Survival of the Wisest

A chill, blacker than the black book in her hand, settled over London.

“What are the stats, figures? What do you mean the Indonesian government wants to sue us over some stupid rare gnat? Survival of the fittest, dammit!”

The cradle cracked as her boss slammed down the phone. Grunted, spat. A helicopter shuddered somewhere outside. Clutching the book against her coat, Marie’s stomach turned as he fell into a spasm of coughs - every neatly pressed suit in the vicinity casting a wary look toward where she stood outside his office door.

“Sounds bad.” Blake from HR had fallen against the wall beside her. "Get anything for his birthday, dear?" He tilted his head as she showed the book to him, a simple ribbon tied around it in a cross. “Damn, that's nice, Marie. Looks antique... I like the serpent on it. What's the symbol on the cover? ...Persian?"

"Ensane Kheradmand." Marie said. "It means 'Wise human.'"

Blake chuckled. "God, that's stretching it, he's an ass. But you seem to know people; he might even like that. ...Think he’d notice if I pinched it later?”

Marie's mouth dropped.

“You’re so innocent, Marie!” Blake grinned. “No wonder he trusts you. Hey, got anything lined up after this gig? - one major shock, his doc says and he'll kark it.” Marie’s eyes darted to the closest desk to see the man there still typing, oblivious. Only Blake would feel no qualms saying such a thing. “Looks like the walking dead. So much for survival of the fittest,” he snorted. “Let's be honest, the world 'll be a better place without him.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say!” breathed Marie. Her face went pale.

The pale herbs spilled over her fingers. Rosemary. Thyme …She pushed them into the white lace bags. Pulled the drawstrings, careful not to over-handle them. Cold light fractured white across a small black one, an open notebook on the kitchen counter as she blew into each one, arranging them in careful lines. Placed black stones around them in a circle. Then, brow furrowed, shook the powder into a diagonal cross. Frosted breaths. Cold flushed cheeks.

Her lips worked inaudible whispers.

"Marie! Get in here!”

Marie hurried past Blake into the office. Those violent coughs – as though surging from a chest made of gravel – filling the office as she entered. Sunken-skin, hard-eyed, her boss was on another call, “...I'll make this go away," he growled. "They don't know who they're dealing with. And lower wages there, hear me?”

In the six years Marie had been his PA, her boss had withered slowly from a virile, ox-like man on the edge of making bank, to a corpse dressed best for burial whose recent billions could do nothing to save him. He slammed the phone down again and stared at her.

“Got me a present?”

She rested the notebook on the table. He tugged the ribbon off and flicked through its yellowing pages.

“What the hell's this?" he barked. "It's got writing in it. Pictures. Is that me in the centre? What - did you give me your bloody diary?"

"It's not you inside, it’s a symbol. Took me years to find it, sir. It’s said these antique-notebooks reignite the soul and spirit of nature, the old artists, the famous writers. This one's in the style of the alchemists. The cover says: 'Wise human.'"

"Yes, that's me. What's in here? Why are these pages in the middle stuck together?"

Marie moved forward, hand out, "Wait-- until later to open that. That's the real surprise."

Her boss shut the book with a grunt and waved it carelessly at her. “Antique you say? Ok, it's not terrible. Put it with that lot over there.”

Marie put the notebook on a side table amongst a growing pile of presents, then set to work. Clearing away the wrapping paper, ribbons and angrily discarded documents. She moved to pull the curtains open to find London blanched with rain, light cutting across her boss's arched back; he needed sunlight, doctor’s orders. Checked there was enough water in his pitcher, and then, as he began yelling into his next call, quietly plucked a white lace bag from her handbag and tucked the fragrant herbs into the inside pocket of one of the old jackets, hanging like dead men in his cupboard. There were twelve bags in there now.

Her neighbour Desiree had her music on already; a dull thump wobbled the light fixture. Marie's gaze flicked up toward the clock and she worked a little faster.

Thyme pungent on her fingers, she reached into her handbag to retrieve the photo….held it out over the careful display, the black stones, the powder…

And placed the photo, almost tenderly, in the center.

Her boss snapped, “Marie.” Dragged a briefcase out from below his desk. The locks popped as he pushed it open. “You know I've always liked you,” he wheezed the word liked like he was passing a stone. “All this was just an F - you--”

“What...do you mean, sir?”

He pulled out a set of papers from inside and began furiously scrawling his signature across them.

“Don’t want the family to get a penny,” he grumbled. Marie wasn’t sure whether he was talking to her, or to some mental image of his family. “Not a cent, the good-for-nothings. Survival of the fittest. ...The last five years I left my entire fortune to you.”

“Y…You did what, sir?”

“You heard me.”

“–I thought that was our …little joke.”

“Yes, bloody hell it's a joke. Why would I leave it to you?” He seemed angry now. “An insipid PA with no ambition of her own. Not an ounce of strategy in her bones, not even pretty. You wouldn't know the first on domination, subversion, power. People like you don’t get billions. They can’t even pay their heating--”

The elbows of her coat were frayed. She shrugged it on at the doorway and turned to lock all four locks on the door of her flat, cold following her into the foyer.

“Marie! I hear you!” Desiree's pained voice caught her as Marie approached, her dog Goliath meeting her at the doorway. Des always left her door open a crack each morning for her clients.

Crimson blinds closed, the scent of stale perfume and hovering incense made Des’s place feel like some camp film noir, lit under the washed-out glow of red lights. Music so loud Marie could feel it in her throat.

“I gotta tell you, those little bags you made are a wonder,” Desiree said loudly, from the couch. She was almost bald, skeletal. Crunched over her chess board, brow furrowed as she tried to counter the move she had played against herself. “Clientele's up fifty percent. I placed 'em all around the massage parlour. All I do is whisper my intent into 'em, right?"

"Just a little recipe I found in an old book. Seems to work."

Desiree made another move. "I hate to ask but …I need that fifty.” She winced an apologetic glance at her. “Pullin' every penny together fer chemo.”

“I know, Des, it’s – ”

“Gotta be the fittest round here to survive, right?” Des cracked a grin at her, quoting Marie’s boss.

“Don’t worry about a thing. I'm taking care of it," Goliath nuzzled at Marie’s thigh. She stroked his hind down to sit. "I’ll even buy you dinner.”

"...People like you work for people like me, Marie.” Her boss continued. He pulled a cigar from his top drawer. Bit it, lit it, and leaned back with a thump into his chair. “Putting your name on my will was actually your idea. Only good one you ever had. You made a joke when I asked what would drive 'em all mad. But that one village-idiot moment turned out to be a stroke of genius. You'd no idea but I loved it. Had it signed over to you that very night. When Gloria found out I thought she was going to pop an artery! Norton's head looked like it might actually explode-- Wait, I think that moment's still on my phone somewhere. I took a selfie with him." He was now flicking through the album on his android. "There it is. Makes me laugh every time. ...Had you been wise enough to work it out, Marie, you could've knocked me off. But of course, people like you get some kind of perverse, saintly enjoyment from having nothing. …No offense.”

“None taken, sir.”

He moved to his draw, pulled out a USB and dropped it into the briefcase; dropped the signed papers in there too. "Here. Take this to Donald-the-Solicitor and get him to sort out the Indonesian Embassy--"

He retrieved a wad of cash from his top drawer, dumping it in as well. “Shut up now, Marie." (She had said nothing.) "The twenty thousand, tell him, is for my man there to make all this gnat-business disappear. If he says no, the USB has a record of all we have on him. That's business, Marie. Survival. Of. The. Fittest." He coughed another hacking cough. Spat phlegm into his wastepaper basket. "The new will's in there too," he croaked. "Signed over to ...bloody hell, let me think on it... Who do I sign it over to, Marie? Its null and void 'til that's filled in. You're the one with the bright ideas--"

"Cancer...treatments, sir?"

"Bah! Hilarious." He clipped it shut and pushed at her. "I'll call him."

She took the briefcase. Twenty thousand dollars was surprisingly light, but then, something in her always suspected it would be.

Her boss was back on the phone. Marie wondered why he didn’t spend his last moments out in the rain, or in nature. He was yelling at some poor official again as she retrieved the photo of him from her handbag. Traced a cross over his chest and placed it tenderly beside the white bags she’d left in his coat pocket, whispering her intent. Her heart seized when he called toward her. “Marie!" He pointed the cigar at her. "The Amazon. Indonesia. Make it something to do with cutting down forests, I hate those things! The will I mean – tell Donald. ...Full of mosquitoes and gnats.”

“Of course, sir.” Marie moved lithely to retrieve the black book from the table, slid it onto the desk. “Don’t forget to open the closed pages, sir." Her teeth flashed in a smile. "Your final birthday ...surprise.”

Her boss frowned, opened the book, and carefully peeled apart the stuck pages.

“What?” he grunted, kicking back his chair as an assortment of herbs fell from the book into his lap. Rosemary, thyme - from a small, black lace bag held inside. The thirteenth one.

“Thank you for leaving me your fortune,” Marie said, patting the briefcase. “And the extra 20 grand was an unexpected bonus. ...Cancer treatments, sir.”

His eyes widened as he realised. On the page, in curving black ink, were the words:

Survival of the Wisest.

His hand clutched his chest. He was struggling for breath.

“The doctor said no sudden shocks. Rest now ...a small spell, sir. Don't worry, I cleared your schedule.”

White foam formed at the corners of his mouth. Marie took her time tidying up, retrieved the bags. He choked out something incoherent, skin purpling. Her boss’s bulging eyes met hers.

“Survival of the fittest?” Marie smiled placatingly as he reached out for her; the same sweet smile she’d been giving him for six years as she edged quietly out of reach, finger tracing the line of the snake on the book's cover.

Then, with her boss’s head hitting his polished, mahogany desk, Marie snatched up the black notebook. Secured the briefcase against her chest. And left.

Desiree played the white castle. In one swift movement, Marie reached across her, grabbed the black queen.

And moved it right into check.