SHOWDOWN AT THE TOP OF A
TALL BUILDING
Happiness is not a brilliant climax to years of grim struggle and anxiety. It is a long succession of little decisions simply to be happy in the moment.
– J. Donald Walters
The BoCorp broadcast headquarters was a very tall building; a large glass and steel skyscraper that had recently won some architectural award as the best tall glass and steel skyscraper constructed since last year. It was a very boring building, fifty storeys tall with a square floor plan. The architects had won the prize because they had the revolutionary idea of rounding off the corners of that square cross section and rotating the panes of glass that formed it’s ground to sky curtain-wall through forty-five degrees. Instead of the usual endless sheet of square panels, the BoCorp building was swathed in endless sheet of diamonds. These award winning windows were a tasteful shade of pink.
The obvious phallic appearance of the building was not missed by its many critics.
Eric’s sleek black helicopter came into land on the frighteningly small heli-pad that shared the roof with half a dozen satellite dishes, some large cooling units and space age window-cleaning machine. The man saw it from four hundred feet below where he was about to enter the building. The man knew the signs of conspiracy. He knew that Black Helicopters meant that ‘THEY’ were here; ‘THEY’ were involved in this situation. It only steeled his nerve. He walked up to the building’s reception and was directed past the security guards to the express elevators.
The forty-second floor of a modern office building is the very last place to put a television studio. The ceilings are too low. There is no space for all the cabling and soundproofing. There was no dedicated sub-station for the large power requirements and not enough ventilation for all the heat from the lights. You would never put a television studio on the forty-second floor of anything.
The fact that so many people had told him this was reason enough for Yegevny Swan to insist that this is precisely where he wanted the main studio of Mercury satellite news. As the most powerful man in the Eurasian broadcast market, Yegevny Swan was used to getting his own way. Today Yegevny was in Saint Petersburg but that was only 100 milliseconds away by fibre-optic cable, if anyone needed reminding of that fact. But he wasn’t expecting any more protests. His staff were used to agreeing with their leader and doing whatever it took to keep him happy.
Its many critics did not miss that the bland and one-sided reportage of the Mercury News Network was broadcast from a rose-tinted building. The only person with any independence at MMN was Patrick Rodero and the only program with any integrity was the Sunday Show. At least, that is how it had been last week.
If the Mercury News Network staff thought it strange that Eric Hayle was being given control of their flagship program, they kept these thought to themselves. They didn’t want any trouble.
Parnell had a philosophy about troublemakers, they would be making it wherever they went and so were easy to identify by challenging them and asking a few simple questions about the purpose of the visit. Your typical troublemaker would often not be able to help himself and answer such an inquiry with a question of his own, already intent on starting a confrontation. More sophisticated nuisances with a degree of self-awareness would be more defensive and attempt to avoid the question. Everyone else generally took it at face value. The man had sailed straight past Parnell. Knowing in this own mind that he was doing ‘Right’, he had barely registered the professional suspicion Parnell had sent his way. So Parnell had no reason to suspect that the man was carrying a gun. He also had an official audience ticket so Parnell directed him into the guest reception area.
The man was singing as he went,
A mighty fortress is our God,
A bulwark never failing;
He seemed to have not a care in the world.
The floor manager had plenty. The show was due to start in 25 minutes. A show that he was responsible for, though he hoped he wouldn’t be held responsible for what was clearly going to be a total disaster. Apart from the floor manager and his team of four cameramen, four runners and assorted technicians, everyone else was a stranger to the studio and everything was being done differently from the normal Sunday Show format.
First there was Shona. She had brought her own producers and her own make-up artists. She had insisted that there was a live studio audience. She had rearranged the set for her and the three guests. Three guests! They never had three guests.
Then there were the guests. Amateurs to a man, woman and priest. Dangerously unpredictable amateurs who apparently all hated each other. He sent his assistant to check that they hadn’t started the fireworks too soon.
And finally, Eric Hayle was somewhere around here too. Lest he forget. Hayle had not been much in evidence so far today. But if Yegevny came looking for anyone to blame, the floormanager would be first to denounce Hayle. Not that he could see that happening. Whatever Hayle had on Yegevny, it had to be huge to be worth all this. Blackmailing Russian oligarchs shouldn’t even be possible. Especially not someone like Swan, who had absolutely no shame. The floormanager couldn’t begin to imagine.
If a genie appeared right now granting him three wishes that would be the first thing he’d ask. Then he’d ask to be taken as far from here as possible. He closed his eyes and reopened them. The nightmare continued.
John was alone in his dressing room when the runner popped his head round the door.
“Dr Cole?”
“Last I saw her, she was going to try and meet some of the weathermen,” said John.
The morning had been slightly awkward, of course, but he didn’t have any regrets. He didn’t think Hazel did either. They had both been more worried about all this than all that. This was the first moment of peace he’d had since waking up. He thought of Natalie. He was glad she wasn’t here but as soon as this was over, he wanted to go straight to her. He needed that peace.
“Live in ten, nine, eight, seven, six” If it wasn’t his own voice he could hear, the floor manager wouldn’t have believe they had made it this far. He wasn’t much more than spectator from here onwards. He had got everybody to his or her place; he had got the show rolling. If anything went wrong from here, it was someone-else in the firing line.
The man was clearly mad. Certainly he had no sense of drama. He didn’t even wait for Shona to finish introducing herself before he took out his gun and advanced on his target.
Mercifully for John, he was not aware of the man coming towards him with a gun until it was too late. The shot was fired; he did not see it coming and had no chance to move. It may have been this that saved his life.
The man’s shot had been wildly inaccurate and if John had moved there was more chance he would have ducked into the path of death by lead. In fact, the bullet had sailed past him and spoiled the scenery instead.
“John!” Hazel had reacted faster, she had seen the man get up and start moving towards the stage. The moment she had seen the gun in his hand, already coming up to aim, she had cried out. Her call came too late to change fate with the first shot but split seconds after it, she called out again.
“John! Drop the gun!” John Smith did not drop the gun but it drooped as he turned to see who was shouting at him and second shot buried itself in the studio floor.
“Oh hello Doctor Cole. How are you?”
“I am good thanks, John.” Hazel stalled, looking for clues as to how to handle her former patient. Her mind trying to untangle this man from the dozens of others with similar conditions. Aware too that time would have changed his diagnosis, his demeanour and his demons. “And how are you? I hope you are still taking care of yourself ? Still taking your medication? That is very important, you know?”
“No, I couldn’t. I stopped” the man said sheepishly. “The troxies were confoxing me. They stopped me being me. I could not see clearly, I was missing what was going off, missing my mission. I needed freedom from dem Demons.”
“You are off your dopaminergics?”
“I was confoundulised before but not no-more, nosiree. Gabriel’s instructions are touching my mind gland and his beams are guiding my holy hand.” At this the gun swung up, aiming again (mainly) at John Smith. John Smith the impostor, the false Smith, prophet of nothing.
The False Smith had overcome his perceptual and volitional blockage. But, perceiving his predicament, had chosen to remain motionless.
He was not alone (though that is how he felt). Around the studio no one else knew what to do. Since this woman appeared to be taking charge and that man was unpredictably firing a gun, most of the other people in the room who had not made a break in the initial confusion, were resigned to waiting to be told what to do either by the woman or the man. They were acting innocuous, trying not to draw attention or draw fire.
Shona was half collapsed on the sofa and Reverend Cake was stuck to the spot. He was not praying. Prayer to him was a public show of faith, and an essential element in the appearance of piety. It was for Sunday best, for standing in front of the congregation, looking out over their heads mouthing the words and checking their faith. Right now, he was trying to remember where it was that he had seen the gunman before.
In the wings Parnell had seen what had happened and though he still had his wits about him, nothing in his 17th Century T’ai Chi training was appropriate for tackling a schizophrenic armed with a World War II pistol. Nevertheless he edged onto the more brightly lit studio floor.
John with the gun was shaking quite badly, though he wasn’t in the least bit nervous. Long-term use of dopamine retarding anti-psychotics had given him pronounced muscle shakes.
Eric, also in the wings, had always been a man of action and he was also a World War II veteran He even had medals but ‘hero’ was too simplistic a label to apply to his case. He had been at both ends of the barrel of a Luger 49 and he knew exactly how many bullets this one ought to contain. He had been keeping a careful count and creeping closer to the action. Mainly to get a better view.
“What are you doing here, John?” Hazel asked the man. It was a risk to draw his attention back to the current moment, but she counted on his habitual need to explain his mania. It was obvious why he had attached his delusions to the image of this other John Smith. But she had only the vaguest of ideas about why he might be trying to decide to act in this way. His brain being the way it was now, he would not have any coherent picture either but he might allude to something that she could make into an escape from his delusion and if nothing else it bought time. (For what she did not know.)
Eric had been right. Being shot at concentrates the mind wonderfully. Right now John’s consciousness was focused in a tight ball, oblivious to everything but the small dark ring of the barrel of the Luger, still smoking slightly and being waved erratically in his approximate direction.
“Camera Four stay on the crazed gunman, Camera Four?”
Camera Four was pointing at the ceiling. The moment he had seen the gun, cameraman four had dropped to the floor and started crawling under the audience seating scaffold.
Camera One had been the first person through the fire escape, his headphone lead bounding along behind him.
Camera Three was getting a good shot, his position was more exposed than One or Four and making a break for it was more dangerous and keeping the camera between him and the gunman was the best way to stay unshot.
Camera Two appeared to have a death wish, he was not watching the man at all, and he was doing his job. Getting reaction shots. There were plenty of those.
“John, why are you doing this?”
“He told me to,” the man answered, waving his gun indistinctly.
Always a man with a guilty conscience, Reverend Cake denied it immediately. He was in no position to know that Smith was not gesturing at him but at Eric, who was advancing onto the set.
True enough, Eric had given the Luger to Smith, but he was not about to admit it. In fact, for once Eric wasn’t entirely sure what he was going to do. All he knew was that he wanted to be in the middle of it all.
John stood facing John. The former comedian was staring down the barrel of the gun. Here he was facing death in front of an audience. Granted it was a little more serious this time but weirdly it had felt much worse the last time. He froze and then there he was in the moment again. A speech started forming in his mind. He was prepared, he was ready. He had three months to practice it and this time it would save his life. Searching for the first word his eyes flicked around the room.
He wasn’t on stage. He wasn’t alone versus an anonymous audience. Everyone in this room was in this together. The gun was pointing at him but that did not make him the centre of attention. Maybe he could help himself but he did not have to. Others could help him too. Hazel knew these men, this type of man, this man. He said nothing.
Hazel started again. “John, listen to me.”
And he probably would have done too but right then Eric had turned to Hazel and had shouted,
“Oh shut the FUCK UP!”
The man jumped. The gun went off.
Parnell jumped. The man went down.
It all went very quiet.
His breathing was weak now. Less and less oxygen was getting to his brain, the pain ebbed but perception clouded too. His vision narrowed to a long, dark, tunnel, his hearing muffled and his sense of his body left him, space folding up around him. But he could no longer think clearly about it, about anything. It was a fight to remain conscious to make each thought catch the train of the last. In some dim way, he sensed peace beyond the striving. One last thought passed through his brain. “I guess this was my own fault.”
With that Eric let go.