Guy Fawkes Day

by KJ Griffin

  ***

  Docklands, November 1st, 8:30 a.m.

  Chapman was on a high. Despite the almost total lack of sleep over the last twenty-four hours he had never felt on better form. Prince Omar Al-Ajnabi, or Robert Bailey, was certainly a maker and breaker of fortunes, and he wondered to what providence he owed his own spectacular run of luck.

  Mary at the reception desk had just told him as he had come into the building that his face had been beamed across virtually every television screen on the planet since last night's interview. With the probable exception of Ramliyya, there was no country on earth that had not played the interview with Al-Ajnabi in full, interrupting TV schedules across the globe. Reporters and TV stations from across the world had inundated the office with requests for interviews and explanations about how he knew Prince Omar Adil Al-Ajnabi Al-Janoubi. The Guardian, he felt, would not be his workplace for much longer. He could feel a prime position at one of the world’s largest TV networks coming his way all too soon.

  And they only have to look at today's issue of the Guardian he smiled to himself, as he thumbed through the six-page special edition that was almost entirely either his own creation or developments from his own leads. Under the headline Terrorist's Just Revenge? there was a four-column for-and-against appraisal of Robert Bailey's claims against Douglas Easterby and James McPherson. A box on the right of the front page, reviewed Goss's sensational execution, putting it into context in the light of yesterday's developments. Elsewhere there was a sketchy outline of Bailey's post-Para past, while pages two and three tried to make sense of Al-Ajnabi's political demands. Somebody, he had to laugh, had even produced a comparison of Bailey and Che Guevara! But Chapman was glad to see there was little about Bailey's recent residence in Oxford, and comparatively little about Sophie, too. Talking of Sophie, it was about time he called Joanna to find out how she was taking all the uproar. It wouldn't be long before the news teams started tracking Sophie down. But before he could focus on Sophie, he had one important task to complete.

  He switched on the television set on his desk. BBC1 was still showing a repeat of his interview for breakfast television. He turned up the volume and listened to what he had just said:

  ‘The heart of all this lies in the allegations which Robert Bailey, the leader of the terrorist group now in control of the Houses of Parliament, is levelling against two highly prominent individuals: Sir Douglas Easterby, chairman of British Defence Systems, and Foreign Secretary James McPherson. Part, but clearly not all, of the motive behind this sensational siege is to force a public investigation into what really happened in the Falls Road Massacre of April 3, …

  Yes, but there's only one way to find out the truth, Chapman thought, muting the volume and dialling the first of the three numbers on his desk.

  The dialling tone alone rang twice before it was answered on the third ring.

  ‘Mr Orr? Mr Stuart Orr?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘Hello, my name is Darren Chapman of the Guardian newspaper.’

  Dead phone. Chapman sighed and tried the second number.

  Too many rings, not even an answerphone. Time was running out and he was a long way from the answers he was looking for. Last chance.

  The pick up was almost instantaneous.

  ‘Hello, Mr Carroway? Darren Chapman of the Guardian newspaper here.’

  Long pause. Audible exhalation.

  ‘Hello, Mr Chapman. I believe I saw you on the television last night and again this morning.’

  Chapman was excited. Carroway's tone was indulgent.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you Mr Carroway, I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about…’

  ‘About West Belfast? I've been expecting you lot to call for a long, long time. God knows why you waited so many years. I was glad that bastard Goss got what he deserved, though. I'd have paid a lot of money to fly to Ramliyya and watch his head come off in person.’

  Chapman grinned. The lucky talisman again. Since he had met Prince Omar Al-Ajnabi he could not put a foot wrong.

  ‘I'll come straight to the point, Mr Carroway,’ Chapman pressed ahead, while luck was firmly on his side. ‘I'm trying to corroborate the allegations Robert Bailey has been making against Douglas Easterby and James McPherson…’

  ‘Corroborate, eh?’ Carroway echoed in his broad Welsh accent. ‘Now there's a grand word. I don't know about any corroborating, Mr Chapman. But I was glad to see the poor old second lieutenant again. With bastards like McPherson and Easterby in power, I can well understand him wanting to take over the government. Oh yes, they stitched him up all right between them: Goss, Easterby and McPherson. Particularly Colonel McPherson and Sergeant Goss, mind. They terrified the shit out of us in their different ways those two, Goss all spit-in-your-face-testosterone, McPherson just cold and evil, like. Between the pair of them they made it clear what would happen to us if we didn’t agree with their version of events.’

  ‘I see,’ said Chapman exultantly, making sure the call was being recorded properly. ‘And Douglas Easterby, I mean Major Easterby as he was then.’

  ‘A real bastard, but cowardly with it, like. When we heard it was going to a court-martial, we didn't hear much more from him, even though he was the one who gave Goss the bloody order to open fire. Easterby seemed to lose his bottle in the hearings. He left all the intimidating of the platoon to Goss and McPherson.’

  Chapman sensed his moment. It was time to go for the kill.

  ‘Mr Carroway, would you be prepared to say what you have just told me on TV?’

  Far from being camera shy, the thought of becoming a TV star evidently seemed to appeal to David Carroway.

  ‘Not at all. What I don't understand, though, is that I told all this to a lawyer twenty years back. He came all the way down here to Pembroke to interview me. He'd already collected sworn affidavits from Campbell, Pearson and Samuels, but we never heard from him again.’

  Chapman was busy scribbling down the names, then took the receiver from under his chin.

  ‘If we sent a taxi for you now, would you be able to join us here today?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘London.’

  ‘Jesus, that will cost you a fortune!’

  ‘Don't worry about the money, Mr Carroway. We'll lay on a return taxi trip for you, good hotel accommodation, food and any other expenses. Can you come today?’

  ‘Sure, no problem. Just as well you thought about a taxi though. Certainly won’t be flying to London. Don’t know if the trains are still working either.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Looking at the breaking newsflash on BBC 1. Computer glitch has grounded all the flights at Heathrow. Looks like the poor old second lieutenant’s got his wish about a no-fly zone. No planes can take off or land for the foreseeable future. Wait a minute, it says Gatwick too now…’

  ‘Hang on a minute, Mr Carroway. I’m passing you over to Mary at the reception desk. She'll sort out all your travel details for you. Look forward to meeting you tomorrow, sir. Just call Mary as soon as you’re in London and we’ll make all the arrangements for interview.’

  With that, he put the phone down and pulled up live news feed on his Mac. And he could hardly resist a grin when what he saw confirmed Carroway’s words.

  ‘My God, Prince Omar, or Cincinnatus, or whoever you are. You really have gone and done it, haven’t you! All UK airspace closed due to total shutdown of air traffic control software and the problem seems be spreading to Europe too. Maybe they’ll start listening to you know.’