Sacrifice of Fools (3 page)

And what is the condition of the brothers Beattie and Andrew Coey?

Second and third degree burns to thirty per cent of the body surface. The victims are undergoing treatment at the specialist burns unit at the Royal Victoria Hospital. They are very seriously ill. In view of the extremely violent nature of the assault, on young children, the prosecution recommends custody.

The bench is inclined to agree. This is a most heinous allegation. Ms McKimmis; have you anything to say in defence of your client?

‘I’d like to call Mr Andrew Gillespie. Mr Gillespie is employed by the Shian Welcome Centre in University Street, and is qualified to speak on matters of Shian psychology and physiology pertinent to our defence.’ The look over the glasses says,
you had better be.

He does the thing with the book and the hand and the wee note card in the box in case you can’t remember the oath.

‘Mr Gillespie, could you tell us about the work of the Shian Welcome Centre?’

‘Certainly. It’s mostly a contact service for
gensoons
; those are young, single Outsiders, who’ve come into the country looking for Holds
—
the big Shian extended families
—
to join. The way their society operates, adolescents leave their birth families and travel widely until they are accepted into another. The Centre has lists of Holds in Ireland, and also assesses the suitability of newcomers for particular Holds.’

‘A sort of dating agency?’ the magistrate on the left asks.

‘In a sense. And a bit like a employment agency as well, in that it sets individuals up with groups. The Centre also provides a liaison service with organizations employing Shian; industry, shops, restaurants, things like that. There’s a lot of room for misunderstandings between the two species.’

The prosecution harumph.

‘My job is mostly in the field of human-Shian relations and I do quite a bit of translation work as well. I speak idiomatic Narha; that’s the lingua franca of the Shian Nations. The Centre also serves as a base for the Shian political organization, such as it is. You’ve probably been hearing about it on the news lately. I don’t have much to do with that.’

‘So you’re something of a Shian expert, Mr Gillespie?’

‘Well, no one can really claim to be an expert on these people. But I think I know them as well as any human can.’

‘Could you explain, then, Ms Kusarenjajonk’s actions?’

‘The primary motivation in Shian society is the preservation of the children. Family lines, bloodlines, are very, very important to them. The Shian law allows any action in defence of a child; including killing. The case notes state that the children of Occasionally Plentiful Hunting Hold had been taunted and bullied by youths from the estate that backs on to their farm. There are at least five complaints from the Hold to the police, none of which were followed up. The police don’t want to get involved in Outsider affairs.’

‘Police competence is not in question here, Mr Gillespie,’ says the magistrate on the right.

‘The Welcome Centre had been informed that there was friction between the two communities, and we were attempting some kind of mediation. The boys; John and Chris Beattie and Andrew Coey, had harassed and beaten up Fidikihana Kusarenjajonk’s young son Mushedsen on several occasions, and just before the incident, had attacked him on this street, stolen his bicycle and threatened him that if he told anyone they’d come back and kill him. Fidikihana Kusarenjajonk took what she considered appropriate action to end the threat to her child. It may seem extreme to us, but by Shian law, by the customs of her species, she did nothing wrong. By her standards, she showed incredible restraint. In fact, not to have done what she did would have been wrong; it would have been seen as criminal negligence of her child by Shian law.’

The magistrate in the middle twiddles with his pencil.

‘Yes, Mr Gillespie, but it is human law, specifically the law of the Joint Authority, that has jurisdiction in this court.’

‘In your opinion, is Ms Kusarenjajonk a danger to the community?’ Aileen McKimmis asks.

‘No more than any Shian is.’

‘If she is released on bail, is she likely to seek further vengeance on these boys?’

‘No. She’s removed the threat. They won’t be going near her child again. Anything else would be a violation of their individual rights, which is a separate issue in Shian law.’

‘Thank you, Mr Gillespie.’

It’s the prosecution’s turn now.

‘Mr Gillespie, are you a qualified xenologist? Degrees? Diplomas? Certification with our fine new Department of Xenology in Queen’s University?’

‘Well, not qualified.’

‘So you don’t have any accreditation for your expertise on Outsider affairs?’

‘No.’

‘I see. You speak Narha idiomatically. Where did you learn the language?’

You fucking fuck of a smug bastard.

‘Mr Gillespie?’

‘The Maze Prison.’

‘Where you were serving a term for conspiracy to murder. I’m glad to see you spent your time constructively.’

Aileen’s on her feet.

‘I must object to the relevance of this line of questioning. This is not a trial.’

‘But Mr Gillespie’s qualification as an expert witness is surely highly relevant here.’

Middle magistrate does the pencil thing again.

‘It really is a bit cheeky bringing up Mr Gillespie’s prison record, Mr Magrory,’ he says. His colleagues nod. ‘Where Mr Gillespie learned his
—
Narha? Is that is?
—
is hardly relevant.’

‘No further questions. Thank you, Mr Gillespie.’ Smug fucking fuck bastard Magrory sums up. Then Aileen’s on her feet.

‘What we have here is a clash of cultures. I don’t deny that a very serious act took place, that severe injuries were inflicted on these three boys. What is in question is my client’s state of mind, which the bench must recognize is very, very different from our mind-set. In my client’s view, she has committed no crime. Had she killed those boys, she would still have committed no crime. She has no sense of having done wrong; in fact, she has done right. Like very young children are assumed to have no conception of right and wrong and can’t be held morally accountable for their actions, Shian morality, and their concepts of right and wrong, are equally alien to us, and must be taken into account. These are the early days of contact between our species; there must be a certain amount of leeway in dealings between us, a period of mutual adjustment. I sympathize with the sufferings of the victims, and the anguish of their families, but I do not think the law, justice, or relations between humans and Outsiders would be served by custody.’

The magistrates look at each other. They mutter. They nod. Then the middle magistrate says, ‘This is a nasty, vicious attack on three vulnerable members of society. The victims will in all likelihood bear the scars of this attack for the rest of their lives. Such an offence, if proven, would normally warrant custody. However, there are unique features to this case that demand special consideration. We find ourselves in a delicate state of rapprochement between two markedly different cultures, and while the Outsiders must recognize that their law has no remit in our society, deeply ingrained cultural and social beliefs can only be changed over time. Ms Kusarenjajonk, I believe you are convinced that you have done nothing wrong and that you acted in the best interests of your child, but you must reflect that in defending him you have caused suffering to the parents of other children. I am also inclined to believe Mr Gillespie’s testimony that you are unlikely to pose a threat in future, and I am persuaded by counsel’s argument that community relations would not be improved by sending you to prison. Therefore I am remanding you on bail of three thousand pounds to appear for trial on the fifteenth of May in the Crown Court.’

Yes! Result!

‘Central Court of Justice, your Honour,’ smug bastard Magrory interjects.

‘Yes. Exactly. The Central Court of Justice. It takes me a while to get used to these new names. Who is tendering bail?’

‘The Welcome Centre’s putting it up,’ Gillespie whispers to McKimmis. He slips the plastic out of his wallet.

‘The Shian Welcome Centre, your Honour,’ Aileen says.

Back in the waiting room Aileen McKimmis thanks Gillespie.

‘Sorry about the prosecution. That was underhand.’

‘It’s not where you’ve been, it’s where you’re going to. That’s what I tell myself. Most of the time I believe it.’

— Thank you, Gillespie, though I am not quite sure what it is you prevented me experiencing,
Fidikihana says in Narha.
My Hold will recompense the Welcome Centre as soon as possible.

Gillespie tilts his head from left to right, an Outsider gesture of dismissal.
— Don’t worry about it. The Harridis have more money than they know what to do with. But I wouldn’t count on that defence working in the real trial.

The usher’s out again, moving through the hard lads and their briefs, frantic in his little black gown. ‘Case sixteen,’ he’s crying. ‘Case sixteen.’

It’s only a stud-wall box he shares with the photocopier and sixteen boxes of old gold A4 (they like old gold, they do everything on old gold), but it’s more home than his flat over on Eglantine Avenue. He still despises suits and shirts who’ll tell you their real home is the office; they say it because it’s where their families aren’t. For him this office is home because it’s where his family is.

Seyamang and Vrenanka are chasing each other around the desk legs on their tricycles. When they get bored with that they’ll come and stick their faces in the photocopier or climb up the stacked old gold. Seyoura is on the phone
—
hers is the next stud-wall box to Gillespie’s
—
trying to get some kid who’s had his money lifted in the bus station a place for the night in their Transients’ House on Palestine Street. Senkajou is in deep communion with the computer
—
Gillespie’ll never understand how that direct chemical interface works, looks too much like snorting cocaine to him
—
and Muskravhat is making an appointment to see someone from one of the big Holds in London’s Docklands.

Senkajou’s out of the machine and pops his head into the Gillespie box.

‘Excellent result, Andy.’

‘Cost you three grand.’

Senkajou does the Shian shrug, which is a flexing of the shoulders back and a slight opening of the mouth. It’s money, that’s all. It won’t bother them if the Kusarenjajonks don’t give it to them. These people have no idea of the value of money. They’ve built starships, colonized ten planets across one hundred light years without a functioning economy.

‘I am most impressed, Andy,’ says Muskravhat, stopping on his way to the downstairs kitchen to make something for the kids to eat. He’s not their father; neither is Senkajou. It’s the Shian way.

Gillespie blinks slowly. It’s taken him three months to unlearn the automatic human greeting smile.

‘How was the meeting?’

‘Most satisfactory. The British and Irish Joint Authority Directorate is prepared to recognize us as a distinct political entity and negotiate on an equal status as the main Unionist and Nationalist parties.’

‘The Chinese and the Indians’ll be wanting their own parties next.’

‘Of course. They should have had them long before we arrived, but the Unionists and Nationalists insist that there is no such thing as ethnic identities outside their own. There is no Chinese political identity. There is no Shian political identity. If we wish political representation it should be within the framework of the existing parties.’

‘You’re either a Nationalist Chinese or a Unionist Chinese. Nationalist Shian or Unionist Shian. Can’t just be Shian or Chinese, or Indian. Bastards have to divide everything between them. You’re either one or the other. Can’t be neither. Can’t be just for yourselves. That’s sitting on the fucking fence. You know why I haven’t voted in ten years? Because these wankers aren’t worth my vote. If you’re not one, then you must be the other.’

‘Neither side trusts us. The Nationalists suspect us of being planted by the British government to dilute the Catholic population; the Unionists suspect we have been settled by the Irish government to minoritize the Protestant population. The truth is that we have been settled here by both governments to introduce a third element into this country’s political dynamics. But we have land. We have space. And soon we shall have a say in how we live in this land. The real problem is not with the Unionists or the Nationalists, however, but with our own people. There is a strong tide of opinion that we should not involve ourselves in human affairs, or at least not yet. Persuading the Nations to participate as one species will be the great challenge. But that will have to wait until after the season is ended.’

Everything bows to
kesh,
the spring and autumn seasons. It’s less than a week now to the first moon; the Welcome Centre has been working at a soft scream, like an ant-hill doing speed. Traditionally, all affairs must be set in order before Shian culture effectively shuts down for five weeks. But there’s a more intimate urgency, an inner compulsion. Gillespie’s caught momentary electric tingles of otherness in the air; the chemicals, the pheromones, are stirring. The heat is coming. Gillespie tries to think of it like a big holiday, like Orangemen’s Day and Christmas and New Year and birthdays put end to end, and then end to end again, like summer holidays were when he was a kid. But it’s not. It’s nothing like that. It’s sex. It’s the mating season. It’s the rut. It’s the time that the Shian become alien even to themselves.

There’s an old joke. There’s some psychologist doing a sex survey. First of all he asks, how many do it three times a week? About half stick their hands up. All right, twice a week? About a third. Once a week? All the rest, except one wee old man sitting in the corner, grinning away like an eejit to himself. Once a month? the shrink asks. The wee old man just sits there, but he’s looking ever happier. Once every two months? No. The old boy’s looking ecstatic. Once every six months? Once a
year?
The wee man sticks his hand up. He can hardly keep himself still. ‘Why are you looking so happy?’ the shrink asks. ‘You only have sex once a year.’ ‘Yes,’ the wee man says, ‘but tonight’s the night!’