by Stuart Evers
Drum had watched the news reports, the coverage of the attempted coup d’état, sick in the stomach. Jerrick looked at him and perhaps saw a fellow traveller, a flicker of recognition.
‘It’s not a popular reaction, I confess,’ he said. ‘But I’m old, and I no longer care.’
He smiled and opened the door. Inside, the room was almost total night, the large bay windows shrouded with thick layers of sackcloth. Jerrick flicked a switch and the light was blinding, strip lights, institutional and humming, suspended from the high ceiling where chandeliers had once shimmered. It was a former ballroom, a huge space dominated by three large desks covered in papers, maps and blueprints. The three unwindowed walls were shelved, crammed with books and box files, document wallets and boxes, thousands of volumes, flush to the walls, many more stacked on lines of library trolleys in front of them.
Jerrick shuffled to the nearest desk, picked up a piece of paper at random, put it back on the desk.
‘You’re surprised,’ he said. ‘People are always surprised.’
‘I know you said it was comprehensive, but . . .’ Carter said.
‘It’s mostly illegally gotten,’ he said. ‘Files I filched, memos I copied. It was dangerous for a time, I liked that, the danger of it. I had my little helpers. My little moles. But the service, they knew what I was doing. They knew what I was trying to amass. There isn’t anything in here the Russians didn’t know about anyway. When they closed Doom Town, they told me to take the library with me, they had no use for it. So I took it and added to it. This is the history of the ghost war. The last great conflict we shall know. A low, dishonest history. I used to come in here and feel the fire, feel the heat from the pages. And now everything is as cold as the grave. It’s a museum, not an archive. There’s nothing here but ghosts of ghosts, memories of a collective madness. People will look back on this archive, and they’ll laugh. It will become a black comedy. All the things we did to protect ourselves will look like adults dressing up, creating their own ridiculous monsters. My bequest to the world is the world’s largest collection of jokes.’
He went to the corner of the room and opened a box, took out a bottle of Scotch.
‘I was a boy scout in my youth,’ he said. ‘Be prepared.’
Drum looked around the room, the insane amount of collated information. To his right was a wall devoted to novels about atomic war; below them hundreds of video tapes and reel-to-reel cassettes.
‘It’s overwhelming, sir,’ Carter said. ‘I had no idea you had all this stuff.’
‘Stuff?’ Jerrick said. ‘This “stuff” is my life. Yours too. A grand devotional.’
Drum ran his hands along the metal of a bookshelf, jolted from a static shock.
‘Yes,’ Jerrick said. ‘Do watch for that. Happens to me about a hundred times a day. Probably why I’m still alive. So is there something you’re both interested in?’
‘Mid-Off,’ Drum said. ‘An operation in ’80.’
Jerrick walked back towards the door, climbed a few rungs of a ladder and took down a box. He placed it on the desk in front of Drum.
‘That’s all the materials for Mid-Off,’ Jerrick said. ‘All I have anyway.’
He smiled.
‘Which is of course everything.’
Jerrick wandered off to refill his glass. Carter stood beside Drum and put a hand on the box.
‘Are you sure?’ Carter said. ‘You can’t unsee it, you know. Once you open the box . . .’
Carter was dying. Sure of it now. Should have thought. Should have known.
‘Do you know what’s in here?’ Drum said.
‘No,’ Carter said. ‘But please don’t open it. Please don’t.’
Drum looked for Jerrick. An arbiter. A referee. But he was gone. It was just the two of them in the vast room, the strip lights humming and a box with Carter’s hand on its lid.
*
Alone, Carter unable to watch, Drum read the Mid-Off files. The speed of its introduction; the need to ensure full intelligence of what was likely to happen in the network of bunkers if the bomb dropped. There had been studies, but none so widespread or specific. What happens to the dynamics of a group when a stranger is introduced? How safe would the VIPs be? There were sixty registered private bunkers, and each would be tested. There were reports from generals and medical professionals arguing against the test. They were ignored. In the post-Afghanistan world, the defence experts argued, it was imperative to be as prepared as possible.
There were sixty reports of the Mid-Off tests, each in their own folder. They were dry: what had been discussed, the atmosphere of those in the bunker, the psychological temperature below ground. Drum read the first. The drill had lasted two days. The third a little over twelve hours. The third made it to three days.
‘At 6.10 a.m.,’ the third report concluded. ‘The observer went through from his billet to the billet of the owners. There he found the four of them dead. There had been no warning of suicide. There was no indication it was planned.’
Names were not mentioned in the reports, just sex and ages. M, 46, F 39, M 4, M 7. The next report, another death. Suicide by gunshot, M 22. He stopped reading in any detail, skimmed them until he found himself in the twenty-third report.
‘The father,’ Gault wrote, ‘was well-disposed, clear of intention, followed protocol, followed orders. Son on the edge, close to violence. Daughter lost her mind in the night. Was forced to abandon after an incident with the daughter. Conclusion that these be struck from the register of approved members of the public. Recommendation: unsafe.’
There was a final document, a debrief with future recommendations. All dignitaries to be armed on entering a civilian bunker, and to be accompanied at all times by trained handlers. All members of the programme to be rescreened; those who had already failed immediately expelled, all privileges revoked. Any dangerous elements to be removed from a bunker, in the event, by force if necessary.
All these years, he’d thought themselves safe, but not safe. No longer privileged with early warning; no guarantee they would be admitted to the bunker. All those years and no better off than the rest of the world. No safer than a factory worker, a librarian, or a farmer.
*
They drove to the hotel in silence, no cassette playing, no radio. Five deaths, one shotgun, four pills, a busted flush of a test. Annie running from the bunker, his last sight of her, running, screaming. Had she kept it back. Had she just been able to control herself, a matter of days and they’d have been safe. Safe for all time. Couldn’t just keep it together, not just for a matter of hours. She put them all in danger. All these years.
‘A drink,’ Carter said, parking the car at the hotel. ‘We could use one.’
‘No,’ Drum said.
‘We need to talk,’ Carter said. ‘I brought you here so we could talk.’
‘I thought you wanted to show me the archive. That’s what you said.’
Carter turned off the engine, rubbed his eyes with thin fingers.
‘A pretext. A sugar coating,’ he said. ‘Had to pique your interest.’
He laughed and it was the sad laugh of a man who knows something is coming to an end, to its conclusion.
‘I don’t want to hear it,’ Drum said. ‘Please, I don’t want—’
Carter put his hand on Drum’s shoulder.
‘Please, Drummond,’ he said. ‘Please.’
The manners of the upper classes. Their perfect, perfect manners.
*
Carter had perhaps always drunk like a dying man; as though there were only a finite number of drinks one could consume before you die, and him ensuring he got his allotted. In the deserted bar, Carter lit a cigarette. Perhaps this was the place where death would finally come; a hotel in off season, the few guests trying to catch a glimpse of the cadaver as the receptionist explained the bar was temporarily closed.
‘I’m in trouble, Drum,’ Carter said. ‘I’m in all kinds of trouble.’
Heard this
before, heard it several times before, all with a wink, with the electric of drama behind it. Daphne leaving me, I’m in trouble Drum. Got the Hunter woman in the family way, I’m in trouble, Drum. I lost an important file, I’m in trouble, Drum. But nothing exhilarating here; enervating, rather, all fizz and vim fucked and bombed. Looking older than his age now, a mask slipping, revealing his true face, revealing his true features. Scared as the early days in Service, scared as those last days in Service. As though weeping in a small inaccessible part of his body. The pancreas perhaps, the lymph nodes.
It was possible Carter wanted his spleen. A transplant. Can you give a lung? A kidney? They would not be compatible, surely. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps that was always the plan. Found out years ago that they were both some obscure blood-type and Drum kept around for emergencies—
‘Thomas has got himself into a spot of bother.’
The relief of that. Fucking Thomas. The relief and the quick taking of the Bell’s, in celebration the bad whisky and Carter filling up his glass with the good stuff from his hip flask.
‘I bailed him out, obviously. Drugs at first, then some trading matter. It was all fine, I smoothed it over. Pulled in some favours owed on my father. Thomas was contrite, said he’d pay me back one day.’
Carter laughed.
‘I should have seen that coming, shouldn’t I? When someone says they’ll pay you back one day, you know it isn’t going to be pretty, don’t you?’
Drum said nothing.
‘You can’t trust sons,’ he said. ‘They want to fuck you. They might not mean to, but they can’t help it. They’re hardwired for it. Like Russians fleeing battle, they’re a generational scorched-earth policy. I shouldn’t blame him, the little skate. I shouldn’t blame him, because I knew. I knew and I still went along with it. I listened to him, I listened to him and I wanted to trust him and so I trusted him.’
Carter, not dying, smoked his cigarette and looked around, but there was no one there save Drum.
‘He had some hot tip. It was going to make him millions. Going to set him for life. Get his life back on track. But he needed money. No one else would front him. Said he would make everything back ten times over, just needed seed money. I gave him the lot, Drum. Everything.’
‘Everything?’
‘Everything, Drum. What part of everything are you missing? I gave him the lot and it went tits up. He lost the lot. I’d already taken a tanking on Black Monday, but this was like the bomb dropping, Drum. We have nothing. The house, yes, but I can’t sell it; can’t raise money on it without Daphne knowing.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Drum said. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘Nothing to say,’ Carter said. ‘I just need money. Medium-term loan, just to set myself right.’
‘So borrow it,’ Drum said.
Carter shook his head.
‘Nothing doing. No income for the foreseeable. They’re closing the RSG. They let me go a while back. I just need some money for the next six months, a year tops.’
‘You want the farm?’ Drum said. ‘Is that it? You want to take back the farm?’
‘No,’ Carter said, waving his hands. ‘No, no. I made you a promise. And I always keep my word. I just need you to borrow money against it. Get me what I need and I’ll pay it back when I can. All on me. Every last penny. You can save me again, Drum.’
Drum was not Drum at that moment. Sometimes, easy to forget oneself. To step out from skin, out from bone and brain, and become something wholly other. Seeing his son. Nate just there. Right in front of him. Save a son to save a son.
Drum will never understand that moment. That coming-out-from-self moment, when he looked at Carter and a fully formed response came, a quick deliberation, so quick it defied time. How complex the brain to come up with hard-and-fast plans in less than a lick of the lips; how complex the brain to conjure elaborate dreams in sleep.
‘Okay,’ Drum said. ‘I’ll do it.’
That look. The utter relief of that look. Bringing him back from death, that look.
‘But the farm is mine,’ Drum said. ‘I do this and I own it one hundred per cent. You sign it over to me tomorrow.’
That face. How quick the calculations, how quick the brain working, how quick you see the sparks, the electrics crackle.
‘I can’t do that, Drum. You know how long that land has been out of the family. What it took to get it back. It’s my legacy, that farm, you understand? On his deathbed, my father he looked at me and he said, “Do something I couldn’t do.” And I did it. I bloody did it, Drum. It was the best moment of my fucking life. You can’t take that from me. You can’t take that from me now.’
Drum sipped his Scotch.
‘Then I can’t help you,’ Drum said. ‘I need to look after Nate. It’s his place now, or will be. You want to save your son, make everything right? I need to do the same.’
‘You’d do this to me? You’d do this to me now?’ Carter said.
‘Without me, you’d never have had the farm.’
‘You ungrateful shit,’ Carter said. ‘You ingrate. All the things I’ve done for you. You owe me your life, you know that?’
‘And you owe me yours, remember that.’
Drum did not recognize the face. Not that face. Resignation, that face. Defeat. Carter stabbed out his cigarette.
‘Okay. You win,’ he said. ‘But here’s the deal. If you ever sell, you or Nate or any one, you sell only to me. To my family. No one ever gets that land but you or me. You have to swear on that.’
Just like that. As quick as that. The mind made up quicker than it takes to put out a Dunhill Light.
‘I promise,’ Drum said. ‘But you don’t make him an offer. You never make him an offer, nor anyone else. If Nate comes to you, fine. But you don’t ever offer him anything for the farm.’
Carter held out his hand. They shook hands.
‘Agreed,’ he said.
Carter proposed a toast. They clinked glasses.
‘I just hope I die before you,’ Carter said. ‘Otherwise Daph and Tom will kill me dead.’
Seven and Seven
2005
Thursday 7 July
1
She could not get hold of Ray. His phone rang through to an answer service, his clipped voice then a long tone. She left messages asking him to call her urgently; remembering the third time to say she hoped he was safe. In the kitchen, mid-morning, supposed to be at a Pilates class, good for her shattered back, ringing through to mobile, ringing through to an unanswered landline; the sound of the television loud from the sitting room.
Since switching from radio in kitchen to television in sitting room, Drum had not left the sofa. He leaned in close to the screen, mouth slightly open, as though he might miss something crucial. When the planes had crashed the towers, he’d done the same. Twelve hours and barely a toilet break. When aroused or threatened, the body shutting down such functions. He would be the day there now, the night: the commentators offering their insights, the constant repetition of the event, the estimates of casualties, the groups possibly responsible. After the towers, Ray had texted. Don’t worry. Anneka not in NYC. Unnecessary, but appreciated.
She texted Ray. Belt and braces. She was in the kitchen because she needed privacy, but also to avoid the screen, the rolling ticker. She sensed thrill in the presenters, in the pundits and experts. Something almost sexual; the erections as they told of the destruction; the tightening of the groin as they said deadliest peacetime attack on the capital. The same for Drum, most likely; sitting there, tea cooling on the table, leaning forward, better to capture the images, hide the swell in his jeans.
Were Anneka dead, were Robin dead, Gwen would be able to claim Femi. She would be able to go to London and put her arms around her grandchild, and tell him he was safe, that he could come and live with them now. On a farm. Imagine that! Cows and chickens and birds in the trees, a brook in which to paddle. The smells and the sights and the warmth of the fire, the open air an
d the fields. And the love here, yes, the love. All for you, Femi, the love. The making right.
She called Ray. She heard his voice and the long tone. She left a short message.
She’d seen footage of the mangled bus; the punched-by-god Tube trains. A miracle not more dead; a miracle the whole city not aflame. Footage of the underground travellers above ground, blinking mole-like by the police cordons, looking over the lines of stretchers. To be blasted just a touch, just a little, enough for a story, enough to feel alive amongst the death. She knew that’s how she’d feel. That she would want to be amongst it; to smell the sharp smoke and burned rubber; see the melt of flesh, the splash of spilled blood.
She’d watched the crowds for Anneka, watched them for Robin, for Femi. She did not see them, they could be on the stretchers, covered over and shrouded, perhaps. Laid out next to Ray, dying next to each other, a camera loaded in his pocket, the police puzzled as to why the only saved photographs were covert shots of a woman and a man and a child. How many secrets exposed by bombs; how many deceptions blown cover.
She called Ray. She heard his voice and the long tone. She left a short message.
The networks would be at breaking point. How many panicking up and down the country; thinking of partners and lovers, thinking of children and grandchildren? Ray would be safe. People like Ray do not die in these kinds of things. Never the known who die. Never the ones worthy of obituary.
The phone rang, Daphne’s number. Immediate guilt at the number. She’d not thought of Thomas. His family. Natasha too, somewhere in the South now.
‘They’re all safe,’ Daphne said. ‘All of them. I just managed to get through to Tommy. He said it’s carnage, but everyone’s all okay. He spoke to Tasha, too.