by Amy Lord
When the students came to observe an interrogation, they did so in small groups. We would take them to the interrogation room before the detainee and let them look around. The room felt claustrophobic, even with a small group there. Then they would go into the observation room, where they could look through the glass as the prisoner was brought in.
When it was Will’s turn for observation, Donovan carried out the interrogation. I stood behind the glass with the students and commented on his technique, offering my own thoughts and advice as some of them scribbled notes and others simply stared at the action.
The woman he was questioning was very young, barely older than the students who were in the room with me. She had been arrested earlier that week, caught in the act of vandalising a public mural depicting the First General and his lieutenants.
She had been a pretty girl, but it was hard to tell now, beneath the broken nose and swollen eyes. She had to breathe through her mouth, and when she sucked in a lungful of air, the gaps in her white teeth were visible.
Donovan was screaming at her. I could feel the tension in the students around me. You could always tell the ones that would make the grade as interrogators and the ones that were destined for the bag squad. The interrogators pushed forward, so close to the glass they were almost touching it. The rest would hang back, averting their eyes, shocked by the brutality. At least in the bag squad they could hide behind their team; in the interrogation room you were alone. I wondered if they were already regretting their career choice.
I was pleased to see Will at the front of the group, his breath hot on the glass as he watched Donovan intently. The girl was crying, but I could tell it wasn’t her that held his attention, even when the interrogator ripped her shirt away, leaving her exposed. I felt the teenagers around me shift awkwardly.
Then Donovan looked up, directly into the observation room.
‘How about we get someone else involved?’ he said, his voice heavy with menace. ‘Any volunteers?’
It seemed only natural that Will would turn to look at me. I nodded and he pushed through the door to join the interrogation. Under the harsh lights he looked younger, his eyes wide, nostrils flared.
‘How do you want to begin?’ Donovan asked.
‘Sir?’ For a moment, Will looked overwhelmed to be in the room, with this girl and the man who had inflicted so much pain on her already. Then he looked around with a focus that made me smile. But as he paused, then took off his belt, I felt something else, something I couldn’t quite identify. As he stalked behind the girl and brought the lash down across her bare shoulders, as she screamed again, I had to look away.
Twenty-four
After Clara left school, we rarely saw her from one month to the next. I knew her mother would meet her sometimes, but she didn’t often come to the house.
I hadn’t been thrilled when she decided to pursue a career in academia; even less so when I realised she intended to teach literature, as her father had done. It felt like a slap in the face. She’d been a bookish child, so I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was disappointed that she didn’t know better. After a while I began to suspect that she did, that she’d chosen her career to spite me.
It was another mark against me. I had enough of a reputation that she was permitted to hold a job at the university, but her presence didn’t go unnoticed. I don’t think she realised it, but they watched her. Her and that boyfriend she insisted on parading around with.
From the day she brought him home I was suspicious of his motives. It didn’t help that he was so much older, near enough my own age. It was clear from the way that Clara acted around him that she was smitten. She would follow close at his side, her face wide open and smiling, always looking up for his approval.
I felt that he was watching me. I never managed to catch him; I would sense his eyes on the back of my neck and turn sharply, only to find him chatting to Lucia, or examining one of the pictures on the wall.
Despite my suspicions, when I was confronted with the evidence of Simon’s betrayal, I couldn’t believe it. It was Donovan who told me. He came to my house, late in the evening, after dinner had been cleared away and Lucia had retreated to bed with a bottle of gin.
I brought him into the study, closing the door firmly behind us. I mixed him a drink slowly, to hide my unease. He’d never been to the house before and his presence made me nervous. I feared there was an unmarked van waiting somewhere in the darkness, the bag squad ready to burst through the door at Donovan’s signal.
But instead he sat back in the chair, one foot slung casually over the other knee, and tossed a folder onto my desk. I picked it up as though it might burn me. It was full of photographs. Surveillance photographs of Simon, talking to a man I vaguely recognised.
‘That’s Caleb Morris,’ Donovan said. ‘He’s the leader of a group we’ve been watching for some time, Lumière.’
I nodded. ‘I’m familiar with them. They’ve been around for years, here and there.’
Donovan’s dark eyes examined me closely. ‘They’ve been ramping up their activities over the last year or so. That bombing outside Manchester over the summer? That was them. And the kidnapping of the security minister. We managed to keep that quiet, but we were forced to pay his ransom, money that can only have strengthened the group’s infrastructure.’
I flicked slowly through the photos. They’d clearly been taken over the course of several weeks.
‘And you want me to know that my daughter’s boyfriend is involved with them.’
The corner of his mouth twitched into a smile. ‘But she’s not your daughter, is she? Her father was the rebel professor, Matthew Winter.’
I returned his gaze, my mind working quickly through the problem. Should I push the point that I had raised Clara and risk being implicated in this, or deny all knowledge and throw her to the wolves?
‘That’s true. But Clara hasn’t seen him since she was eleven. Too young to have absorbed any of his ideals.’ I thrust the folder at him. ‘And I notice you don’t have any pictures of her meeting Caleb Morris. Only her boyfriend, who I must admit, I have never approved of.’
Donovan’s eyes narrowed. ‘So you’ve had your own suspicions?’
I tapped my fingers on the desk. ‘I’ve always had the sense that there was something more to the relationship for Simon. I suppose he could have been attracted to Clara by her father’s reputation. I’m told he’s quite famous in certain circles.’
Donovan nodded thoughtfully. ‘It’s true; we’ve never come across your stepdaughter during our surveillance. But that doesn’t mean she’s not involved.’ He gathered the folder and its contents back together. ‘And we know that Simon has been teaching classes at the university, off the books if you like. We don’t know what he’s preaching, but it won’t be long before we get a worm into the group. One way or another.’
I paused, my heart thundering.
‘Let me look into Clara. I’ll find out if she’s been doing anything she shouldn’t.’
The young major raised his eyebrows. ‘And if she has?’
I stood up, scraping my chair back to announce that this meeting was over.
‘Then I’ll arrest her myself.’
*
It wasn’t difficult to find out more about Simon’s activities. The photographs Donovan showed me were only a small part of the intelligence that had been gathered. It amazed me that such an intelligent man could have been so stupid.
It was clear that he’d been teaching a number of students unofficially. They’d all been captured on film and identified. They in turn had people watching them. I made the order to arrest one of them.
We chose a young man whose family had a questionable background. He had an uncle who had been killed in the early days of the regime; an uncle who had undesirable friends that this boy had attempted to contact.
I hadn’t joined the bag squad on a raid for years. I was above that now, my work taking me out of the field and into th
e squalid cells of headquarters, where I was most effective.
But this time I joined them. I sat in the front of the van, blood singing in my veins. I’d forgotten this sensation, the excitement. I felt like a predator, prowling through the streets at night, a pack of hyenas at my back.
It was late when we arrived at the halls of residence. Despite the curfews there were usually some students who stayed out late – partying, studying, fornicating – and we didn’t want to risk them stumbling upon the scene.
A lone night porter was at a desk in the entrance foyer of the building. I had to buzz for him to admit us. He’d been reading a newspaper, but he put it down at the sound of visitors. His face stiffened when he saw who it was, but he opened the door without comment.
‘It might be best if you took a short break,’ I told him, as the bag squad marched past towards the stairs. ‘You look tired; get yourself a cup of coffee.’
He spun away wordlessly, almost sprinting towards a door marked Staff Only, the newspaper forgotten.
Whistling softly, I followed the boys upstairs. They moved carefully in sync, through the door and along the corridor in near silence. It was only when they kicked the boy’s bedroom door in that the disturbance began.
I waited outside, listening to the shouts and muffled thumps from inside the room. In a matter of moments, the bag squad had their prisoner outside with a hood over his head and his hands zip-tied behind his back. He was wearing nothing more than a pair of boxer shorts and his feet clawed clumsily at the carpet. A fierce bruise was already blooming over one of his kidneys.
The brief assault must have woken most of the residents on the corridor, but only one door opened. A Chinese boy appeared in the doorway, drowsily trying to straighten his glasses.
‘What’s going on?’ he called. ‘Jerome!’
Without missing a beat, the two soldiers who were dragging the prisoner away dropped him abruptly and stepped menacingly towards the interloper. He shrank back away from them.
‘Keep your nose out, mate,’ one of them said.
He blinked quickly behind his thick lenses. ‘But…’
The other soldier punched him in the face. While he was dealing with the shock, they shoved him back into his room and pulled the door shut.
‘Right, lads,’ I said. ‘Let’s get this one in the van.’
I started Jerome’s interrogation as soon as we got him back to base. It didn’t take much work to make him talk. He was young and soft, more so than he could have imagined, the tears flowing long before the pain began.
He told me all about Simon’s classes and the things they discussed. And later, he told me about Lumière. But the thing that shocked me the most was when he told me about Clara.
That she had attended an underground meeting wasn’t proof of much. But it was the first sign of betrayal. The one I’d been waiting almost twenty years for. I had given her a chance at life despite everything, and this was what she had decided to do with it.
Part Six
Twenty-five
I was alone in the apartment, in darkness. I sat on the floor, back against the wall, my knees pulled up to my chest. I watched the door, waiting for a sign that they might come here, for me. I had convinced myself that they hadn’t seen me out there, in the street. Grabbing Simon and leaving me behind was an oversight; a mistake that would be quickly rectified.
I stayed in the street for a long time after the car vanished. The sun finally disappeared between two buildings, leaving behind a flaming orange glow that seared the sky, before that too faded.
It was a quiet street, which didn’t lead anywhere important. So it was a long time before another car appeared, headlights flashing, forcing me to snap out of my reverie and get out of the middle of the road. It roared past me, horn honking, and sped into the underground car park around the corner. I could hear music blaring even after the car was out of sight.
Shaking, I stood on the pavement, unsure of what to do. My life had altered course brutally, here in this tiny corner of the city. I had entered a new reality, one that seemed to float around the recesses of my consciousness, trying to force its way inside. I waited for someone to come and tell me what I should do, but no one appeared.
It was then, as I stood on the pavement with my world crumbling around me, that I noticed the carrier bag. It was lying on the floor, the contents spilling out into the street. Simon must have dropped it there as he was forced into the car.
I bent to examine it. There was a bottle of red wine, smashed now, the contents seeping through the cracks in the tarmac. There were a couple of mundane household items: tissues and a tube of toothpaste. And there, beneath a copy of today’s newspaper, was a tiny packet of jelly sweets, all set in the shape of a diamond ring.
*
I jerked awake, to find myself on the floor, curled into an awkward foetal position, still wearing yesterday’s clothes. Someone was banging on the front door. A rush of nerves flooded my body.
‘Clara,’ my mother’s voice called. ‘Are you in there?’
The realisation hit me. It was Sunday and Simon and I were due to meet her for brunch. ‘Oh shit,’ I muttered.
Stiffly, I clambered to my feet and staggered for the door, rolling my shoulders to work out the knots. I took a deep breath. My mother stood in the corridor, knuckles poised to knock again. Her dark hair was still long, although it was tinged with grey. Her petite frame was encased in a designer wrap dress and knee-length boots, an expensive handbag hooked over her arm.
She saw me and raised her eyebrows. ‘Where on Earth have you been? I sat and waited for you for half an hour!’
‘Sorry.’ I moved aside to let her in. She marched past me and began surveying the apartment.
‘Where’s Simon?’
I had planned to make up an excuse, to lie and claim that he had to work today or had been called away to a sick relative. Apart from the monthly brunches, I rarely had any contact with my mother, so she wouldn’t know any different.
I opened my mouth but nothing came out. Instead I burst into huge, shuddering sobs. My legs failed and I collapsed onto the carpet. My mother looked horrified.
‘Goodness, Clara! Whatever is the matter?’
She eased herself down beside me, took hold of my hands and forced them away from my face. I gulped, trying to hold back the torrent of emotion. ‘Tell me what’s wrong, darling.’
‘It… it’s Simon,’ I managed to croak. ‘They took him.’
She tried to hide it, but the shock flashed across her face. She knew the answer, but she asked anyway. ‘Who took him?’
‘They were in a black car. Four men got out and dragged him inside. They were… they were…’
She took my hand. ‘It’s alright; you don’t need to say it. I understand.’
‘What should I do?’ I wailed, the tears intensifying again.
She sighed. ‘What can you do, Clara? When your father was arrested I wanted to go to the police station, go to every prison and bang on the door until they let me visit him. I wanted to go out into the streets and ask people if they’d seen him, if they knew where he was. But that would only have made more trouble. It probably would have made things worse for your father too.’
‘So, what? I’m supposed to pretend that Simon never existed? Get up and go to work with a smile on my face, like you did?’ I shook my head furiously. ‘No, I can’t do it.’
Her face was grave. ‘It doesn’t matter what you want. Do you think anybody else cares? They all have their own problems. Don’t make things worse for yourself.’
‘Thanks for your support, mother. So basically, I have to shut up and pretend everything is normal, or else I’ll be in trouble too.’
‘Clara, I hate to be harsh with you, but you’ve been through this before. You know exactly how it works. I was in exactly this situation with your father.’
I got to my feet and walked away from her, gazing out of the window at the people on the street, going about their da
ily lives. A young woman with bright red hair and a stylish mustard coat was passing the building, chatting to the man beside her, a huge smile on her face. In that moment, every atom in my body longed to be her; to be happy.
‘Yeah I remember,’ I said softly. ‘But I’m not like you; I won’t marry the first man who comes along and forget about the person I claimed to love.’
She didn’t reply and I didn’t want to face her. I knew the comment would hurt, but I said it anyway. When I eventually turned around, the apartment was empty. My mother had left without a word.
Twenty-six
Arriving at the university on Monday morning was a surreal experience. Unsure whether I should seek out Simon’s boss and tell him what had happened, I went to the History department. It was early and there weren’t many people around. When I walked by Simon’s office, the door was open. Stomach churning, I poked my head around the corner.
His desk had been completely cleared. His papers, his books, his computer, even the photograph of us together had been removed. The shelves assigned to him were empty too. Not even the fleece jumper he left hanging over the back of his chair remained.
A soft moan escaped my lips. I didn’t know if the university was responsible for this comprehensive elimination of one of their most prized employees, or if there was a more sinister explanation. If I went to Simon’s boss and asked him to return the photograph, would he help or would the black van be waiting for me when I left that day?
In the lobby along the corridor, a ping indicated that the lift had arrived. There was a low whoosh as the doors opened. Before anyone could disembark, I backed away from the room that had been Simon’s office and fled for the stairs.