No Harm Can Come to a Good Man. James Smythe

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      ‘It’s fine,’ Amit says.

      ‘We’re on a plane, asshole.’

      Amit looks around and sees one of the cabin crew staring at them down the aisle, looking at what’s going on. He can’t have his phone confiscated, so he switches it off.

      ‘Happy now?’ he asks. The man rolls his eyes, smug at his win. Amit goes back to the laptop and opens the email. He hits reply and writes to them, as quickly as he can.

      There’s a problem with the results issued. See final two questions. Please address IMMEDIATELY, or we will be forced to take legal action. He hits the screen’s keyboard so hard it stings the tips of his fingers.

      ‘What’s wrong?’ Laurence asks. Amit looks across at his boss who is sleepy-eyed, rubbing his face.

      ‘Nothing,’ Amit says. He thinks about telling him – no lies, no secrets, that’s how this works – but he knows that this will be corrected. When it is, this will be something to laugh about. He doesn’t know, right now, how Laurence will react to it. ‘Somebody is wrong on the Internet,’ Amit says. He can hear the shakiness in his own voice, the lie coming through. Laurence smiles.

      ‘There’s always somebody wrong on the Internet,’ he says. ‘I’m going to try and get another half hour of shut-eye.’

      ‘Do it.’ Amit shuts the laptop. ‘Me too.’ Both men shut their eyes, but Amit clutches his phone in his hands. As soon as they land, as soon as they can get to the hotel, he’ll be calling ClearVista; and he’ll be getting angry, speaking to somebody directly, sorting this out.

      He shuts his eyes and he sees the final results, the numbers flashing behind his eyelids as if they’re afterimages of the sun.

      Deanna drives down to the stretch of shops that calls itself the town center. She could walk this easily – their house is at the end of a long stretch that calls itself Main Street, but it has no actual competition for that title, with almost all of the town’s houses either sitting on it or just off it in neat little clusters – but she has a list of what needs doing, and one of the things involves getting the car checked out at the garage. And there’s the shopping from Henderson’s, for food and the new lock and simply walking around to clear her head. She likes living in this place, talking to the people, being a part of life here. They know Deanna, have done since she was a little girl. That sense of belonging is nice; the community feeling like a part of their lives. As they recovered – as they still recover – from Sean’s death, the support of the town has been incredible. They have all wanted Laurence to pick himself up and, in his parlance, brave the rain. They’re all going to vote for him, they say, whether they’re Republican or Democrat, saying that they’ll plant placards in their lawns and spread the word as much as they can. It’s that sort of town.

      The garage is at the far end of the street, past everything else. Deanna pulls in, driving onto the forecourt, and Ann runs out. She’s a short woman, older than she looks, hair pulled back into a greasy net, and she perpetually leans, Deanna’s noticed. On everything, resting her hands. She leans on the hood of the Walkers’ SUV as Deanna gets out.

      ‘Deanna,’ she says, ‘good to see you.’ She adds a J to her pronunciation of the name that makes Deanna think of I Dream Of Jeannie; a classic sitcom vision of small-town America. ‘She playing up?’

      ‘Not quite,’ Deanna says. ‘There was a clunking coming from under the hood a few weeks back. Thought we should probably get it checked out.’

      ‘I’d say you should for sure. You want me to do it right now?’

      ‘Would you mind?’ Deanna asks. ‘I can go do the shopping then come back?’ Everything is phrased as a question, not wanting to assume or put anybody out. Ann smiles and nods, and takes the keys from Deanna.

      ‘Give me a half hour,’ she says. Deanna thanks her and walks down the road towards Henderson’s: past the diner, past the church, past the gun store (which does the most trade here of anything, given how close they are to one of the North-East’s major hunting spots), past the liquor store. The owners and customers all stop and nod at her as she passes, all smiling. She goes into Henderson’s and Trent and Martha, co-owners, married for fifty years, as they’ll tell anybody whether they ask or not, and the closest thing to figureheads that the town has, come out and kiss her in greeting and tell her how happy they are to see her. They mean it, as well.

      ‘Where’s that husband of yours at today?’ Trent asks.

      ‘Texas,’ Deanna says.

      ‘Oil money?’

      ‘Oil money.’

      ‘That’s politics now,’ Martha says.

      ‘That’s always been politics,’ Trent counters.

      ‘As long as you’re all safe and sound, that’s all that matters,’ Martha replies. She goes to the coffee machine in the corner – they had it installed a few years ago, to offer takeout when they started stocking varieties of different coffee beans as well – and makes Deanna a drink that she didn’t even ask for. It’s the way that they do things here; the way that they always have. They know what you want sometimes before you do, even.

      ‘Not long now until he’ll know, I suppose?’

      ‘No,’ Deanna says. ‘Not long. A couple more months.’

      ‘So maybe this’ll all calm down after that.’

      ‘Maybe. Probably not, the way that Laurence tells it.’

      ‘Oh my word, we’ll be so sad to see you leave,’ Martha says. ‘I mean, of course you’ll come back for your vacations.’

      Deanna thinks about the lake house, how that was the intention of owning it all along. Now, she doesn’t know if she can even go there. It feels wrong to her; as if it’s forever tainted. It will always be associated with Sean, with what happened. No getting past that, and the Hendersons realize that as well, if not too late. Trent and Martha shoot each other looks, not knowing whether to address the faux pas or not. It hangs in the air until Deanna breaks the tension. ‘That’s a long way away,’ Deanna says, meaning in terms of votes and time both.

      ‘I reckon this is a foregone conclusion,’ Trent says. ‘You can’t call these things, but as much as you can, I’d say that it’s a done deal.’ He nods at the television in the corner, behind the counter. There’s Laurence and the other potential nominees, the newscaster talking about their current vote split, the predicted results, and that 3% head start. ‘Makes it easier when the television’s saying he’s the man, I reckon.’

      ‘Maybe,’ Deanna says.

      ‘You got a list?’ Martha asks. Deanna holds it up and Martha snatches it and forces it into Trent’s hand. ‘He’ll do it. Nothing better to do. You can stay here and keep me company.’

      ‘Oh, no,’ Deanna says, but she knows how this goes. It’s always the same.

      Trent looks at the list. ‘What do you need the chain for?’ he asks.

      ‘We had another intruder. They broke the old lock.’

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