The CDC is hiding things from us, Tom says, that’s what they’re protesting. Have you seen some of that stuff online? Things are being kept from us, resources are being channelled in the wrong direction, there’s no funding for self-defence classes or armour for men, and all this money going to those NorthStar girls’ training camps, for God’s sake – what the hell is that about? And fuck you, Kristen, we both know you’ve got this fucking thing, too, and it’s changed you, it’s made you hard; you’re not even a real woman any more. Four years ago, Kristen, you knew what you were and what you had to offer this network, and what the fuck are you now?
Tom knows they went to commercial a long time ago now. Probably just after he said ‘no’. Probably they thought a few seconds of dead air was better than this. He sits very still after he’s finished, looking straight ahead, into the eye of camera three. That’s always been his favourite camera, shows off the angle of his chin, the little dimple there. He’s Kirk Douglas, almost, on camera three. He is Spartacus. He always thought he could get into acting eventually, just small parts to start with; maybe at first he’d be playing a news anchor, and then something like the teacher in a high-school comedy who turns out to understand the kids better than any of them realized because you know he was pretty wild too way back when. Well, that’s all over now. Let it go, Tom, let those thoughts go from your mind.
You done? says Kristen.
Sure.
They get him out before they come back off commercial. He doesn’t even resist, except that he doesn’t like that hand on his shoulder and fights it off. He can’t bear a hand touching him, he says, so they let him be. He’s worked for a long time, and if he goes easy now his pension might still be secure.
Tom’s been taken sick, very sadly, says Kristen, bright eyes earnest down camera two. He’s OK, and he’ll be back with us real soon. And now, the weather on the ones.
From his hospital bed in Arizona, Tunde watches the reports of the story unfold. He emails and Facebooks with his family and friends back in Lagos. His sister, Temi, is dating a boy now, someone a couple of years younger than her. She wants to know if Tunde has a girl out there in all this travelling.
Tunde tells her there’s not much time for that. There had been a white woman for a while, another journalist who he’d met in Singapore and travelled with as far as Afghanistan. She’s not worth mentioning.
‘Come home,’ says Temi. ‘Come home for six months and we’ll find you a nice girl. You’re twenty-seven, man. Getting old! It’s time to settle down.’
The white woman – her name was Nina – had said, ‘Do you think you have PTSD?’
It was because she’d used her thing in bed and he’d shied away from it. Told her to stop. Started crying.
He’d said, ‘I am stranded a long way from home and there is no way to get back.’
‘We all are,’ she’d said.
Nothing worse has happened to him than to anyone. There is no reason for him to be afraid, no more reason than any other man. Nina’s been texting him since he’s been in hospital, asking if she can come and see him. He keeps saying, no, not yet.
It’s while he’s in hospital that the email comes in. Just five short lines, but the sender address is right; he checks it hasn’t been spoofed.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
We saw your reporting from the mall in Arizona, we read your essay about what happened to you in Delhi. We are on the same side; we’re on the side of all men. If you’ve seen what happened in the Cleary election, you’ve understood what we’re fighting for. Come and talk to us, on the record. We want you on our team.
UrbanDox
It’s not even a question. There’s still his book to be written; the book, those nine hundred pages of chronicle and explanation. He has it all with him on his laptop all the time. There’s no question about this. A meeting with UrbanDox? Of course he will.
The theatrics around it are ridiculous. He can’t bring his own equipment. ‘We’ll give you a phone to record the interview,’ they tell him. For God’s sake. ‘I understand,’ he writes back. ‘You can’t compromise your position.’ They like that. It feeds into their sense of who they are. ‘You’re the only one we trust,’ they say. ‘You tell the truth. You have seen the chaos for what it is. You were invited to the action in Arizona and you came. You are the one we want.’ The way they talk is positively messianic. ‘Yes,’ he emails back. ‘I have wanted to talk to you for a long time.’
Of course, there’s a meeting point in the parking lot of a Denny’s. Of course there is. Of course, there’s a blindfold ride in a jeep and men wearing black – all white men – with balaclavas over their faces. These are men who’ve watched too many movies. This has become a thing now: men’s movie clubs, in living rooms and back rooms of bars. Watching particular kinds of movie over and over again: the ones with explosions and helicopter crashes and guns and muscles and punching. Guy flicks.
After all this, when they take off his blindfold, he’s in a storage locker. It’s dusty. There’s someone’s old boxes of VHS cassettes labelled ‘A-Team’ in the corner. And there’s UrbanDox, sitting in a chair, smiling.
He looks different to his profile pictures. He’s in his mid-fifties. He’s bleached his hair so that it’s very pale, almost white. His eyes are a pallid, watery blue. Tunde’s read some things about this man; there was, by all accounts, a terrible childhood, violence, racial hatred. There was a string of failed businesses, leaving dozens of people owed thousands of dollars each. There was, eventually, a night-school law degree and a reinvention as a blogger. He’s well-built for a man of his age, though his face is faintly grey. The great change in the tide of things has been good for UrbanDox. He’d been blogging his mean-spirited, semi-literate, bigoted, angry rhetoric for years but, recently, more and more people – men and, indeed, some women – have started to listen. He’s denied over and over again being tied to the violent splinter groups that have bombed shopping malls and public parks in half a dozen states now. But, if he’s not linked to them, they like to link themselves to him. One of the recent accurate bomb threats contained simply an address, a time and the web address of UrbanDox’s latest screed on the Coming Gender War.
He’s softly spoken. His voice is more high-pitched than Tunde was expecting. He says, ‘You know they’re going to try to kill us.’
Tunde has said to himself, Just listen. He says, ‘Who’s trying to kill us?’
UrbanDox says, ‘The women.’
Tunde says, ‘Aha. Tell me more about that.’
A sly smile spreads over the man’s face. ‘You’ve read my blog. You know what I think.’
‘I’d like to hear it in your own words. On tape. I think people would like to hear it. You think the women are trying to kill –’
‘Oh, I don’t think, son, I know. None of this is an accident. They talk about “Guardian Angel”, that stuff that got into the water supply, and how it built up in the water table? They say no one could have predicted it? Phooey. Bullcrap. This has been planned. This was decided on. After the end of the Second World War, when the peaceniks and do-gooders had the upper hand, they decided to put this stuff in the water. They thought men had had their turn and we’d messed it up – two world wars in two generations. Pussy-whipped betas and faggots, all of them.’