Jack of Ravens

30

The flickering black and white image showed heaps of bodies in a Vietnamese village piled high like firewood. A US soldier was about to shoot a two year old desperately pulling herself out of the mound.

‘March sixteen. My Lai. That’s Lieutenant William L. Calley Junior with the rifle. He led First Platoon. Somewhere between two hundred and five hundred villagers massacred. We’re not sure of the exact figures. Scores of women and children gang-raped by US forces.’ The low, drawling voice was impassive.

The room was dark and filled with tobacco smoke. Men in dark suits or military uniform sat or stood, watching the images of atrocities projected onto the screen.

‘In his report, Calley said the Vietcong had captured one of his men shortly before,’ another voice said. ‘Calley and his men could hear the guy screaming all night, from seven clicks away. Calley thought the VC had amplified the screams. They hadn’t. They’d skinned the guy, apart from his face, soaked him in salt water, torn his penis off.’

‘Yes, atrocities on both sides,’ the first voice agreed. ‘A moral vacuum.’

The image changed to a smart-suited black man lying dying, a bloodstain spreading across his shirt. Several other black men in suits surrounded him, their faces torn by grief and shock.

‘April 4. Martin Luther King Junior shot and killed in Memphis. The nominal assassin is James Earl Ray. With Malcolm X also dead, both voices of the black civil rights movement have been silenced.’ The narrator coughed, then took another drag on his cigarette. ‘The following week there were black uprisings in a hundred and twenty-five cities across the nation.’

Another image. Robert F. Kennedy, brother of the assassinated US president, lying in a hotel kitchen, more blood spreading across a shirt, more expressions of grief and shock.

‘June 5. Bobby Kennedy shot moments after winning the California primary. His presidential run was ended almost before it began. The nominal assassin was Sirhan Sirhan.’

‘Another lone assassin,’ someone else mused. ‘JFK. Malcolm X. Martin Luther King. Bobby Kennedy. That joke’s wearing a bit thin.’

The projector moved to a picture of a chaotic crowd scene showing police and demonstrators clashing brutally.

‘August twenty-five to twenty-nine. The Democratic Convention in Chicago. Ten thousand anti-war demonstrators fight running battles with eleven thousand Chicago police, six thousand National Guard, seven thousand five hundred army troops and one thousand agents of the FBI, CIA and other services. Public support for the war plummets, as does trust in those opposing the war and those prosecuting the war. The hippies are demoralised. The legalize-marijuana campaign and the pro-LSD supporters are broken. There’s been a seismic shift amongst the youth from soft drugs to heroin and amphetamines.’

‘And that brings us to the election tomorrow. When Nixon and Agnew win, will we see any changes?’

‘In tone. There’ll be a move away from the political arena for a while. The music industry looks vulnerable. Rock stars and the like, opinion formers. John Lennon has been trying to invigorate the marijuana campaign. Morrison is always trouble. The Rolling Stones. That black guitarist.’

‘And don’t forget we’re going to have Charlie out in the desert with his Family.’ The lights came on and the Libertarian strode past the man who had been giving the commentary. ‘He really does have a remarkable capacity for brutality, yet so charismatic! You have to admire him.’

He marched around the room, looking like a rock star in his black coat and sunglasses. ‘Things did not go as planned during our excursion in Vietnam, that’s true, but in retrospect I think we can mark it up in the victory column. The forces of Existence have been turned back on every front. There will be no global insurrection. Our influence moves across the world, quite rapidly in some quarters. There is still a minor problem in the United Kingdom — some of the nodes of Existence’s network are still quite potent, but it’s only a matter of time.’

‘Good one. Nice and confident.’ Veitch put his feet on the mahogany table. ‘’Course you’ve still got Jack Churchill and his people out there, and while Stonehenge and Avebury and all the other places are still pumping out the Blue Fire, he’s a threat. Or did you forget that bit?’

A flicker of annoyance crossed the Libertarian’s face, but he hid it behind a contemptuous smile. ‘It’s very brave of you to bring up your singular failure to contain the threat of the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons, Mr Veitch. After all, that is your sole purpose in life. There are some who might say it was rather foolish to allow you to maintain any position of responsibility after your unfortunate display in Vietnam.’

Veitch knew the Libertarian would never be able to act against him because Veitch answered to a higher power that the Libertarian would never risk offending.

‘However, I don’t quite see it that way,’ the Libertarian continued. ‘Frankly, where else could you go? You’ve systematically been burning bridges your whole, sad life. I think it may be a symptom of a self-destructive nature, sadly. The result is that you cut rather a pathetic figure. Friendless, without any direction or purpose apart from the one we give you, unfortunately not particularly blessed in the intelligence department … I really do pity you.’ He turned to the assembly. ‘I consider Mr Veitch our mascot. Where would we be without him?’

The men laughed.

Veitch’s cheeks reddened. He wished he was with Etain, lying next to her, stroking her hair. He wished the Libertarian wasn’t right.