If Then by Matthew De Abaitua Read Free Book Online Page A

there just to be part of something – the old men with broken suitcases full of foraged toys and bruised apples, the grey-haired women selling the surplus of their communes: old Coke bottles of bitter cider, hand-printed pamphlets, nettle jam and circuit boards. He sought out Piper’s lad and his wares of dressed pheasant, squirrels and skinned rabbits. James bought two brace from the boy, noting his swollen fingers, bloodied from gutting, as they whiffled through the livid green notes of local currency. At the end of the transaction, James touched his heart to indicate his satisfaction and the lad did the same.
    He walked the orderly line of repairmen with individual placards detailing skills offered and services required. This was residual behaviour, rendered unnecessary by the Process. Their skills and availability would be sorted algorithmically and bartered accordingly with other townspeople and their labour; that was how the Process generated the core work schedule for the town, and gave meaning to labour that had become meaningless. But the market had a role to play that was more than trade. It was a social occasion, a chance to get out, to see and be seen. The metrics of happiness required old rituals, old ways of doing things, and so time was set aside within the work schedule for the townspeople to make their own trades.
    A repairman, bald and heavy, his stripe glistening with sweat, risked an ingratiating stoop before him.
    “Do you have any little jobs you need doing around the place? I’m up this street next week repairing the roof of the town hall. It’d be no trouble.” And then the bald man whispered, “It’s free to the bailiff.”
    James ignored the offer, and went over to where Ruth stood in line with the other seamstresses. Her samples were slung over her arm: dresses, children’s clothes, shirts and hair ribbons. He touched her hand, noting the callouses upon her fingertips, how they seemed so much older than her face; her hands were aged by all the midnights she spent at a table under the sash window, working her hand-turned sewing machine by candlelight. When the machine was hot with work, it gave off the frazzled lint and tobacco ghosts of its previous owner. She kissed him and then steered him away. His presence intimidated potential customers and she was intent upon securing a trade on market day.
    At the war memorial, he pulled Hector to him so that they could read the names of local casualties of sundry wars. The longest entry was from the First World War.
    “Here are the names of the dead, from your time.”
    Hector’s pale grey eyes gazed obediently at the lettering and the numbers.
    “Do you remember the war?”
    Hector was close to finding his voice, his throat and mouth worked in anticipation of speaking.
    “Do you remember anything? Why are you here?”
    No answers to his questions, not yet.
    They were interrupted by a woman in stout boots and a long brightly-coloured felt coat, of similar stature to James and therefore considerably taller than the stretcher bearer. This was Councillor Edith Von Pallandt.
    “Is this him?” asked Edith, putting her hand upon Hector’s clavicle so that she could appraise him. She gestured to her husband to come out of the crowd so that he too could examine the manufactured man. Baron Von Pallandt had shaved his grey hair close to the scalp to accentuate the raised central ridge of his stripe.
    “What is your opinion of the stretcher bearer?” she asked her husband rhetorically.
    “Not good, Edith.”
    “We need to talk about your soldier,” she announced.
    “He does not belong to me,” said James.
    “He lives in your house. He eats your food. He does eat, doesn’t he?” For a vegetarian, her smile was distinctly carnivorous. “You are responsible for him. We live in a very delicate state of balance.” Edith held both hands out palms flat, weighing out invisible forces. “When you consider who we have lost, we must be very careful as