by Tony Moyle
“Look, I wouldn’t worry about it. We’ll get to that if you succeed and if you don’t, none of it really matters,” replied Brimstone cautiously.
“But just how many people have gone from here to there before?” asked John, still stalling for time but equally interested in the answer.
“I’ll level with you, John, not very many.”
“Hold on. I’ve been to level zero. I’ve seen hundreds, if not thousands, of animals. Surely all of them must have been brought back by someone like me. What happened to all of them?” demanded John.
“If you succeed, I assure you the big man upstairs will make sure you get what you deserve. So let’s stop wasting time and go find you another candidate?” he said, setting off for the library.
“No need. I already know who to choose. You’ve helped me to make up my mind. Thank you,” replied John. “Let’s fire up the machine.”
The three of them made their way over to the still steaming machine. John stood at the now familiar controls, as Brimstone fiddled with the myriad of buttons and switches. His decision had now been made and whether he was right or wrong to choose would soon become evident.
“Who’s it going to be?”
John leaned over to Brimstone and whispered a name into his ear.
“Can it be done?” he said, after pausing to see Brimstone’s reaction.
“When you’re here, John, almost anything can be done. Although I’m intrigued by your choice.”
“I think I will keep my own counsel on that.”
“So be it. It matters not who you decide to burden.”
“There’s something else, too. I need to break one of your own rules. I need you to send me back before the time that I last left Earth.”
“John, you know why I can’t do that: it could be worse than the current situation with Sandy. Two of your souls running around the place, it’s not recommended,” said Brimstone. “You can’t imagine the shit that I’ll be in if it went wrong.”
“What happened to, ‘almost anything can be done here?’ If you want my help, Brimstone, it’s about time you gave me some of yours. I don’t want to go very far back. A day or so will do it.”
“OK, if it means getting it done, then we’ll try. The compromise is that you must go nowhere near Nash, understood?”
“It is. I think he deserves a break anyway,” replied John, unclear whether it was a promise he could keep.
Brimstone led the female infant John up to the nozzle of the Soul Catcher and attached the mouth of his vessol to the white, cone-shaped receptacle. He stomped back to the controls, set the co-ordinates and pulled a lever. Immediately the vessol dropped to the floor and once more John was in flight.
- CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE -
BEAKS, JAWS AND CLAWS
Truth doesn’t live where it used to. In fact it recently packed its bags and relocated to a new town with no known forwarding address. Incognito, it has settled into its secret new surroundings like the member of a witness protection scheme. Occasionally someone will claim to have discovered its location. They’ll back up these claims by repeatedly shouting in a loud and convincing voice until no one has the strength to argue anymore.
It used to be much easier to locate the twinned towns of truth and untruth. Truth was occupied by experts who wore uniforms and carried their qualifications proudly about their person in their deeds and the logic of their arguments. They were doctors, lawyers, scientists, policemen, even journalists. They were believable because they carried with them this really interesting stuff called evidence. Sadly, though, they weren’t very confident at shouting erratically and waving their hands in the air. Politicians don’t wear uniforms, haven’t done for ages.
There will always be secrets in life. Our earliest childhood memories are crammed with parental directions that defined what we should and shouldn’t do. Rarely was there any proper explanation as to why. The lack of explanation is often rooted in the perception that adults believe children lack the experience or mental capacity to understand it. Often the lack of explanation is nothing more than…there isn’t one. Even the person handing down the advice can’t justify it because they were never told the truth either. Yet inexplicably it remains part of their belief system forever unchallenged. Even in adult life this trait of truth being hidden or ignored continues. We’re told what we need to hear, which isn’t quite the same as the truth.
Byron’s government was no different from any that had gone before it. Arguably this government was only like it because of what had gone before it. A culture had been bred into the fabric of the establishment mentality, both unexplained and unintentional, like a type of conspiratorial Tourette’s. Some of this government’s secrets had simply been policies continued on from past administrations, preserved like an immovable bad habit. There were many examples, and Agent 15 was about to walk down the corridors of one of them.
Fifty feet underneath the streets of the city, where Londoners navigated their robotic lives oblivious to its existence, lived one of these secrets. A place that had once been the epicentre of the country’s struggle for freedom was now being used to keep people from it. Through a series of dried-out sewers, disused bunker offices held the types of people that the government didn’t want us to know about. In a stretch of underground from Parliament Square to Whitehall, each desolate metre had been transformed into a network of dank prison cells. Each hidden behind Victorian brick arches, and most occupied.
There was no legislation that gave the government the right to keep these people locked up. After all, laws can’t be broken if they don’t exist. The general public couldn’t protest against the decisions either because there was almost no knowledge that these people existed. Other members of the secretive organisations who knew these inmates didn’t offer aid in case they ended up joining them. In their eyes these were the unfortunate fallen comrades, silently remembered for their sacrifice. Legal representation had been revoked to avoid a human rights scandal making it into the press and there was very little objection. Every part of their existence had been erased from memory.
Of the several hundred inmates imprisoned here, Agent 15 knew most of them. After all, he’d been responsible for inviting them. The dimly lit tunnels echoed with his footsteps as he strode on, nodding occasionally to the heavily armed military personnel who stood guard at regular intervals. Lichen-covered brickwork ordered iron bars to stand to attention in each murky entrance. Cell eighty-one was no different.
Agent 15’s presence was the only prompt needed for the sentry guard to unlock the firm steel gate that separated the cell from the corridor. Before the guard opened the door, Agent 15 beat him to it. He opened it with a creak and closed it behind him. Only once.
Sitting composed and upright against the far wall was a familiar female outline, clearly unfazed by her seemingly difficult predicament. Although she displayed the emotions of someone in good spirits, the cuts and bruises that covered her face told a very different story. A smile crept through the foundation of grime that coated her skin, exuding a warmth normally reserved for the greeting of close personal friends.
“I was expecting you a little earlier,” she announced.
“Bad things happen to those that wait. This place has a great way of helping people think clearer,” he replied.
“Were you expecting my resolve to be broken by spending a few days here on holiday? I’ve been to far worse places in the world than this.”
“That’s not a surprise given the plague-infested holes that you’re used to. Perhaps I should have sent you to a farm. You’d have been much happier there amongst the animals and their filth. But they count more than us, don’t they, Violet?”
“I’d take one of them over you any day. At least they have some manners. I’d try to convince you, but I can see your crown of arrogance hasn’t slipped yet,” replied Violet, her voice remaining calm and neutral.
Agent 15 would have happily traded insults for hours if there wasn’t a deadline
to meet. It had appeared to Agent 15 that the PM’s urgency to resolve the whole problem of Sandy had increased in recent days. Perhaps with the election only a week away he was getting anxious as to the potential disruption of loose ends.
“Interesting place this,” said Agent 15 conversationally, rubbing his fingers over the bricks as if they might give up a story or two. “It’s steeped in history. A dark and macabre one at that.”
“Shall I ask the guard for a torch? You can shine it under your chin and try to be really scary,” mocked Violet, for the first time pushing herself up from the rickety camp bed.
“Well there are many ghost stories in these tunnels. This was the very spot where Winston Churchill made the decision to condemn Coventry to the impending Nazi bombs, sacrificing thousands of civilians for the greater good. Personally, though, I like the earlier stories. In the 19th century this place housed a truly sinister brand of criminals,” he said, closing his eyes and breathing in deeply. “Can you feel it, Violet?”
“Feel what?”
“The anger running through these walls. I can smell the wonderful aroma of horror and death filling my nostrils. It’s like the atmosphere has been suspended untouched for two centuries ready to poison the next occupant. Breathe it in, Violet, take a really big mouthful until you’re dizzy with the ecstasy of it.”
“All I can smell is something foul that wasn’t in here five minutes ago.”
“Do you know they used to drag the most notorious mass murderers by horse and cart through the streets and then publicly hang them outside Newgate Prison? They don’t allow that anymore, apparently people object. I do miss the stupidity of old-fashioned mob violence.”
“Times have changed, maybe you need to keep up?”
“Things aren’t that different. This is still where successive governments over the last century have brought people they wanted to forget about. I should introduce you to a few of them. We’ve got Lucan here somewhere, one of our oldest guests.”
“Lord Lucan?” said Violet in surprise.
“Oh yes. He was far too close to the royal family to go on trial for his alleged crimes. The scandal would have been fatal for the establishment. In any case, the man is a turd of the highest order and deserves nothing less.”
“What about justice? Does that word no longer have meaning in this country?” muttered Violet, demonstrating the first signs of irritation.
“Justice is subjective. A collective viewpoint of twelve humans not intelligent enough to understand the arguments,” replied Agent 15 scornfully. “In any case, if the government can set the law, then it can circumvent it. Law or no law, it’s our job to protect society from itself. Which includes keeping you away from them.”
“Are you trying to provoke me?”
“I don’t need to, Violet. That reaction, in fact all of your emotions, are instincts that you won’t even know how to feel before long.”
“I don’t get you?”
“I need a second volunteer,” said Agent 15, reaching inside his jacket pocket and removing a syringe that contained a light blue liquid that sparkled and danced. “You see, Violet, our first trial of Emorfed was inconclusive and I need to test it again. If you don’t tell me what I want to know I will inject this into your neck and you will tell me anyway. On top of that you’ll lose any motivation to fight me, or anyone else for that matter. Another victory for national security.”
“I think you misunderstand my motives,” replied Violet, “I think you and I want the same thing.”
“I doubt that.”
“I suspect that we are both trying to find Sandy Logan. Now if you do inject me with Emorfed I may be able to tell you, but I won’t be able to help you.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“I know Sandy. What’s more, he sent Ian Noble to find me, which means he was seeking my help. If you let me approach him, he will not be suspicious of our meeting. It will give you valuable time to bring him in.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“You shouldn’t. I take no pleasure in aiding you or betraying a friend. But if it is my route out then I will take the selfish choice. In return for helping you, I must be released.”
“What, so you can go on terrorising the scientific community?”
“I can’t promise you I won’t. Your choice. Who do you need more, Sandy or me?”
Agent 15 didn’t have an opinion on this ultimatum, but he knew Byron did. What if a few laboratories were under threat because of his actions? If he brought Sandy in he’d remove the only eyewitness to the government’s involvement in Tavistock. Who cared if he had to pick Violet up again later on? It might not take that long if he double-crossed her after she delivered Sandy to him.
“They tell me that your nickname is Violent Strokes. It’s interesting that your friendships are so easily broken. You bark on about wanting justice, yet you’re willing to rob Sandy of it. Perhaps you are not as strong as your nickname suggests,” exclaimed Agent 15.
“We’ll see, won’t we?”
“If you are to be used as bait then you’ll be electronically tagged until the operation is a success.”
“Agreed.”
“Where is our friend now?” asked 15 impatiently, already moving towards the cell door.
“Where would you expect to find a pigeon in London?”
“Trafalgar Square?” he replied. “How can you be so sure?”
“Ian told me. Now you’re going to need help. I understand there are quite a few pigeons in that area.”
*****
Four days had passed since Ian had left and the valley pigeons were making themselves right at home. Initially, Trafalgar Square had been as alien to them as a shark living in a fourth floor council house with a couple of water bottles strapped to its back. Like most things in nature they had come to accept the strange, symbiotic relationship between the humans and themselves. They came to believe that the threat level here was less than in their traditional surroundings. What’s more, big, fat tourists wanted to feed them, for free!
They mixed with the locals without much fuss, too. Their city cousins were foolhardy and simple but survived this urban environment through a combination of confidence and luck. There they were flying aimlessly from one hand of food to the next, oblivious to the possibilities of capture or death. They sat on perches of man-made stone like they were branches of a tree, and flew without fear between bus and tramline. Convinced that they were some horrible mutation and not a related species at all, the valley pigeons observed their strange habits like a bunch of mystery shoppers.
It wasn’t long before the braver, or possibly more stupid, of their number started to copy and learn this foreign behaviour. Once the line of least resistance was broken, once one or two did it, the rest followed like lemmings. Whether through natural selection or acquired behavioural conditioning, they were learning to accept this new way of life. As the days passed they had become hooked on free food and danger, as much as a junkie is to his next heroin fix.
Sandy’s attention to them was minimal, even though their groups’ number seemed to be growing daily. The initial fifty or so that had made the long and erratic journey here across various parts of the country, seemed to have grown into the hundreds. The ratio of country pigeons versus city ones was almost level, although it was becoming increasingly difficult to separate them.
Only some of Sandy’s attention was being reserved for Big Bobby. Clearly not satisfied with the small amount of blurry video footage of two pigeons in conversation taken a few days ago, he’d used his uniquely American mentality to set up his very own London tourist attraction selling tickets to see the talking doves. Sandy had been careful to avoid any contact with Bobby, who was forced to coax the tame London pigeons to talk. He would have had more success getting a stone lion to roar. The pigeons were more than happy to support Bobby’s endeavour if all they had to do was look gormless and eat sunflower seeds.
Sandy’s attention had been la
rgely focused on Ian’s absence. This was partly borne out of a concern for Ian and mostly out of a concern for himself. Without Ian’s total dedication and Violet’s help, he had nowhere to turn. Too long had gone now to convince Sandy that all was well. Yes, it was possible that Ian had got lost or had simply forgotten where he was going in the first place. Yet with Ian’s reputation it was just as plausible that the worst had happened.
Sandy had lost none of his intellect or intuition in his current incarnation. It was clear to him that if Ian had failed, he may well have disclosed more than Sandy would have wished. That’s why he’d been on his guard these last two days, keeping as close to the pack as possible in order to disappear into the background.
When Violet arrived in Trafalgar Square that sunny June morning, Sandy had seen her well before she’d made it past the fountains. It was with mixed emotions that he watched her approach, unsure if it was a potential exit or his inevitable end. Before he was willing to reveal himself, he needed to know if she was alone. She strolled down the steps of the National Gallery towards the bulk of the valley pigeons who were collecting lunch at the feet of a school group. Other than paying a little too much attention to the pigeons themselves, Sandy noticed that she was acting normally, and there appeared to be no one with her as she approached the flock.
“Sandy,” she whispered faintly to each of them.
“Cooo,” came a response, as a speckled pigeon jogged and hopped away.
“Sandy.”
“Cooo,” replied another.
“Sandy.”
“Cagoo,” said two or three pigeons at once, eagerly advancing in search of food.
“This will take all week at this rate,” she muttered under her breath. “Sandy.”
“I prefer Minister,” came a whispered response from the feathery crowd. Violet drew closer to pinpoint the exact pigeon that had answered.