by Tony Moyle
“Look, you can worry about an open window if you like, but I’m going to make sure those idiots put this stuff in the right place,” replied Dominic, wandering off in the direction of the tanks.
Tank nine was one of three purified containers in the complex. The water from tanks nine, ten and eleven all went straight into the mains water network, and from there into every tap, cistern and boiler in the South-East of England. As each barrel was lifted, opened and emptied, even in the murk of night-time the electric-blue liquid lit up the water. Blue whirlpools shone out like little beacons before mixing in the water and fading out of sight. As the last few barrels flowed over the edge of the gantry, Victor joined the mesmerised audience.
“Happy?” asked Dominic.
“Rarely,” replied Victor.
“So this is it. A great new dawn. The liquid will mix for six hours and in the morning we will open the sluice gate, allowing the water to drain off into the networks. It will meet the water flowing through the mains system and by Thursday morning every man, woman and child will be drinking, cooking and washing with it. Odourless, tasteless and invisible, no one will notice the difference. There will be no resistance, just change,” said Dominic giving a running commentary that had not been asked for. “What do you think, Victor?”
Victor Serpo had not been listening one bit to Dominic’s rambling. All of his senses had been drawn to something in the distance. Something perched on one of the central arms that swung through the sewage of one of the adjacent tanks. Finally, without moving, he answered Dominic’s question.
“Don’t you have big pigeons around here?”
His hand had already reached for his gun and in a flash a bullet exploded out of the barrel.
*****
The cameras settled on Byron T. Casey, sitting erect in his leather chair surrounded by his plush office within the Palace of Westminster. The normal frills that accompanied party political broadcasts were conspicuous by their absence. No overproduced video introduction of the Prime Minister out in the community. No transitions from one strapline to the next. No rallying music. Just the Prime Minister looking serious. Unlike the dozens that had gone before it over the weeks of campaigning, this broadcast was live. The cameraman counted the Prime Minister in with his fingers. Three, two, one.
“Tomorrow you will have the opportunity to vote for an administration that you believe will work for you to create a better future. A better future for yourselves, your families and your communities. Tomorrow morning you have the responsibility to vote for the party that has your best interests at heart. A party that is selfless and determined. A party that will be in power, but not under its spell. A party that has a track record of making the right decisions on the big questions.” John cleared Byron’s throat. “The party that can deliver on all that I have spoken of, is not this one.”
There was an audible gasp from the small television crew assigned to capture the Prime Minister’s words. They checked through scripts and cue cards in case one of them had made some heinous error that would come back to bite them.
“Even though, I’m sure you’ll find such advice unusual. I’d like to take a few minutes of your time to explain. There are good reasons why I ask, if not implore, you to vote for anyone but my party. This institution has consistently used power for the wrong reasons. Always thinking of its own interests before those of its citizens. Its moral insolvency can no longer be bailed out by mis-sold sentiments. You deserve better.”
Senior party members appeared at the back of the room wearing shocked expressions across their pallid faces like clowns with hurriedly applied make-up. They acted out exuberant charades in their leader’s direction, but it was no good. Byron wasn’t going to be swayed. This suicide was being broadcast live and they were going to be forced to watch it unfold in front of them.
“This evening I was notified of an example of this government’s deceit. For the sake of the election and the safety of the British people, I need to tell you what I have learnt. On Tuesday night, without my knowledge, a member of the British Secret Service instigated an attempt to poison a large section of the general public.”
The party faithful joined the gasps within the room. John reached inside Byron’s jacket pocket and pulled out a corked vial of liquid. Glowing with its own internal energy, the liquid moved furiously to escape the glass. It clawed its way up the sides of the tube, occasionally emitting a low groan that caused the crew to cover their ears.
“This is Emorfed. It’s a powerful and odourless liquid that was discovered by a secret scientific department housed within the now defunct Tavistock Institute. If just one drop of this substance is consumed, it would steal from the recipient all emotion and desire. It was designed for one purpose and one purpose only. The complete control of the human race. Those affected would no longer show malice and anger to others. There would be no weakness or lack of willpower. Although this would create a society of compliance, it would also remove something much more crucial. It would remove what makes us unique and brilliant, our soul.”
He placed the vial back into his jacket and the room dimmed. Drawn in by some powerful subconscious desire for its contents, several of the people in the room showed visible disappointment as it was removed from view.
“On Tuesday night,” John continued, “the agent that I spoke of, acting on the orders of his department and aided by the Chief Executive Officer of Southern Water, poured twenty-four barrels of this liquid into the water supply. Now I would like to show you the proof of this by playing you a short video clip.”
John nodded to the television producer, the pre-agreed signal to play the DVD he’d given him earlier that evening. The producer looked down at his hands with a new nervousness, as if what he’d been innocently holding was Emorfed itself.
Filmed by someone seemingly suffering from delirious tremors, the grainy footage shook from one gloomy shot to the next. As the film lolloped through the scenes, in need of a much longer stopover at the editing suite, John gave a commentary for the viewers. The first scene revealed a man jumping out of a truck and placing a badge on his blue boiler suit.
“The man you can see now, viewers, is Victor Serpo. He is known normally by his Secret Service code name, Agent 15. This man’s motive appears to be driven by a thirst for power. We have discovered from colleagues that he believes MI5 and MI6 hold the real power in this country.”
Shakily the picture pulled away from Victor as his glance came to rest on the unidentified cameraman. Now all that was visible was the white roof of the van and the accompanying soundtrack of a strange heavy breathing.
“Although you cannot see the other person in this shot, you are listening to the voice of Dominic Lightower, the formerly well-respected Chief Executive of the water company and non-executive of a number of other well-known British institutions. He is also a member of one of the most prestigious gentlemen’s clubs in London, where I’m certain he is being blackballed at this very moment.” John afforded himself a wry smile as he visualised the event. “Dominic demonstrates how greed can affect even those that already have more than they need.”
The next section showed an interior environment. The legs of a table obstructed a full view of the room, but on the other side was a bench cluttered with chemical apparatus. Two figures were busying themselves amongst the bubbling and smoking conical flasks, whilst a third was cautiously edging away from the camera. The picture jerked across towards the door as two additional pairs of legs hastened into the room. It was impossible to visually confirm who these two individuals were. But when they talked, the voices matched those from pictures taken near the truck.
“What you are hearing now is Victor Serpo and Dominic Lightower falsifying the certification, which is a necessary step for any substances that are added to our water system or sewage plants. Stop the video for a moment please. This document shows that the barrels have been signed off as folic acid. You can see here the signature of Victor Serpo, who I guarantee d
oes not work for the Environment Agency.” He indicated for the film to continue.
The last shot of the tape was being taken from a distance where it was impossible to distinguish any dialogue. What the video showed clearly, though, was the many barrels of blue liquid being poured from a gantry into one of the large, circular water tanks. The scene focused back over to Victor, pistol drawn. There was a flash and the film ended.
“Clearly some of you will be concerned for your welfare. This video was filmed last night and none of the contamination will have reached your taps. The water system is being flushed to dilute the presence of Emorfed, but this will take up to two weeks. In the meantime, do not drink or bathe in the water if you live in London or any of the other Home Counties. A full list of affected areas is available on the Environment Agency website. Free bottled water will be available at all supermarkets, and large bowsers will be placed on every street corner until it is again safe to use the normal water system.”
It was an impressively polished speech from what was, after all a dead weatherman. Ironically it was just the kind of address that would make the public even more confident in the person delivering it. John knew this, so there was one killer blow yet to be dealt.
“I personally had no prior knowledge of this event until I was tipped off yesterday. However, it occurred on my watch. So before the Opposition parties call for my resignation, I shall give it to you directly. As of today, I am stepping down as leader of my party and your Prime Minister. It is not my concern who runs in my place, although I’m in no doubt they will be up all night arguing and fighting about it. Remember tomorrow, use your vote responsibly. Thank you.”
The red light on top of the camera flicked off to simultaneously indicate the transmission was over and set in motion a violent free-for-all. Having spent the preceding ten minutes boiling through shades of red, the senior party members now took their opportunity to pounce. Highly valuable film equipment was knocked from its stands as cameramen and producers stood idly by or ducked for cover. One of Byron’s ministerial colleagues leapt forward, wrestling him to the ground. Punches, delivered by characters unaccustomed to the manoeuvre, flew from all angles, mostly missing their intended target.
“Security,” wailed John from within the melee.
“You’re not going to get prime ministerial benefits anymore, Byron. You’ve ruined us,” screamed one of the more elderly and once gentile[PP7] of the gathering who was in the process of removing his shoe to use as a missile. They knew that this was the end of their empire and possibly their personal reputations.
Within minutes a number of aides came to the Prime Minister’s side, dragging him from the scrum that was now his office. It was only good fortune that most of these rescuers had not been watching the broadcast. As a few of the ministers attempted to remonstrate with them, John managed to pull himself out of view and into the next room, locking the door behind him.
Sandy flew ungracefully down to meet him from his lofty perch in the high ceiling of the magnificent chamber. A large part of his left wing had been pulverised by the bullet that Agent 15 had dispatched at the end of the video. There would be time for such stories. Now the more pressing question was the means of their escape.
“It’s time to come clean, John. We’ve solved the Emorfed problem, it’s time you told me about the plan for us,” chirped Sandy.
“What, now?” murmured John, as he watched the door he’d locked take a pounding.
“As good as any. Were you expecting to walk out of here without getting lynched? You’re an enemy of the state now.”
“Okay, I’ll tell you,” John answered. “It’s extremely risky, but the way I see it, what have we got to lose? We need to get to a place in Switzerland that I have only been to once before. I have no real understanding of how to get there. But if I’ve guessed correctly, getting in won’t be a problem.”
“What’s in Switzerland, other than chocolate and clocks?”
“Limbo.”
“What?” asked Sandy quizzically.
“It’s where they process neutral souls. Where they can change them from neutral to allow them to journey onwards,” he answered.
“I’m still not with you.”
“You will be, when we get there. The problem is I’m not sure how we’re going to get there. I hadn’t anticipated just how much of a stir I was about to create. I also hadn’t anticipated that I might not be able to slip away from here unseen. I think public transport is out of the question,” he joked.
“I’d say so.”
“The solstice is in three days’ time. We really need speed on our side,” added John.
“It would appear to me that you need a private jet.”
John considered this for a moment. Surely Byron must have known hundreds of important and influential people who would have access to a plane? Many of them would have been thankful for what Byron had done for them over the years. No doubt there would be some that would aid him. But could he trust any of them? They might be the same as Dominic. This was much too important a decision to take chances on people he didn’t know. John would have to seek help from people he trusted and only one of those had access to a plane.
- CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT -
CURIOUS FRIENDS
Herb clung to his comfy sofa for moral and physical support as forty years of excess drained from his shaking body. No one ever said giving up an addiction was going to be easy. It took a high degree of self-control, buckets of positive attitude, and a dramatic change to one’s behaviour. These radical changes often meant you needed to distance yourself from the places, people and times where you are most at risk of a relapse. When everywhere you went, and everyone you associated with, had a link to booze, that made the challenge even greater. Herb wasn’t just giving up drink, he was giving up his way of life.
The only person that Herb felt confident enough to help him was Nash. Not because Nash didn’t like a drink: he did. But because Nash knew him like no other did. Other than alcohol, Nash was Herb’s life and he was beginning to realise that he had a duty to demonstrate to his protégé that drink and drugs weren’t the answer. Granted, he hadn’t been the best role model on that front over the last twenty years. It was never too late to make amends. If only he wasn’t having the sort of withdrawal-influenced hallucinations that would have sent Keith Richards over the edge.
Whilst Herb’s attempt to dry out was a mountain with no sign of a base camp, Nash was having no such trouble with his own inner demons. For the first time in years he felt in charge of his life. He’d finally buried his drug dependency in a deep recess of his brain labelled ‘ill-judged decisions’. In the week since parting company with John, he’d managed to pen a whole new album of work, inspired and enabled by what had happened over the last month. What’s more, he was finally at ease in his own skin.
“Nash, cup of tea?” whimpered a crumpled Herb, half-sitting and half-lying on the sofa. Nash arrived moments later clutching a mug of tea, a pot of which must have been on permanent brew in case of an emergency.
“How are you feeling today, Herb?”
“They were back again.”
“Who were back again?” asked Nash, glancing around the room for evidence.
“The talking flowers in their plant pots,” replied Herb, pointing at the mantelpiece, whose only contents were a paperweight and a carriage clock.
“There’s nothing up there, Herb. It’s your imagination. The doctor said it might last for a couple of weeks,” explained Nash, examining the mantelpiece just in case.
“I don’t understand. Nothing has changed. When I was hammered out of my mind I used to see weirdness like that all the time. The only difference is I used to think it was normal and find it rather amusing,” said Herb, sitting up fractionally to drink his tea. “Now it scares the life out of me. I wish they gave me something stronger for it.”
“You’re already on three different pills. If you take any more we’ll get you off booze and you�
��ll be addicted to prescription drugs instead.”
“Maybe I’ve just got an addictive personality. I wouldn’t mind some of that stuff the Prime Minister was talking about last night,” said Herb, searching as all addicts do for the mythical magic bullet.
Herb merrily slurped his cup of tea and as Nash watched he spontaneously put his hand to his mouth to stop himself from yelping. Some habits were just so difficult to change. He hoped that by boiling the water some of the contamination might have been removed. To avoid thinking about it further, Nash went to collect the post that he’d seen on the doormat on his way to serve Herb his drink. Collecting the few letters that lay there, he returned to the living room to see if there had been any change in Herb’s outlook.
“Anything good?” Herb pointed at the letters Nash was holding.
“One bill, couple of bits of junk and…” Nash stopped in his tracks as his eyes fixed on a brown envelope.
“What is it?” asked Herb cautiously, struggling to show the physical posture that might demonstrate concern.
“It has a stamp that says, ‘Office of the Prime Minister’,” he murmured, as his newly found self-confidence was effortlessly chased off by anxiety.
“It’s probably just a warrant for your immediate extradition to Switzerland, or possibly a death threat for porking his daughter,” replied Herb, feeling laughter run through him and welcoming its return.
Nash didn’t laugh. He opened the letter and scanned it for a few moments.
“I don’t believe it,” said Nash, reading the details again.
“What is it?”
“Pardon,” stammered Nash.
“I said, what is it?” replied Herb, slightly louder than the first time.
“I said it’s a pardon,” replied Nash slowly, as if Herb had gone deaf. “I’ve been given a full pardon by the British and Swiss governments for any involvement in the Geneva massacre. It’s signed by the Prime Minister. Apparently they have found some evidence that totally exonerates us.”