by Amy Lord
We were hovering around each other uncertainly when the major came into the room. ‘Clara! I didn’t hear the doorbell.’
He turned to my mother, with a nod at her martini glass. ‘Make me one of those would you, Lucia.’ She hurried to the bar as the major eased himself into his expensive leather armchair, crossing his legs.
‘Sit, sit!’ He waved us in the direction of the matching sofas.
‘So Clara, how’s life at the university? What are you teaching at the moment?’
I gave him a brief rundown of what I’d been doing recently, which books and writers were currently on the syllabus. He nodded along, interested in what I had to say, although he must already have known the answers.
‘Do you have any plans for the holidays?’ he asked.
My mother appeared at his shoulder, clutching the martini. ‘You could come to us for a few days; we’d love to have you.’
Her face was so full of hope, her eyes so desperate, that I had to look away. I focused on the major as he took the cocktail from her.
‘Oh, I haven’t thought about it. I’ll have plenty of work to do over the holidays, marking and such. But I’m sure I’ll have time to do something before the new semester starts.’
‘Well make sure you fit us in, your mother always enjoys your visits.’ He took a sip of his drink. Before I could promise anything, the housekeeper came in to announce that dinner was waiting.
*
After the meal, the family retired to the lounge. My mother was animated once more, flush with red wine and morsels of food. She hung from Will’s arm as they wound along the hallway, regaling him with some story, her heels echoing on the parquet flooring.
I hung back, waiting for the major, who was giving the housekeeper a series of orders in hushed tones. I couldn’t make out what they were discussing, but it seemed to be something to do with the food.
When he saw me lingering in the hall, he raised his eyebrows.
‘Can I talk to you?’ I asked. ‘In private.’
He scrutinised my face. ‘I was going to have a brandy in my office. I’ve no interest in hearing about the latest goings on at the country club.’ He turned and began to walk towards his study.
I was about to follow my mother and Will into the lounge, heart sinking, when he glanced back.
‘Aren’t you coming?’
His office was tucked away at the back of the house, away from the family rooms. The walls were lined with photographs of important officials, some from the government, others notable in different ways. In most of them the major was shaking hands, or receiving a pat on the back. A few even depicted him in receipt of a medal, on stage at some awards dinner.
I closed the door as the major sat behind his desk.
‘I wanted to talk to you about Simon.’
I was sure to keep my voice soft. The servants were all carefully vetted, but you never really knew. And working in a house like this, they’d have certain political leanings.
The major bent to open his desk drawer, pulling out two glasses and a bottle of liquor. ‘You’ll have a brandy, won’t you?’
I nodded, my mouth dry. He poured two generous measures and passed one to me. I took a gulp, then another. It didn’t burn as badly as the martini.
‘I know you told me… that Simon had been transferred to a prison in another part of the country. But…’ My voice cracked and I had to take another swig of brandy.
‘But…’ he said ominously.
I shoved my hand into my pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. I thrust it towards him.
‘This says otherwise and I… I needed to know if it was true.’
I didn’t have to fake the tears that welled in my eyes.
The major took the paper and studied it, frowning. It was a note. A note that Caleb had given me, scrawled in a heavy hand, which told me where Simon was being kept. Where he really was.
‘Where did you get this?’ the major demanded.
‘I found it, shoved in my pigeonhole at work. Is it true?’
He glared at the piece of paper. ‘I showed you the arrest report I pulled for Simon.’ He screwed up the note and forced it into his trouser pocket.
I allowed my voice to waver. ‘I… I… I don’t want to… but we both know that things aren’t always… the truth. How do you know that’s where he is?’
The major looked furious, his brow drawn heavily over his eyes, which seemed almost black in the dim light. He got up from his desk and stomped to the window, where he stared out into the night as he drained his brandy glass. ‘I don’t like this, Clara. I never thought he was good enough for you. And now…’
I crossed the room and laid a hand gently on his arm.
‘Please. I know it isn’t you, but I… I need to know where he is, if he’s close by. I can’t take this.’ I began to cry.
When he turned his head to look at me, the major’s expression was softer. He sighed heavily. ‘What I told you was true, Clara. I don’t know where he is. But I suppose, what it says in that note, it could be true. We do have buildings in the city where we keep prisoners sometimes, especially those who are considered high value.’
He must have remembered taking me to that building, all those years earlier. But he wasn’t going to acknowledge it. I played along with the pretence.
‘But why would he be there? What could he possibly know?’
The major kept quiet.
I looked up at him, eyes glistening. ‘Do you think – if I went there – they would let me see him?’
‘No. Don’t do that,’ he said abruptly. He forced a laugh, as though trying to lift the mood. ‘Here, let me get you another brandy.’ I handed over my glass.
As he poured two even larger measures of liquor, he said, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound harsh. But you can’t just turn up at a place like that, you’d be at risk. These facilities are heavily guarded and they’re not the kind of places that accept visitors. They’d shoot you as soon as look at you. Do you understand?’
I accepted the brandy. ‘But there must be a way? Someone I could speak to?’
‘No. These places aren’t for families. You’re not even supposed to know about them.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You mustn’t discuss this with anyone. It’s an offence to share information about government facilities. I shouldn’t even be discussing this with you.’
‘I won’t say anything.’
He squeezed my shoulder. ‘Good girl, I know you wouldn’t want to get me in trouble.’
I sipped the brandy, savouring its bite across my tongue. ‘Do they ever transport the prisoners? Perhaps if we knew Simon was going to be moved, I could wait somewhere, I could see him…’
He cut me off. ‘Absolutely not. Prisoner transports are rare and they’re carefully managed to avoid drawing attention. Not to mention the level of security. No I’m sorry, there’s no possible way you could get to Simon.’
He put his glass down and took me by the shoulders, looking me square in the eyes. ‘If I were you, I’d give up on him. It’s admirable that you care so deeply, but don’t ruin your life for him. Consign him to the past and move on. I’m sure your mother and I know of any number of young men who’d be suitable for you, if that’s what you want.’
I gave him a weak smile. ‘That’s kind of you, but no, I don’t think so. Not yet anyway.’
He gave me a hug. I clutched the brandy glass awkwardly between us.
‘I should probably leave you to your work. Mama will be wondering where I’ve got to.’
He smirked. ‘Yes, go and save your brother, or he’ll be in a mood for days.’
‘Goodnight. And thank you.’
As I left the room, he was settling into his chair, pulling a cigar from the pocket of his jacket. I had what I needed.
Thirty-three
I stood at the bus stop in the rain, not caring that it soaked my hair, plastering it against my scalp. It was mid-afternoon and growing dark, but it had barely been light
all day, the city shrouded in mist. Two girls in school uniform stood beside me, huddled under an umbrella, giggling quietly to themselves as they talked about a boy. Half a dozen others waited for the bus, all absorbed in their thoughts, shoulders stiff against the cold.
A group of soldiers were walking along the street in our direction. They passed a parked car where three men were smoking, talking amongst themselves, hats pulled low and scarves tight around their necks. The bus came around the corner in the opposite direction. One of the teenagers held out her hand to signal it.
As the bus pulled to a stop, the passengers began shuffling into a queue, the two girls at the front. There was a shout.
‘Hey! Hold the bus!’
One of the soldiers ran towards us, waving his hand in the air. He was holding a gun. Shoving past the waiting passengers, he jumped onto the bus and barked at the driver, ‘We’re requisitioning this bus on Authorisation Bureau business.’ He started to laugh.
The other soldiers followed more slowly. One of them carried a bottle of whisky. He turned to us and yelled, ‘Who wants to come for a ride?’
I felt uneasy. The passengers glanced at each other, but nobody spoke. Nobody moved. Along the street, the three men stepped away from their car, flicking their cigarettes into the gutter.
The soldiers were off duty, but still dressed in their uniforms. None of them carried radios and only the first had his gun. Two of them jumped onto the bus and went to sit down. I could see them through the window, sprawled out across the seats, feet up, necking from the bottle.
‘Come on,’ the soldier cried again. ‘Don’t you want to get out of the rain? Girls?’
He grabbed one of the teenagers by the arm and pulled her towards the bus. She whimpered and her friend snatched at her other hand. The umbrella fell to the ground.
With a shout, the final soldier ran up behind the girls and grabbed one of them around the waist, lifting her up and into the bus. He dragged her further back, where his friends were already sitting. She tried to grasp the rails as he hauled her onwards, pleading with him to let go. The other passengers stood frozen.
The first girl was crying as the soldier succeeded in getting her into the bus. He held his gun up to the driver’s head, dropping the girl’s hand.
‘Shut the fucking doors and let’s go.’
The bus pulled away; the girl stepped back towards the doors, her eyes meeting mine. She mouthed, help me. No one moved. At the back of the bus, the second girl was fighting against three of the soldiers, who had her trapped against the window.
Out of the corner of my eye, there was a flash of movement. I turned in time to see one of the men who had been smoking pull out a gun. He yanked the scarf up over his mouth, covering most of his face and launched himself into the street in front of the bus, his companions close behind.
The bus screeched to a halt. Still no one at the bus stop moved.
‘Open the fucking doors!’
The three men brandished their guns; one of them carried a semi-automatic rifle, snug against his shoulder. He fired at the ground, the bullets sparking and skittering away, some of them ricocheting into the front of the bus. The doors hissed open and the driver emerged, hands in the air. I could hear the cries of the two girls. Without pausing to look back, the driver ran.
Guns leading the way, the men jumped onto the bus. I heard shouting and a shot was fired. Then another. Then more than I could count. It fell silent and we stood like stone, not breathing, only there to witness.
A scream rang out and the two girls burst from the bus, blood on their uniforms, their faces. Hysterical, they fled, clutching hands, their schoolbags abandoned.
There was another shot.
The three men reappeared, scarves still covering their faces. They walked calmly towards the car. I hadn’t noticed but it was idling by the kerb, a faint cloud of exhaust hanging in the air. As he opened the door, one of the men turned back to look at us, raising a fist in the air. Then he slid into the car and it peeled away, tyres spinning on the wet street. The bus sat in the middle of the road, doors open, engine still running. The wipers scraped slowly across the windscreen. Nobody moved inside.
It was quiet for a long moment.
Without turning to look at the other passengers, the old woman waiting beside me said, ‘Guess we’re walking home tonight folks.’ Adjusting her hood, she began the slow journey home.
*
The first thing I did when I got home was turn on the television. The same news show was on every channel. David G. Tubby and Susannah Smart sat under the studio lights, their eyes wide as they read from the teleprompter, prop papers clutched in their hands. I could see the sweat beading on his brow, her make-up beginning to melt beneath the glare.
Today’s attacks have been shocking. An anti-government group known only as Lumière has claimed responsibility for a series of random attacks across London. Fifteen members of the Authorisation Bureau have so far been confirmed dead.
But I knew the attacks were not random. Behind them was a careful plan, designed to stretch and confuse the military and engage the attention of the Authorisation Bureau so that we might be able to gain entry to their compound while they were busy elsewhere.
Tubby continued.
In the first recorded attack, a bomb exploded at a military checkpoint. Two gunmen took out a government transport as it escorted a minister to a private meeting with the US ambassador.
Walking home, I had watched the panic growing around me, and something else, like hope, like rebellion. The whispers on the street grew louder as the people found that their voices were not as lost to them as they had thought.
A statement from the First General’s office confirms that these attacks will be swiftly dealt with and citizens should go about their business as normal. There is no reason to fear, although citizens are asked to remain in their homes overnight as the military will be out in force.
There was a rumbling noise outside and I ran to the window. Three heavy military trucks drove along the street, soldiers holding automatic rifles standing in the back. I yanked at the curtains, drawing them shut.
Behind me, the voice on the television changed.
These cowards, who call themselves Lumière, will not be allowed to win. We are not afraid and the government will take back control.
Her voice wobbled. I turned back to the screen and could see that she was upset. She must be a true believer. I wondered if she had family in the regime. She was old enough to remember what it was like before.
As she turned her face from the camera to compose herself, Tubby hurried to fill the silence.
I repeat, citizens are urged to remain indoors and not engage with any activity happening outside their homes. These freedom fighters will not be allowed to overturn the government.
My mouth fell open. The words had barely left Tubby’s mouth when he realised his mistake. Freedom wasn’t for the individual; it was something the First General had provided for our nation: freedom from the terror outside. The government was all powerful. Anything else was blasphemy.
He shifted in his seat as his wife’s head snapped towards him. His eyes darted to one side and there was a sudden shudder as the camera zoomed in, his terror large across his face.
There was enough time to see the security guards march into the studio, before the channel went abruptly off air.
The streets were different. The air was charged as I walked to the university. I saw a woman tearing down the We’re taking back control posters on the front of her building despite the soldiers on every corner.
My students were no longer afraid to read in public. One girl read Nineteen Eighty-Four openly in the quad. She clutched a tattered copy of the book in her hands, not even a photocopy. I don’t know where she could have found it; my heart dropped like a stone. The title screamed from the front cover as she flicked reverently through the pages, engrossed in this forbidden world.
With a surreptitious glance around me,
I rushed across the grass and stood in front of her, blocking the book from view. She glanced up as I interrupted her light. It was one of the students from my class; I had encouraged her to read it.
I put my hand on the book and pulled it down, so that she held it face down in her lap. ‘It’s still not safe for that yet.’
She stared into my eyes for a moment, with a flicker of mutiny. But she nodded and tucked the novel into her bag.
‘Soon,’ she said, getting to her feet and walking away. I stared after her, frightened and exhilarated by the promise of this thing that I had started.
Thirty-four
Before we could attempt to break into the Authorisation Bureau building and find Simon and Jerome, there were preparations that had to be made. For me, this meant little more than studying an abstract drawing I had done of the tunnel layout. It was too dangerous to copy it exactly, with identifying information, so I had sketched it as a child would: a squiggle of uneven lines, in brightly coloured crayon. It would mean little to the outsider, but I understood it.
Committing the map to memory filled in the time that was otherwise spent waiting. I wasn’t privy to the finer details of the rescue plan, only the basic overview. Caleb hadn’t told me when it would happen, only that he would contact me when everything was in place. I felt sick all the time.
It was approaching the holidays, so things at university were winding down as the students prepared to return home for a few weeks. No one bothered to celebrate Christmas any more; the meaning had been lost long ago and few people could afford to indulge in the present-buying sprees that used to be so commonplace. But there was still something about that time, another year drawing to a close, with the possibility of change ahead.
The university noticeboards were full of messages from students travelling home for the holidays, searching for a travel partner to share the cost, or people with temporarily empty rooms they wanted to rent out.
That was where I saw the poster on the final day of term. It was the dog that caught my eye. I don’t know what happened to it in the end, after it followed me home. We got halfway there and when I turned back it had vanished. Now its likeness was pinned to the board, as it sat beside its owner. He was grinning at the camera. Above the photograph the word MISSING screamed out at me. Face burning, I ripped the poster from the wall, feeling light headed as I read the plea for information. His name was Trevor. He had a wife and a son. I shoved the piece of paper in amongst the books I was carrying and escaped to my office, heart racing.