Harboil: Part V

The thing is: plans describe events that will not happen.

The smell arrives first. Up through the drains. At this point it could be nothing more than a cop’s Eggs Benedict repeating on him. The officers on the ground laugh it off and point at each other. They are the only men around.

As the smell gains breadth, placards are used as makeshift fans. The words ENJOY YOUR BIG DAY, MIRIAM flapping in and out of sight.

But the fug cannot be got rid. It can no longer be blamed on someone’s dicky tum. It is the smell of faeces – of course – but much more rich than that, a reeking emulsion of burning plastic, plug fudge and funeral pyres. It is both smoky and sharp. It sticks and thickens. Hundreds of women put a handkerchief to their delicate noses. Those lucky enough to be holding bouquets, submerge their faces in flora.

The Princess, approaching at a funereal pace, raised high above her audience, high enough to peer in to the third floor windows of De Gallas, her favourite department store, is as yet unaffected. She is waving absent mindedly and watching herself in the reflection of the store’s large arced windows. The muscles in her neck feel taut.

Don is next to her. The top three buttons of his shirt undone. He is holding her hand. He is sweating. Don has no sense of smell. This condition is called anosmia.

It reaches the orphan’s choir. The high notes drift out of focus. Row by row, their faces fall from angelic to scowling. Scampish eunuchs, eyes raised to the heavens, singing in a drill-like falsetto, Our Lord will see us through, He carries each and every one, suddenly clutching their throats. The words of the song falter and turn to coughing.

Then the walking orchestra, all circular breathing, find the stench comes at them at once. It enters their lungs. It enters their blood stream. They are part of it.

The sound of brass on concrete as the band fall like henchmen in a warehouse shoot out.

Then the cheerleaders: batons thrown spinning in to the sky but never caught.

Then the cake which will never be eaten.

And then the horses.

Rearing up, hooves boxing the air, jumping on the spot, snorting and, finally, charging, each horse in a different direction, the carriage jerking forward and, just as quickly, nineteen silenced rifle shots and puffs of blood from nineteen horse’s elongated skulls, the buckling of seventy-six legs, and the ground shaking with the force of their collapse. The snipers pleased to have something to do.

Boris, across town, watching ripples in a saucer of milk.

Don has taken a number of behavioural stabilisers and, at this point, he does not think anything is wrong. The Princess is pleased that the music has stopped. She does not like music.

The timpani of coughing. Boris with his fingers in his ears.

Finally, battling through the fine perfumes that surround her, pushing through the waft of pastrami from Don’s breath, the smell reaches Princess Miriam. It is fair to say that she is not used to discomfort. The physical reaction of her body – the spasm of her head backwards like a Zapruder film recreation – every police sniper searching for a gun man and every state photographer trying to make a career. The stench reaches the tops of the buildings and, in a way that seems almost too familiar, a couple of photographers and riflemen topple from the rooftops, clutching their mouths. The falling bodies maim the crowd beneath them. And the smell of gore on the pavement is roses, compared.

Don is looking around. He thinks this might be an anxiety dream. He feels guilty. He feels left out. The princess smothers her face in to the V of his open shirt. She snuffles deep in his armpits. He has never felt so alive. He thinks this must be a wet anxiety dream. The Princess does not even hesitate. She is down at his crotch, sniffing, unzipping his trousers, troughing at his testicles, pulling back his foreskin for – oh God – unimaginable relief.

And after the smell, the gunk. Sputting from the grates in stop-start heaves, a rolling tide of compacted filth – the sludge from the floor of the sewer – dug up and pushed on to the street, moving like molten magma along the gutters, a dusky lifeless colour, the crème de la crème of a century-old sewage network. The Ballastrians hooked up the tram generator to pump the raw sewage toward the surface. Even with masks on and their already shattered sense of smell, the casualty rate was high. The physical effects of the substance were unexpected. It caused rashes and welts. It dissolved hair.

As the ooze pours out across Main Street, riding up the pavements, the crowds begin to panic. The windows of De Gallas and a number of other department stores are smashed as the largely female crowd try to escape the smell and to find higher ground. The Police Sergeant in charge of looking after the Princess, shouts through a megaphone: “Ma’am, it will be best for you to stay where you are. You will be safe on the carriage.” She remains face down in Big Don’s porcine stench.

The choir, the cheerleaders and the orchestra follow the crowd and run into the department stores, looting the perfume counters for Chanel Numbers one through ten, ripping the nozzles off and showering in sweet, acidic eau de toilette. The air thick with sugary mist.

The sludge closing in on the wedding carriage. The wedding carriage closing in on the sludge, still rolling slowly forwards. Don seems heroically unaffected. He can taste something at the back of his throat.

Main Street is completely deserted now except for the corpses on the pavement, the dead horses on the tarmac and the Princess and Don on top of their jewel-encrusted carriage. Don gazing benignly upwards. The sky clear blue. The wives of Harboil watching from the top floor windows of De Gallas, Escher, Bingham’s, Kettering’s Everything, Holden’s Toys, hands slapped against the large display panes. The rooftops deserted, the snipers and the photographers either fallen or retreated inside.

And then, when most people are expecting the end of the world, the manhole cover directly beneath the carriage pops up and is pushed aside. A man in a finely tailored suit emerges. He steps into the road. His nose twitches. Clambering up the spokes of the large wheels he pulls himself up on to the carriage and shakes hands with Don.

Don is still convinced that this is all part of an increasingly worthwhile dream. The Princess’s haircut is starting to come apart as she nuzzles Don’s crotch. The diamond is peaking through. Don has not noticed.

“Hello Don; my name is Arnold.”

“Hello Arnold.”

”I am going to save the Princess’s life.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Arnold, you look wonderful.”

“Thank you Don.”

Don’s right. Arnold is wearing glimmering two-tone brogues, a tweed-wool mix single-breasted jacket and a simple navy tie with a gold clip. His hair is short and likeable. He reminds Don of his tour manager.

“Are you my tour manager?” Don says, looking up at the sky.

“Princess Miriam, if you come with me I can get you out of this situation safely.”

“It’s okay! Nobody worry!” Don yells. “It’s my tour manager!”

Miriam’s muffled voice: “I can’t move.”

“I’ve brought you a nosegay,” Arnold says and, from his sleeve, he pulls a bouquet of flowers. They have been drenched in Old Spice and are highly flammable.

He kneels and offers them to her. She makes the quick, gagging transition, from crotch to bouquet.

Arnold picks her up in both arms, in the style of a groom to his bride.

“Put one arm around my neck,” Arnold says.

She obeys him.

“Don. You stay here.”

“I know,” Don says, blinking in to the sunlight.

Arnold stands on one of the huge spokes, the Princess gripping his neck. The carriage is still rolling towards the sludge. Arnold uses the wheels rotation to lower them to street level.

The gunk has almost reached his expensive brogues. He hops over a patch of black, curdled faeces, ducks past the turning carriage wheel and jogs back to the open manhole, which is now the only patch of unsludged tarmac on Main Street. By chance, the manhole is framed in hopeful sunlight. He lets the Princess to her feet. Her haircut seems to be glowing in the slanted sunshine.

“Put your arms round my waist,” he says.

She does so.

“Hold on tight,” he says.

Arnold picks the Princess up and steps in to the manhole. The Princess’s gown billows up as they slip from sight, her train still sparkling, disappears after them.

An arm, wearing a tasteful silver Rolex, appears briefly to pull the manhole cover back across. As the cover slots in to place so the gunk envelops it.

Don is watching from the back of the carriage. He is clapping wildly and saying: “That’s the way, Arnold!”

In the department stores, ripples of applause.

And then a ripple of something else. Rain. God’s own laundry service. Heavy and opaque. Falling like a theatre curtain.