Walk
by Kieran Hennessy
Martin Gregory stood in darkness in the sitting room, cobra wine in hand, looking out from the window at the Slum. His home was lost in there, amongst missions, shanties, housing estates. An Upper family had seen potential in him, so for his benefit they’d adopted him out, stolen him from his family, and from… Stella? He shook his head; his childhood memories were too fractured.
Muffled chatter and laughter slithered in from the next room. Martin leaned against the glass. His fiancée was hosting one of her Botox parties, entertaining dignitaries with silver charm and diamond wit, as she was raised to do, such as the portly Mr Bingleswood, Martin’s manager at the Department. He had met Bingleswood at his first managerial board meeting regarding Slum affairs. Bingleswood was chairman.
“We need to have a meeting to discuss what we’re going to do.”
“And what shall we do?” inquired Mr Oggs, a detestable man whose bald head reflected the neon light from the grand overhanging chandelier.
“Well, then we’ll have a meeting,” replied Bingleswood.
“A second meeting?” Martin asked, bemused.
“Yes. You can’t just have a meeting. You have to have a meeting about such an issue.”
“Indeed,” said Mr Oggs. “So we have a meeting about the meeting, then we’ll have the actual meeting to discuss the issue at hand.”
“Precisely,” cheered Bingleswood, “and the issue at hand will be to discuss the subsequent meeting.”
“What?” Martin’s eyes shone with hopeless bewilderment. “When does it end?”
Bingleswood glanced at Oggs in confusion, before addressing Martin. “It ends with the last meeting. Obviously.”
“And how do we ever get to that final meeting?” Martin asked.
“Well that’s what we have meetings for, so we can organise and solve such issues. Isn’t that right?”
Wholehearted agreement mumbled around the table.
Martin pressed his forehead to the glass. The sprawling Slum shimmered in the distance. He was getting nothing done at the Department. Every proposal was buried in a quicksand of paperwork and agendas. A massive portion of the population was in need, trapped in a socio-economic prison built by previous generations, but he couldn’t help them.
Another cheer went up in the other room. He wanted to walk in there and demand that all the women remove their makeup and corsets, that all the men swap roles with the butlers, that… that…
That would be such improper behaviour for a three-piece-suited snakeskin-leather-shoed government official such as M. Gregory.
He straightened suddenly, facing the Slum. Throwing his glass of cobra wine to the ground, he began to remove his shoes, then his suit, piece by piece. His fiancée’s high heels announced her entry as he reached his underwear.
Looking first at the floor, she removed a digital pad from her fake cleavage (such gowns do not accommodate for pocket storage, a trivial practicality disregarded in elite fashion) and pressed the screen.
“Wine and glass spillage, sitting room three.”
She returned the device to her bust and looked up, an expression of intoxicated cheeriness changing to intoxicated horror.
“What are you doing Martin?” she hissed. “We have guests!”
“I’m going for a walk.” He stepped away, revealing the Slum to her view, and moved to the bedroom to find old clothes and a trench coat.
“But, but, we have guests!” She spluttered, coming in. She seemed incapable of further articulation, so as Martin dressed she began to pace between a coffee table stacked high with women’s gossip magazines and the tank where her pet python lived. She stopped only to push away Martin’s hug.
“Do you not see what I’m wearing? Creases, Martin! Creases! How can you be so insensitive?”
Martin walked out. He passed Mr Catsworthy propositioning a housemaid in the hallway. Catsworthy was a man of great distaste, a board member whose solution to the Slum problem was:
“We assassinate them all.”
“Really?” Mr Oggs had said. “I mean, that’s not really our aim.”
“What? Oh, of course. What did I say?”
“I think you said you wanted them assassinated,” said Bingleswood.
“Are you sure?”
“Maybe you said we should marinate them all.”
“That certainly is a definite possibility.”
“Yes, we could import an abundance of fresh spices from starving agricultural communities for minimal cost as garnish.”
“I do enjoy garnish.”
“Of course. I think we’ve cleared this matter up nicely.”
Catsworthy’s frequent genocidal suggestions never quite became official, but it was the thought that counted.
Martin walked outside as another cheer went up from somewhere behind the house’s walls. He walked, breathing crisp air and silver moonlight as white-picketed gardens tentatively became junk-filled front-yards and street light flickered upon cracked pavements and mumbling drunks. The Slum was not lively.
He walked, hearing voices, bass, laughter. He continued and was suddenly confronted by lights and people and music and movement. It was a skate park, surrounded by masses of people, many shivering, few without smiles. He was dazed by it all. A cheer went up.
“You right?” said a pleasant female voice.
Martin turned to see an attractive, bright-faced lady of roughly his age. “Hello. What is this?”
“The local skate festival, one of our youth programs. Community loves it. Gives the kids some purpose, some pride, y’know?”
“That’s excellent,” he replied, returning her smile. “Are there many of these programs?”
“Sure, we deal with other youth skill areas, education, alcohol therapy, abuse counselling, family support, crime. There’s far to go, but we’ve come along. Changing the negatives of Slum culture, one step at a time.”
“I’d love to help.”
“Where you from?”
Martin looked toward the Upper suburbs. “Here.”
“I mean, you don’t need to be from the Slum to want or be able to help. Listen, I need to be over there, so chase me up later if you want, alright?”
“I will, thankyou.”
She paused, her shy smile incessant, before pacing away.
“Wait!” Martin called. “What’s your name?”
She turned and shouted with a wave, “Estelle!”
Another cheer lifted up around him. That was the first step.
