the corridor. All the tricks that they’ve learned over the years about how to make the kids respect them – or, at least slightly, fear them – come into play now. Lane is almost too old for them, but still, they’re worth a shot; and residual feelings of what they used to inspire in her might just swing it in Deanna’s favor.

She opens the door wide, letting it swing until it hits the stopper. It thuds, and the whole door shakes. Lane is on the bed, lying back, staring at the ceiling of her room. There are still the remnants of the pale stars there that they put up when they moved in, when Lane was the same age as the twins are now. She wanted the stars because she’d had them in the old house. Laurence and Deanna relented, even though she was too old for them, maybe. It was easier.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ Deanna asks. Lane doesn’t look at her. ‘Lane, you know the rules.’ She walks over, stands next to the bed. ‘You know that we don’t want you drinking, and we don’t want you smoking. You know about your father’s career – you get yourself arrested, and God only knows what that does to him, the sort of questions he’ll have to answer about that.’

‘Fuck that,’ Lane says.

Deanna steps back. ‘Okay, you’re done. Lockdown for the next week.’

‘You can’t do that!’ Lane retorts.

‘Can and will. Watch me.’ She leaves the room, slamming the door shut behind her, and she goes to the bedroom and takes her cellphone from her pocket. She starts writing a text to Laurence, explaining what has happened, telling him that he’s going to need to talk to Lane when he gets home; that she always listens to him, or pretends to. Something about the father-daughter relationship works while Deanna and Lane have always had this wall between them when it comes to basic levels of respect. She writes all of that out, and then thinks. She doesn’t press Send. Instead, she goes downstairs and she brings up the calendars on the screen embedded in the door of the refrigerator, and looks at Laurence’s. The next few weeks are brutal for him: back tomorrow morning, Sunday working in DC on policy, then leaving first thing Monday for the announcement, then on to LA, Seattle, back to DC, home for three days, then NYC for a week. She taps through the following weeks and months, looking for a break, but there’s nothing. He’s barely hers, barely part of the family with his schedule the way that it is.

She clears the text. This is hers to deal with.