Shells
Who knew I had a twin brother named Edmund who grew up with another family? When we reconnected many years later, Edmund turned out to be strangely competitive, active and quick - resembling me in no way at all. Confused by privilege and money, he developed a fetish for Shell Oil during its many years of success. As a child, he loved the logo and it adorned his room. As a teenager, he collected its badges and trinkets. At University he studied International Business, took an internship with the company and wrote a dissertation on its pioneering use of scenario planning. Edmund wore a tight-fitting suit that squeezed out his head, accentuating his creepy good looks and slicked-back hair. He did not like his foster family, but I did, and would often visit them at home and drink with his 'dad'. When Edmund visited, the old man and I would sit on the sofa while he - standing - held forth on Shell's achievements. It surprised none of us when he rose steadily through the company's ranks, prospered and returned each holiday to show he was better than us. To this end, by way of evidence, he purchased a fancy car, which he polished on Sundays. At the time, I rode a bicycle.
His 'mother' claimed I was lazy, just like her husband. Yet no matter how hard I try, I mostly can't be bothered. A gifted idler, I must have heaved myself off the sofa long enough to court and marry Gladys - a few months perhaps - but recovered my old spot on the saggy cushions, next to 'dad', when she threw me out for drinking. Pity that.
Gladys still comes over on holidays to give me a present, shout at me and remind me that I never do anything. At least she's getting herself an education! Such outbursts often result in a general retreat from the sofa to the hall, where 'dad' and I exchange long-suffering looks, though once he declared he liked her and wanted to know why I had messed things up. He was like that, years of sullen silence and then suddenly, 'Family Meeting!'
I am slumped at the dining room table, with father on my right, Gladys to the left and Edmund opposite, all seated upright and expectant. It's quiet, as no one knows why we are here, but soon it will grow overwhelmingly loud. I stick close to the door so I can slip away if needed, just as father breaks the silence with an announcement that he is dying. His words are splayed across the table. Gladys weeps softly and reaches across to place a hand on his shoulder.
I do nothing, while Edmund, as usual, does too much. Immediately he wants details, diagnoses and treatments, and almost in a panic, insists on paying for proper healthcare.
Father shakes his head. He does this very slowly and in such a way as to finally stab his news deep within me. Edmund is still going, speeding now, ridiculing the local doctor and extolling the health care that - yes, only Shell can deliver! Driven from the table by the single-minded force of Edmund's faith in an oil company, father and I stand in the hall. We understand each other and I reach out to touch him. Gladys' voice rolls over us from the dining room and into the hall. 'Forget Shell,' she instructs Edmund. 'And forget that stupid car. Your dad doesn't want solutions. He needs you to listen!'
I raise my eyebrows at 'dad' and in reply, he shrugs and nods.
But in the wild of the dining room, Gladys is in full swing. 'You and that horrible, awful company,' she mutters, angry yet bewildered. 'Times have changed Edmund. Can't you see? Shell are the pariahs of fossil capitalism, mass murderers, liars and cheats. The company is demonized in the press and dragged through the courts, its executives trolled on social media and abused in public. Wake up! Look at Shell's history of pollution and human rights violations, at the subsidies it still receives from governments and its continued lobbying for fossil fuels when it knew perfectly well it was destroying the planet.
Edmund, usually insulated against the views of others, is aghast. How could she say such things? He cites statistics on Shell's dedication to sustainable energy, and I see his mind work. Inside, he is defending his lover. He believes his stunted little family, this cast of losers, could never really know Shell. They had no feel for its gangster-mobile history or the smooth warmth of its brand, of its ubiquity, yet the clever way it hides in plain sight. He always enjoyed asking people, 'where is Shell? Is it in the 44,000 Shell service stations worldwide or its world headquarters in the Hague? Is it in its drills and tankers and hidden logistics and workers or the roadside stops that feature in old movies, creating the landscapes against which we live our lives? It is global, local, real and virtual – all at the same time? It is financial, algorithmic, imagined? Only he, Edmund, could grasp the full complexity of such a being, and see it all expressed in the glinting simplicity of its golden logo.
Gladys lets him finish before adding her own conclusion. "Well," she says, 'I'm going to college, so you can all fuck off.'
Edmund's father died and left me on the sofa, the tv flickering. It was a long and silent summer, during which the virus was bad and we were all ordered to stay home. Over those weeks, I slowly conceived and then executed a plan to move from the sofa on the ground floor to the bed, which is on the first. I described this to the others as a 'lazy man's contribution to controlling the virus', one I was uniquely able to provide. Not everyone can do nothing with such aplomb. Certainly, Gladys couldn't, as she continued to visit me.
May I point out that eventually, hunger makes you go outside? You can only sit on the sofa - motivation free - for so long, but when the food is gone, thoughts of action become intrusive. As I ventured onto the street, neighbours in groups greeted me. People were coming through their front doors, blinking at first and then with increasing confidence and curiosity. When the crowd thickened and began to move, I was surprised to observe my feet falling in step, almost as if they were not my own. I was bumping others and saying 'sorry', but soon I noticed that everyone was talking, even shouting, all at once. Let me tell you, a crowd can raise every hair on your body, make your legs tremble and sharpen your senses. I found I could snatch bits of conversation. One young man hurried past me and said to his friend, 'Now, that's what I'm talking about!'
At first we walk, but soon a ripple passes through our ranks until suddenly we are running - all of us, together, I could not do otherwise. The sound of our tramping feet roared around us in a storm, vast and alien. Voices called out, and some were singing; a distant thump of a drum, the crackle of small arms fire. What's happening? Where are we going? 'To the palace!' a man shouts, and now everyone repeats the call. There is a car horn, shrill and sharp, then a terrible scream. The world has cracked open. Someone has driven what looks like a Maserati into right into the crowd.
I saw the terror on Edmund's face as he frantically held the door closed, but people wrenched it off and smashed the windows - pulling him through the broken glass and out onto the ground. There was a sudden pile of writhing bodies, and once again, I heard the words, 'That's what I'm talking about!' but the crowd pushed me away and the car exploded with a hollow pop. Flames surged upwards and the air was filled with smoke.
The police blocked the road with trucks and steel barriers and as night settled and it grew cold, people began to drift away. On their way, they broke into shops and looted whatever they could carry. I admit I entered a ransacked Tesco Express, found a dented tin of button mushrooms and slipped it guiltily home.
No sleep. Tears. Edmund's life arrayed before me. Now at the end, its shape revealed, he seemed pathetic and grasping, flush with money yet bereft of soul. He was gone. I trembled and resolved never to run with a crowd the way I had, never to lose control and never to be encouraged into violence.
'Perhaps if we all took to our beds?' I suggest helpfully to Gladys.
'No way,' she says.
'But if you came to bed, we'd reduce our carbon emissions, be warm and avoid spreading the virus.'
She turns to me and smiles. 'You look like 'dad,' she says.