Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(42)

“When are you going to remember you have a cellphone? Oh, never mind. Arthur, there’s been a palace revolt in the Liberal caucus. The Drone was overthrown. He’s resigned. Their caucus picked Marcus Yates as interim leader. Fresh, young, gorgeous, hip, athletic, outdoorsy — but a former prominent pothead, if he isn’t still one. Risky choice, but there you go.”

“My goodness.” That was all Arthur could manage.

“Anyway, they’ve agreed to join in bringing down the government. That came after the PM withdrew the Coast Mountains bill. They’re approving it by cabinet order. October election.”

Arthur’s stained briefs finally fell into the washing machine, followed by socks, shirt, and moss-stained pants. He took a breath. “And, uh, how are you feeling about that?”

“Well, good. Obviously. Get this country back on track. Okay, I’m in Fredericton now, heading back to Ottawa for a strategy session. I have a couple of pit stops up north on my way back home for the Canada Day weekend. I’ll have to attend a few events, but I won’t force you to . . . I, um . . .” Her voice trailed off, then returned with an intensity that frightened him. “There’s something I need to talk to you about, Arthur.” A silence. “Are you still there?”

“Sorry, I’m just . . . I’m starting a wash.”

“Arthur, you may have heard that Lloyd Chalmers is running for us. I spoke at his nomination in Halifax on Thursday. It’s been in the papers. I didn’t mention it to you, and I feel shitty about that. It’s just that . . . how do I say it? You get so hurt when his name comes up, and I’ve caused you so much pain over what happened . . . I’m babbling.”

Arthur listened numbly.

“Nothing has happened between us since then. I’ve actually been avoiding him, but . . . well, there was the requisite hug in front of the cameras. He’s quite the womanizer, really, I honestly don’t know why I ever . . . He’s turned his attention to Jennie Withers, anyway. They were spotted at a table for two at Le Gourmand. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re making out . . . Stop me. Say something.”

“I love you,” he said weakly.

“I love you too, darling. I do.”

§

Only fifteen parishioners had shown up today, average age on the cusp of seventy, and the service was brief. Reverend Al continued to rail outside the church. He was convinced that God was losing the battle for souls on Garibaldi Island. The cult was eating away at the island like cancer. Freeing Arthur’s brainwashed Woofers from Silver Tongue’s spell would be like wrestling with the devil.

But Al agreed to take on the task, and they were on their way to the open house at Starkers Cove, in their Sunday suits in the Fargo — which, at one point, drifted onto the shoulder, causing Al to cut short his list of grievances. “Do you want me to drive? You seem in some kind of altered state, old boy.”

“I’m fine. Distracted.” Here was Arthur with his closest friend, his confidant, a man of the cloth, and he could not confess his sin: a shameful act of infidelity prompted by false suspicion, compounded by an inflated sense of achievement. He would be all the more ignoble were he to mention Taba’s name. He resolved to bury the matter.

A light drizzle had begun, and he focussed on the road, driving so slowly that a convoy of Garibaldians was backing up behind him. He pulled into the lookout above Starkers Cove to let them pass. Below, scores of cars and trucks were already parked outside the gate.

“That looks like Morg down there,” Al said. “Appointed by his master to direct traffic. A simple task for a simple mind.”

“Let’s see what he says about his promise to bring the girls back.”

They carried on, waiting their turn near the former manure pile — its stink still pervaded the area — while Morg waved drivers onto a newly mown field. Dog, the Transformers’ eager early convert, was bustling about as assistant parking attendant. It was still drizzling, the western sky grumbling. “Let there be rain,” said Reverend Al, his hands together in prayer.

The column of vehicles stalled while a couple of volunteers chased two chickens and a duck that had slipped out the gate. Enjoying the acrobatics of fowl and pursuers, recording them on camera, were the two latter-day hippies who’d arrived in their flower-powered VW van.

Al glowered at the painted sign. “‘When you realize there is nowhere to go, you have arrived.’ What horseshit. That’s when you should be rethinking the purpose of your journey.”

“Remember, don’t eat, don’t drink. I still think I got high from that gupa spill.”

Arthur had told him about being transported into that disturbing state of bliss. Al’s response hadn’t been satisfactory: “They’re called mood swings, old boy.”

Morg came to Arthur’s window, his expression blank. “I have a special place for you, Mr. Beauchamp.”

“I expect you have a special place for me too, Morg,” Al said.

Morg ignored that, maybe confused, sensing a double entendre but not getting it. “Yoki and Niko wanted to stay, Mr. Beauchamp. They needed to meet the Baba.” He called to Dog: “Put them over by the fence there.”

He hurried off before Arthur could say a word. Al muttered, “They needed to meet the Baba? I want to see this fraud in action.”