Fractions_ The First Half of the Fall Revolution - Ken MacLeod [231]
‘See these,’ he said, opening his third pack of cigarettes and pointing at the naval engravings. ‘See them. They, they saved us, right? From the German fascist barbarians. And from good old Uncle Joe, if truth be told.’
‘That,’ I said, trying to steady him in my ‘scope, ‘is a bit of an over-simplified few. View. I’m surprised at you.’
‘So’m I,’ he said. ‘A few years back, there was a display out there, Harriers flying backwards and Sea Kings looping the loop and all that, and I realised I was proud of those guys. Just like I used to be about the heroic Red Army and the Vietcong.’
‘Jesus.’ I was shocked into a passing fit of sobriety. ‘You’re telling me the armed forces of the British state are freedom fighters? I’m sure the Irish have a different story, for starters.’
‘Ah, fuck the Irish,’ Reid said, fortunately not too loudly. ‘I must admit I did have a hang-up about the bold IRA for years. And then they went and turned up their toes, just jacked it in like the fucking Stalinists.’
‘But you always wanted something better than that –’
He glared into his Caledonian Eighty. ‘Even so, I stuck up for the workers’ states. And then they all went down like – like dominoes! I’m not the one who deserted. I mean, my side surrendered, right? So I can do whatever the fuck I like.’
The bell rang for last orders. Reid laughed and drained his glass. ‘Same again?’
‘Yes please.’
He returned with two pints and two shots of whisky. The whisky may have had some responsibility for what happened later.
‘So what do you have to say to that?’ he asked.
‘Schlanzhe…OK, OK. You’re saying you used to admire the other side’s armies, right? So what about all the peace-fighting, eh? What about CND?’
Peace-fighting, CND…something was bugging me.
‘Tactics. The Communists were probably sincere, funnily enough, but as far as we were concerned we saw CND work as running interference for the Russkies.’
‘No shit?’
‘No shit.’
‘Well,’ I said, taken aback at this brazen admission, ‘I must say your new-found patriotism has a suspiciously damascene curve about it, as in going from one misguided view to what seems to be the complete opposite but is actually the same place –’
‘Bullshit. I’m not patriotic. All I’m saying is, we live in a dangerous world and I’m not going to pretend I don’t know whose guns keep me safe.’
‘What about the people on the other side of the guns?’
‘Tough. I’m just lucky I’m on this side. Compared to anything else out there, it’s the side of progress. We’re the camp of the revolution.’
‘Explain yourself.’
‘Because your Yank dingbat libertarian pals are right – the Western democracies are socialist! Big public sectors, big companies that plan production while officially everything’s on the market…sort of black planning, like the East had a black market. Marx said universal suffrage was the rule of the working class, and he was right. The West is Red!’
I had to laugh, not just at the audacity of Reid’s rationalisation but at the grain of awkward truth in it. We explored this theory as we were cleared from the pub and made our way up on to the Road Bridge.
‘Shit,’ Reid said, scrutinising the bus timetable, ‘we’ve missed it. Fucking private companies keep changing the services.’
‘Goddamn capitalist roaders. Let’s get a taxi.’
‘From here? Nah. There’s a hotel on the other side. Let’s phone from there.’
I looked along the bridge’s bright kilometre.
‘Bit of a walk.’
‘Might even be a bar open,’ Reid said cunningly.
‘I’m game.’
We set off, past signs announcing that security cameras watched the bridge at all times. To the north and west there was still light in the sky. Cars and lorries thrummed past, every other minute. The section of the bridge before it reached the river made a slow ascent above streets and backyards and waste ground and the long arms of a marina. There was a high barrier on our left between the