Prologue
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THE CATALYST
one. Callie
* * *
A Nought woman, no doubt some poor jobbing actress desperate to pay her rent, knelt down in the middle of a stylized pigsty. She held twelve leads attached to a number of decorated sculptures of life-sized pink pigs that surrounded her like the petals of a flower, all looking out at the audience. Some of the pigs wore clothes – one a military uniform, another a flowery straw hat and gold-coloured high-heeled shoes. One sported a gaudy sapphire and diamond necklace, the stones as big as plums. Two of them were simulating copulation. The Nought woman at their centre wore a bodysuit that at first glance made her appear naked. She was kneeling, her head down. At random intervals, she looked up to stare at the person directly in front of her for a few seconds before slowly bowing her head again. Now it was my turn to receive her numb stare. My lips twisted in distaste. Blinking rapidly, the ‘exhibit’ lowered her head, her cheeks reddening.
Embarrassed for both of us, I said quietly, ‘The look on my face wasn’t aimed at you. It was aimed at this ridiculous so-called art installation.’
The woman’s head remained bent, the slight tensing of her shoulders and reddened face the only indications that she’d heard my words. Whether or not she believed them was another matter.
I shook my head, sighing inwardly. It had taken me years to cultivate a poker face, but there were moments – like now – when the mask inadvertently slipped. After glancing at my watch, I took a seat at one end of the gallery. A huge sign hanging above all the exhibits declared: ALBION – LESSONS LEARNED: A 21ST-CENTURY RETROSPECTIVE. Talk about the chieftain’s new robes. This was supposed to be the most avant-garde, exciting art exhibition currently in the capital. Nought actors and actresses adorned the various works of art, a few of them naked, some covered from head to toe in body paint of various hues. They sat in, on or among the various exhibits, seldom moving. The whole thing had a melancholy air of crass awkwardness to it.
If I were an art critic, I knew how my review would read: Dubious style and precious little substance. The few articles I’d read about this so-called exhibition described it as ‘daring’, ‘innovative’, ‘a fresh take’ – blah-blah.
Yeah, right.
Sauley J’Hara, the Cross artist responsible for this hot mess, had been all over the news during the last two weeks, responding to the very vocal criticism of his art stylings.
‘It’s a challenging, forward-thinking look at how we used to regard and treat Noughts, juxtaposed with how they are regarded now,’ he’d argued. ‘This isn’t a museum’s historical installation; this is art.’
What a steaming pile of horse manure. An exploiter, seeking to define and monetize the exploited. If it really was art, why not use Crosses and other ethnicities in his exhibition? The whole thing was nothing more than a self-congratulatory exercise in nostalgia for the backward thinkers who still wished – or still believed – they lived in the past.
I looked up at the ceiling and cornices. Now there was real art. Panels depicting Zafrika’s history – some carved from wood, some from marble, some just painted, but all exquisitely beautiful. I glanced down at my watch again. It hadn’t been my choice to meet here and I was burning to leave. The ceiling, which was part of the fabric of the building, I admired. The rest of the exhibition in this gallery was making my skin itch. I drank in the artwork on the ceiling, closing my eyes to imprint it on my memory as I lowered my head. A sudden frisson of awareness crackled through me like a static shock.
‘Hello, Callie. What’s what?’
The baritone voice made my head snap up.
Tobey Durbridge.
Damn it! My heart jumped at the sight of him, dragging me to my feet. God, it had been so long. Too long. When did the air get so thin in here? There was no other explanation for feeling this light-headed.
Oh, come on! You’re a grown woman for God’s sake. Get a grip, Callie Rose!
It had been such a long time since Tobey and I last met. A lifetime ago. What had I been expecting? Certainly not this. Over the years, just like the rest of the country, I’d seen Tobey on the TV countless times as he rose in prominence to become the first elected Nought Mayor of Meadowview, then a Member of Parliament, but seeing him in person was so different. Tobey had moved on and up – the only directions he was ever interested in. He was now the country’s first publicly elected Nought Prime Minister and there wasn’t a single soul in the country and beyond who didn’t know his name. As Solomon Camden, the head of my law chambers, had put it, ‘Only a fool would bet against Tobey Durbridge.’
And how had I voted in the recent general election?
Well, I was nobody’s fool.
Over the last twelve years, during each general election, the public had had the chance not just to vote for the person they wanted to represent their constituency, but also to choose between two or three candidates from each of the main political parties who would run the country should that party win the majority vote. After the scandal that hit the Liberal Traditionalists a decade ago, it had been judged a more democratic way of electing our country’s leader, rather than just relying on each political party to select candidates who may have bought or bribed their way to the top. Over the last couple of years, not a week passed without Tobey making the news headlines, and, when it was announced he was running for Prime Minister, I understood why. Publicity. Publicity. Publicity. The lifeblood of the ambitious.
But, even without all the TV coverage, I would’ve known this man anywhere. The Tobey of old with his chestnut-brown hair and darker brown eyes still stood in front of me, but his face was harder, and his lips were thinner, and the gleam he’d always had in his eyes – like he was constantly on the verge of a smile – well, that had all but vanished. Something told me it would take a lot to make Tobey smile these days. And he’d filled out. He was not just taller but broader. He made me feel like I was slacking on the body-conscious front. Which I was, I admit. I enjoyed my food! I hit the treadmill regularly, but only so I wouldn’t have to buy a whole new wardrobe every six months. Tobey, on the other hand, wore his charcoal-grey suit like a second skin. That hadn’t come off a hanger in a department store. His suit screamed bespoke from the rooftops. His black shoes didn’t have a scuff mark on them; his white shirt was spotless, as was his purple silk tie. Damn! He was wearing the hell out of every stitch he had on. Instead of looking staid and boring, he managed to make the whole ensemble look … dangerous. Like this guy could quite easily hand you your head if you messed with him, and still look fine doing it.
Suddenly aware that I was staring, I mock sighed. ‘For Shaka’s sake! I see you’re still taller than me.’
A shared smile – and just like that the tension between us lifted.
We grinned at each other as the years began to fall away, but then reality rudely shoved its way between us. Another moment, as we regarded each other. My mind was racing. Should we kiss? Hug? What? I moved forward at the same time as Tobey. A brief, awkward kiss on the lips was followed by a long hug. The warmth of his body and the subtle smell of his aftershave enveloped me. I stepped back. The moment for anything deeper, anything more, came and went and faded away unclaimed.