Raoul Wiener's Common Sense Read online

  She quickened her pace, breaking into a trot as she fumbled in her bag for the remote control. Turning towards the house, she pressed the button. The gate began to swing open. A roar of delight went up from the Zoners: they were wanted, expected, they were being welcomed inside! Molly was surrounded by grateful faces, many of them familiar. They squeezed her arm and patted her back as they thanked her. She tried to explain: all she wanted was to get inside, they couldn’t all stay, there wasn’t enough room – but now they were only yards from their new home and her words had no effect.

  Then someone inside the house pressed the button by the interphone. The Zoners’ joy turned to dismay as the gate started to shut. They raced towards it, jostling and shoving. Molly paused, fished in her bag, retrieved the remote control. Someone barged into her. She fell. The remote slipped from her grasp. She tried to get to her feet. Somebody stopped to help her. She managed, but was caught in the movement, running towards the gate, where some had already slipped inside and crossed the beam, so the gate for an instant shuddered, then started to open again, into the crowd pressing forward, two opposite movements coming together, trapping her, squeezing her, the force of the gate against the onward push of the mob, with Molly suffocating and her belly crushed and just enough air in her lungs to release a howl of pain.

  *

  By the time Craig returned, Josh had already buried the foetus beneath a cypress tree. He hadn’t paused to examine it, but when Craig asked, he said a girl, and later Craig laid a stone with “Deborah” painted on it.

  He tried not to be angry, which at first was easy because his only thought was for Molly, but after he’d cried with her, consoled her, called a taxi, helped her up the hospital steps and sat holding her hand till she fell asleep, the anger got a grip on his heart and stayed there getting stronger through the night.

  The second night, Molly ordered him home, a hospital armchair being no place for a man to get any rest. Quite, he said, but then he worked throughout the night, called in sick the next day to keep on filing and welding, and when she came back from hospital, weak and wan and trying to smile, the gate had a row of spikes, bristling, tall, and sharp as bayonets.

  *

  He could put a lot in that canvas bag of his. Much of the way the house looked now was thanks to what he’d put in his canvas bag. Not to mention the spikes, of course, which Molly at first didn’t like – the hurt and the hate they were made of, hard as the stone his heart had become, so strange and removed from the life they had in the Zone.

  “That’s nothing.”

  “What?”

  “Look, it’s over, Molly. The gate’s the way it is. The way it’s going to stay.”

  “I know. I’m not saying…”

  He looked at her sharply. “So what are you saying?”

  “Oh, sweetie…”

  They sat on the mattress and he put his arms round her and she laid her head on his chest. She could feel the exhaustion and bitterness, the cage in which his emotions paced and turned. He’d come back early, saying again he wasn’t well, and though there was nothing physically wrong, he was not well at all, he was bad, quiet and bad with jaws clenched tight and eyes always looking away.

  “The bag,” he said. “There’s something in it. The spikes, they’re nothing. The whole gate – a waste of time. You won’t like it. But there it is.”

  She felt the bag and thought it was something to do with the gate, a piston maybe, thin at one end, bulky at the other, and bits sticking out in the middle. Then she opened it.

  “Oh, my God! Craig?” She scuttled away from the bag and leant against the wall, panting. “Are you crazy?”

  “Shh! Molly, it’s for you.”

  “Me? A machine gun? You’re crazy!”

  “Shh!” He crawled in front of her, holding her hands. “No. A personal defence weapon. That’s what it’s called. For you.”

  “But how… You didn’t just… Where did you get it?”

  “This guy on the course. A scatterbrain. Leaves stuff all over the place.”

  “What? You stole it?”

  “They’ve got numbers. There, see? Each our own. We take them back to the weapon store. If one of them’s missing, they’ll check the numbers. The one that’s missing’ll be his, not mine.”

  “You swapped them? Oh, God, Craig…”

  He got up and went to the window. Between his teeth, he let out a long hiss of breath. “Resourceful bunch, aren’t they? Big cauldron of soup, I see. Couple more days, they’ll have huts and utensils and cables linked to our power supply. Already using our garden tap. A regular little town springing up.”

  “What are you going to do?” She went back to the mattress, lying on her side, the blanket up to her chin. “Shoot them?”

  He knelt beside her, stroking her hair. “It was a spur of the moment thing, I was… Yeh, that’s what I wanted, I was thinking, 900 rounds a minute, just imagine! Above their heads. To scare them. Round them all up, open the gate and be rid of them. But they wouldn’t…” He shook his head. “They’d have to see I was serious.”

  She turned to face him, pulling his head down next to hers, holding onto him tightly. “Which you’re not.”

  “They’ll trace it to me soon enough.” He stood up. “I can’t afford to lose my job. First thing tomorrow, it’s going back.”

  “Yes,” said Molly. “You said it.”

  *

  “They’re settling in. Digging toilets at the far end. A cooking area. They’re getting organised.”

  “Can you help me with these?” Vicky tipped a bag of runner beans on the table. “How many are there?”

  “God knows. Seventy? More?” Josh began to snip the tops off the beans. “There’s talk of some sort of committee. They want the gate kept open.”

  “What, and let hundreds more in? The whole Zone?”

  “They say they’ll stop new arrivals when maximum capacity’s reached.”

  “What does that mean?” Vicky gazed at him worriedly. “They’ll be coming in here next. The house. To their way of thinking we could fit another thirty in here.”

  “They’ve got to get out as well. Go to the Farm. They don’t want to be climbing over every time.”

  “They can’t now, can they? With those spikes. I mean, isn’t that what Craig’s trying to do? Keep them prisoner inside? Till they beg to be let go?”

  “They can still get over, just about. There’s one or two places with gaps you can squeeze your leg through. They say we might as well open the gate, they’ll do the policing for us.”

  “What does Craig say?”

  “I haven’t told him.” They continued working in silence. From time to time, on the way to the tap, a figure walked past the window, pausing to look inside, moving on only when Josh and Vicky stared back. “He’s not in the mood for compromise.”

  “He’s not in the mood for anything. He’s hardly spoken since…”

  “Yeh.” He filled a pan of water and set it to heat. “How’s Molly?”

  “Better. Physically, anyway. But… Oh God!” Vicky threw down her knife and put her head in her hands. “How did we ever get into this? Why did we ever come?”

  Curt appeared in the doorway. “Craig wants us. Down at the gate.”

  *

  For much of the time Molly had been absent. There in person, but not taking in what was happening. Strangely enough, it hadn’t been like that in hospital, where the dedication to her needs, compassionate yet professional, almost compensated for the loss. Back home there was none of that.

  She didn’t hear the noise straightaway. She was lying on the mattress and was only half awake when the clamour reached her. Slowly, she rose from the mattress.

  She walked downstairs. She was aware that the noise came from the gate, but she was thirsty and she went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. Then she went back upstairs and sat on the mattress, staring at the canvas bag. The noise at the gate grew louder. She went downstairs and looked through the windo
w at the back.

  More were coming over. They got a foothold, squeezed their legs between the spikes and jumped. Craig was there with Josh and Vicky and Curt. Craig was conveying a message to the others, something that involved a lot of gestures.

  What was her plan? She had none. The gun was there, she went upstairs, she took it. A self-defence weapon, they called it. This was self-defence. Leaving the window, she placed a chair opposite the front door and sat there, expecting it any minute to be broken down.

  After a while the noise at the gate drew her back to the window. Craig and the others were between two groups: in front of them the invaders, two of them standing on the gate, stooping slightly to balance themselves by holding onto the spikes; behind them Zoners from inside the garden, engaged in unruly debate about what to do with the newcomers. Tempers were running high.

  Opposite Craig, one of the men on the gate made as if to jump. Craig dashed forward to prevent him, climbing half way up the gate and holding on with one hand while with the other he pushed the man’s legs back. The man lost his footing. As he fell away from the gate, he tried to counter the movement. His hand came down on Craig’s head.

  The spike went in beneath his chin. For three or four seconds Craig struggled to stay on the gate, but then his feet slipped. His own weight pulled his body down. The spike entered his brain. He twitched a few seconds more, then hung inert, his face turned up to the sky as if he was seeking a message.

  For a moment there was silence. Then the second man on the gate raised his fist. “We’re taking the house!” Seeing Craig speared on the gate like that brought the Zoners inside to a sudden consensus: they advanced to repel the invaders. The man jumped from the gate. Another one took his place and jumped as well. A third was about to jump when gunfire rattled. He fell back, blood bubbling from his chest.

  Again there was silence. Everyone looked at the window. Molly was staring at the rifle as if it was something magical and repulsive at once.

  “Hey, are you crazy?” Curt moved towards her, arms outstretched, appealing.

  Molly waited till he was a few yards away before raising the gun and firing. Curt fell on his back, twisting his head round to look at her. More than pain, there was surprise in his eyes, as if he couldn’t understand what had happened. Molly laughed – a series of giggles spilling from her throat like vomit. She raised the gun again.

  “No!” Vicky screamed, perhaps at Molly, perhaps at Josh, who was running to his brother’s side. Neither paid any notice, and Josh was kneeling over Curt, gripping his head in his hands, pleading with him not to die, when Molly squeezed the trigger again. Josh fell forward, his head touching the ground, and he looked for a moment like somebody praying. Then he toppled to the side and lay still, one hand resting on his brother’s cheek.

  Vicky stared at the two men, her mouth open but no sound coming out. She moved towards them with small, shuffling steps, her eyes fixed upon them. She stopped three yards away. She whimpered faintly and looked up at Molly. She tilted her head to one side, eyebrows raised, and slowly extended her arms, palms turned up, asking for this not to be happening.

  She was in that position when Molly opened fire.

  *

  By the time I reached the house, it was too late to prevent what occurred, but I was able to ascertain the status of those involved. Apart from Mr. Swift, the casualties were all Zoners. I cannot indicate precisely the number of deaths, since I feared for my own safety and considered it prudent to linger no more than necessary. However, having seen footage filmed from a helicopter, I can say that at least 20 people were shot by Mrs. Swift, using a personal defence weapon, before she was overpowered and lynched. The victims included Mr. Melkin, his wife and his brother. As for Mr. Swift, his body was impaled on a spike.

  Incidents like this have become increasingly common over the past few years. If, contrary to customary practice, I may presume here to venture an opinion, it is dictated solely by common sense: the only way to prevent such disturbances is to re-define the boundaries of the town to include the Hinterland. When this is done, a wall must be built to exclude all Zoners from entry.

  Over and above the inconvenience these incidents cause, I might add that Craig Swift was known to me as a personable, hard-working citizen. It is highly regrettable that the Town should be deprived of such men.

  Raoul Wiener, Security Guard 104, Checkpoint 19, November 11, 2022

  Author’s Note

  Raoul Wiener’s Common Sense is not science fiction. I wrote it in 2014 and set it in 2022, but in fact it was inspired by events already happening, and since then, such events have reached unprecedented levels, both in the United States and in Europe.

  The following is an extract from a report published by the organisation UNITED, which seeks to promote “peaceful co-existence and intercultural respect all over the world.”

  Since 1993, UNITED has been monitoring the results of the building of “Fortress Europe” by making a list of the refugees and migrants who have died in their attempt to enter. More than 33,305 deaths have been documented up to now. (July 2017)

  Shortly after writing it, my wife and I went to live in Mayotte, a French island in the Indian Ocean. Mayotte is an Ultra-Peripheral Region – a territory far from Europe but belonging to a member of the European Union. 40 miles away from Mayotte is Comoros, one of the poorest countries in the world. To the deaths reported by UNITED can be added the estimated 20,000 Comorians who have died trying to reach Mayotte.

  Mayotte is the setting for Perfume Island, second in the Magali Rousseau mystery series.

  Learn more about Perfume Island here.