The Resistance

goes around comes around and what doesn’t come around . . . well, that goes around too.’
    ‘You’re wrong,’ Peter said, his voice low and angry. ‘Everything matters. I matter. Anna matters. Our lives matter.’
    ‘If you say so,’ the man said.
    ‘I do say so,’ Peter said forcefully, almost forgetting that he was talking to a stranger. ‘If you think nothing matters, then it’s OK to use people. And it’s OK to believe in people who let you down. But it isn’t.’ He rocked forward slightly and pulled himself back just in time to avoid falling off the stool.
    ‘They let you down, you let them down, then they’re your best friend, until next time,’ the man said, the words almost sounding poetic as they came out of his mouth, like a rhyme, or a folk song. He looked at Peter for a few seconds, then he shrugged. ‘It all just goes round and round, you see,’ he muttered. ‘You’ll find out. Can’t make a bad choice, can’t make a good one.’
    ‘You’re talking rubbish,’ Peter said, abruptly pulling himself upright and starting when the room began to spin violently. ‘Of course you can make a bad choice. You can choose to trust the wrong people. You can choose to believe them . . .’ he trailed off, fighting the tears that were pricking at his eyes.
    The man leant closer and Peter gagged slightly at the smell of alcohol on his breath.
    ‘Trust who you want. Right and wrong, they’re just the same.’ He stared at Peter, his bulbous eyes focused on Peter’s with an intensity that made him uncomfortable, then he erupted into rasping laughter. ‘So, you going to make better choices? That why you’re in here?’
    Peter pulled himself off the stool and put some money down on the counter. ‘I don’t know,’ he said quietly, swaying, his vision now blurred, his heart heavy in his chest. ‘I don’t know what the right choice is. I don’t know if I even have one any more.’
    ‘None of us does,’ the man said sagely, downing his drink. ‘We thinks we do, but we don’t. Not really. Best thing to do is just sit still and it’ll all happen to you anyway.’ He winked. ‘Don’t want to rush things, after all.’
    ‘Whatever,’ Peter said dismissively. ‘You don’t have to rush things. You’ve got for ever to make bad choices, haven’t you?’
    The man guffawed, his mouth opening wide and his face getting even redder than before. Then he leant in close so that his rasping voice resonated in Peter’s ear, making it itch. ‘You talk about choices,’ he said, his tone conspiratorial. ‘But there’s only one choice I want to make, and I can’t make it, see? I don’t want to die. I just can’t see the point in living either.’ He rolled his eyes and laughed, then slammed his empty glass down on the bar. ‘Another of your finest,’ he said to the barman, who duly filled the glass.
    Peter looked at him for a moment, then he pushed back his stool. ‘Maybe you can’t,’ he said angrily, ‘but I can. And I’m going to.’
    He stood up straight, his hands catching the bar to maintain his balance. As he did so, his eyes were drawn briefly to the ring on his finger with its engraved flower. The flower had always represented something important to him – not just his beginnings, but life itself. The Coveys had told him again and again about the natural cycle of life – flowers growing, blooming, spreading their pollen via butterflies, bees and other insects in order to create their young before they died, their work done. They’d given him books on natural history, on natural selection, on the development of a species through the cycle of life, reproduction and death. But Peter could see the ring was out of date now. The cycle had been broken; it wasn’t relevant any more. Natural selection had been replaced by something else, something different, and there was no going back. It was still about survival of the fittest, though, and Peter was determined to survive, whatever it took. Without looking back at the man, Peter stumbled out of the bar. He needed to talk to Anna. He needed to know she’d survive with him.
    ‘Peter!’ Anna greeted him like a war hero, in spite of the fact that it was nearly midnight; in spite of the fact that he stank of alcohol, that he was swaying from side to side. It made him feel guilty, uncomfortable; he’d have preferred her to be angry with him.
    ‘Hi,’ he said, stumbling slightly. ‘Sorry I’m late.’
    Anna smiled cautiously.