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Vol. I
Issue 4
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Anthony's Season
By Louis Malloy
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The flower-sellers were all women, wrapped up against the weather, sometimes chopping stems or making up an arrangement but mostly just looking across the square with their hands disappearing into the folds of their black clothes.
Anthony bought flowers one Sunday. He thought that buying something might bring him into conversation, but it didn’t happen. The lady asked him which kind of flowers he wanted and he didn’t know, so she chose a bunch and told him what they were. Then he gave her the money and she smiled and asked God to bless him and that was it. Anthony walked away and he forgot about her because he had to decide who might like to have the flowers.
His cousin lived down near the river in one of the better apartment blocks, which was painted a colour closer to white than grey and had some balconies. He took the long way round and walked for a mile. It was a slow river and the banks were mainly just long grass and mud. An ancient factory stood behind the north bank, every window shattered and holes smashed in the high roof. The building seemed to shiver in the cold.
He walked on to his cousin’s apartment and pressed on the bell several times because he couldn’t hear it from outside. She buzzed him up and he went in, not giving her the flowers yet.
“How are you?” she said.
“Fine. I’m fine.”
He looked around the whole room while his cousin watched him. Finally she offered him coffee and told him to sit down. She went into the kitchen and her husband came through, drying his hair with a towel.
“You okay?”
Anthony nodded.
“Was that you leaning on the doorbell? It works you know. You only have to press it once.”
“I couldn’t hear if it was working or not,” said Anthony.
“Well it does. You only need to press once.”
He went through to the kitchen too. There was some kind of conversation which Anthony couldn’t hear. He sat back in the chair and examined the room again. He could decorate his room like this without too much expense. But it would never be as warm. They had central heating here, but he would only be able to use a fan heater which wasn’t the same.
“How does the central heating work?” said Anthony, when the others came back in with a tray of cups and a coffee pot.
They looked at him.
“What do you mean how does it work?” said the husband. “The same as any central heating works. With a boiler and hot water pumped around.”
“But where is it?”
“There’s a radiator behind the sofa here.” He pulled out the sofa. “See? That’s all. You want coffee?”
“Don’t you have central heating at your place?” said his cousin.
“No.”
There was silence for a while. Anthony would have preferred it if it only his cousin had been in.
“I brought you these,” he said, having almost forgotten the flowers which were still on his lap.
“Oh. Well. Thanks.”
“I think you look sad sometimes. So I bought you flowers.”
There was a silence again, but a harder silence. The husband breathed out through his nose.
“I’m not sad.” She laughed. “Anthony, I’m not sad.”
“You look it sometimes,” he said.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Her husband was speaking in a lower voice now and staring at him, his hands gripped tightly together. “Jesus.”
“It’s okay,” said his wife.
“What is it with you?” he said, still looking at Anthony. “Why do you always talk such shit? She’s not sad. You’re the sad one. The sad case of the family.”
Anthony wondered if there would be a fight. The husband carried himself like a tough guy but that didn’t always mean anything. Anthony had a blade in his inside pocket and he had used it a few times. He wouldn’t have cared if they had fought.
“Get out of here,” said the husband.
Anthony looked at his cousin.
“Maybe you better go.” She was staring at the floor and now her husband was looking at her. “Thanks for the flowers anyway, but there was no need. I’m fine.”
“Of course she’s fine,” said the husband.
She accompanied Anthony to the door.
“Really I’m fine,” she said. “I don’t know where you get these ideas. I wasn’t sad, whenever it was I saw you last. Not at all.”
“Okay.”
He walked back home along the river. He sat in his apartment and watched the sun until it dropped between two buildings and finally bowed down behind the plains.
When March came, dozens of new men appeared in the town. They drove around in trucks and most of them wore military-style clothes, but they weren’t from the official services. Anthony didn’t know what was going on. His parents kept themselves hidden away at the top of his apartment block, so they wouldn’t know either. The only people who might have an idea were his cousin and her husband but he didn’t want to go back there yet, or even call. One afternoon he went on one of his walks around the town and came across a truck in a side street. There was only the driver inside as far as he could see.
“Hi. How are you?” said Anthony.
The driver wore sunglasses, a green military jacket and wristbands. His head turned; the sunglasses were so dark that even from a few feet away Anthony couldn’t see his eyes. The man nodded without any suggestion of a smile.
“Are you from the army?” said Anthony. He knew that he wasn’t, but he wanted to get an answer.
“No.” The man’s voice was surprisingly soft. Anthony had imagined that it would be low and rough and that there would be a different kind of accent.
“I’ve seen quite a few of these trucks around.”
“That’s right.”
Anthony kept leaning in at the window. He wasn’t sure whether the man was bothered by him or not.
“So who are you with? Are you with somebody? A political party?” Anthony spoke more quietly. “A militia?”
“You can find out if you want.”
Another man, broader and older with a pistol clearly visible in a holster, came out of a building up the street and walked towards the truck.
“That’s Osborne,” said the driver. “He can tell you.” He grinned. “If you really want to know.”
They drove Anthony to a derelict building near the old railway station. Osborne had looked at him for no more than a few seconds and then said that he should come along. Now that they were here, Anthony got something to eat as soon as he was sitting down. There was a cook who ladled out cutlets and potatoes for everyone and there was good wine too. The men who sat around talking and eating all looked quite similar to the driver, some still with sunglasses on. They dressed more or less like soldiers but with extra pieces of clothing: neckerchiefs, headbands and scarves. Only Osborne stood out, because he looked like he actually could be an army captain.
When Anthony had finished his plate of food, Osborne sat opposite him.
“Good?”
“Very good,” said Anthony.
“You want more?”
“No thanks. I’m okay.”
“Wine?”
“Thanks.”
Osborne poured wine for them and for the other men at the table. They proposed a toast which Anthony didn’t understand.
“What’s your name?”
“Anthony.”
“What do you do in this town?”
He shrugged. “Nothing. Not really. I was born here. I don’t have a job.”
“It’s hard for you.” Osborne nodded. “Very tough for young men like you in a place like this. They don’t give you much of a chance do they?”
Anthony didn’t know who “they” were, but he liked the way Osborne was talking, in a voice full of warm darkness and smoke. The younger men around the table were nodding slightly as if there was a rhythm they could all follow.
“You’re a young man. You’re not a fool, you’re physically strong, but they don’t give you a chance. You deserve more than that.”
Anthony nodded.
“We’re The New Lands Collective” said Osborne. “Heard of that?”
Anthony didn’t know what to say. He wanted to be positive, but he hesitated.
“You haven’t. You never heard of us.”
There was a second of silence and then a roar of laughter from Osborne, accompanied immediately by the others at the table and even by Anthony.
“Don’t worry,” said Osborne. He gripped Anthony by the shoulder. “Don’t worry my friend. Not everyone has heard of us in this part of the country. But they will.”
He poured more wine and one of the men handed around chocolate and cigarettes. Osborne looked up as he lit his cigarette and spoke to Anthony as if he had just had an idea:
“You want to hear about The New Lands Collective? Are you interested Anthony?”
“I am.”
They talked until dark. By the end, Anthony still didn’t understand everything but he knew he was ready. It was the best evening he could remember having for years.
By April, Anthony had been with The New Lands Collective for over six weeks. He had been away from the town for all of that time, travelling around the north of the country in the more rural areas. They were in control of much of the countryside. The towns were harder and the cities were yet to be considered.
“You alright with going back to your own town?” Osborne had asked him a few days before.
“Sure.”
He was looking forward to driving in and he would be especially useful, because he knew where the public buildings were. The others had done their reconnaissance, but nobody knew the place as well as he did. Osborne had told him to travel up front. So, when they came into town and stopped at the roadblock, Anthony was perfectly visible behind the big windscreen.
Two policemen came to the window. They knew who the New Lands Collective were by now. Osborne told them that he was going to speak to the mayor. The policemen looked unhappy and didn’t say yes or no. They tried to stall him with other questions. Anthony wondered whether he would be told to shoot the policemen. He had shot a few people now and it didn’t scare him.
The policemen let them through. Anthony directed the driver towards the municipal offices, looking out for people he recognised. They stopped outside the small town square. People had started to gather anyway, but two of the men went off with megaphones. They could be heard from streets away, rounding up an audience like barkers at a carnival. The flower ladies carrying their Spring blooms gathered in their own small group. Osborne and six men went inside the town hall while the rest remained as an informal guard around the square. Lines of people flowed in from the small streets which led in from the other parts of town down into the centre. In his sunglasses and casual uniform and with the new beard and longer hair, Anthony felt inconspicuous. The crowd packed into the square and remained almost silent.
“Attention!”
There was a gunshot into the air. One of the men in Osborne’s group held the gun in one hand and the collar of the mayor’s jacket in the other. There were screams from the crowd. Anthony was just about used to it now. The first time he had witnessed this act, in a smaller town than this way out in the country, he had almost screamed himself. He knew what came next, but the drama was still compelling.
The younger man pushed the mayor over to Osborne.
“This man is a servant of the state,” said Osborne, standing on the highest step outside the town hall. “He is an agent of the capitalist hierarchy which keeps the people oppressed.”
Anthony had heard the political speech before too. It was always the same. He didn’t understand all of it, but Osborne knew how to deliver; standing there with his legs apart, holding the mayor by the scruff of the neck, bellowing out his message.
“This man is a traitor to you all.”
Anthony began to breathe heavily.
“The government is a traitorous government. They betray you all every day. They take bread from your children and sell off the country to foreign imperialists.”
Anthony clenched his hands in his pockets. He was sweating underneath his military vest and he could feel the heavy, rapid pulse in his neck.
“We will make an example of the traitor.”
Osborne pulled out a pistol, shot the mayor through the head and let him fall to the ground. The mayor’s eyes were wide open and dark blood poured onto the steps.
There was a low moan at first, rising to a howl of terror. Dozens of people fainted. Anthony took out his pistol. They had formed a circle around the crowd to stop anyone from leaving.
“We make examples of traitors,” yelled Osborne, firing into the air.
The crowd seemed to huddle together, trying to retreat from the sudden nightmare which had ridden into their town without welcome or expectation. Anthony briefly imagined himself in the crowd. If he hadn’t talked to the driver that afternoon, then he would have been with them now. He blessed his luck.
Osborne shouted out orders and the New Lands Collective began the quick and brutal task of taking over. Within hours, the men of the town would sign a long and impossibly complex document which dedicated them to the cause of the Collective. They were warned that it was a legal confirmation of their acceptance of the new administration.
Anthony walked around the streets, still mysterious behind the uniform. He thought about going to his cousin’s apartment. They might have been missed in the initial rounding-up and they would need to know what was going on. He could leave it for a while, but at some point over the next few days he would go over and announce himself. For now, he relaxed while he marched, pointing occasionally with his pistol when people asked where they should go.
The sky was clear and sunlight coloured the town. Anthony looked at the people running back and forth, at the life which was all around him, at the marvellous Spring. Scenes of cold and rain and solitary walks were as distant as a black and white photograph. The thrilling sensation of a new world where he could walk like this, so tall and strong, burned against his skin.
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Louis Malloy lives in Nottingham, England. He works as a computer programmer but prefers to write fiction. His short stories have been published in a variety of print magazines and e-zines, including The New Writer, The Dublin Quarterly, Aesthetica, Eclectica, and Southern Ocean Review. He has won prizes in The Momaya Short Story Competition and the BBC London Book Fair competition and was a finalist in the Middlesex University Press Literary Prize. He is at work on a novel, and plays in Nottingham’s oldest band, Moose Malloy.
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