Underground: Fast and Furious, A Blackly Comic Rollercoaster by Andrew McGahan
By Andrew McGahan
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Bernard and I had both been named as executors, but I’d left it up to Bernard to arrange. When it came to dreary legal stuff, he was the expert. ‘There’s a cheque there, too,’ he said. I took up a pen and scribbled my signature. ‘You could have mailed this to me,’ I said, when I was done. ’ There was something about the way he said ‘finish’ that caught my attention. ’ ‘Us. ’ I was smiling. Bernard tried this on every few years. ‘C’mon. ’ And he had me there. ’ ‘So why the fuss now? ’ But even that bounced off him.
I was laughing. Nothing was going to kill me today. I knew that half a kilometre along the driveway was the front gate, and the security complex, built as solidly as a bunker. I could ride out the storm there. Maybe, if the guards had any sense, there would even be something to drink. I consulted the sky. The walls of the cyclone loomed with their surreal fixity, and a haze covered the sea—but somewhere out there the other side of the eye was rushing towards me. I took one last look at my resort, the final folly of an age when things like holidays and tourism had seemed to matter.
Except, that is, by you, my dear interrogators. You, and maybe a few of your superiors. That’s not much of an audience. And besides, it’s not as if you people need to hear all of this over. You’ve already made me tell you everything. Admit to everything. Confess to everything. So why? Well, because here I sit, at this big, empty table, locked away in this giant, empty room, with nothing else to do. And despite the fear and the anger, and the occasional pain, I’m also, mostly, just very bored. No proper books in here, no TV, nothing to pass the hours between our little talks.