by Stevens, GJ
I tried to tell him about her call, about the fear I’d heard in Toni’s voice, but he cut me off and wouldn’t let me speak.
It was bollocks. These people never switched off; their work was twenty-four-seven. I was being pushed off the path because something serious was going on. I knew it more with every unanswered call.
My mood turned to regret as I tried to erase what I’d called her in my head, tried to remember the joy at seeing her frozen image lighting up my phone barely an hour ago.
I skipped my parents’ house, sending a message with fewer characters than I should before heading up the motorway. Stopping for a freshly cooked bribe at the only place guaranteed to be open and parking in the underground car park, I took the only space left in the line of news vans which normally wouldn’t move until Boxing Day.
Dan Huntley and Mike Pollage were on the only shift that was always quiet; the shift which pulled in a triple wage, but still no one wanted.
“No,” was their immediate response when I asked nicely if we could go for a ride, neither turning their heads from the TV as they each lay back on the mess room sofa.
These guys came as a pair, both old school, or maybe difficult for others to work with as some would describe, but they’d always been fine with me whenever they were my crew despite being more than double my age.
Dan had long, grey eyebrows I couldn’t help stare at over his thick glasses and wore a dog-fur-covered fleece no matter the weather. At least Mike wore different clothes every day, even if it was always from his large collection of check shirts, the combination of colours and patterns seeming to run into the thousands.
“No,” was their second unified reply when I explained about my friend in trouble. It was just a quick trip down the road, an hour of their time and they probably wouldn’t even need to unpack the cameras.
“I just need it to look like you’re ready to do a day’s work,” I said, making my eyes as wide as I could. “All you need to do is sit in the van and look like you’re hungry for a story.”
“Is there a story?” Mike said, glancing towards me for the first-time.
“Perhaps.”
“No,” was Dan’s response, his face contorting when I took the keys from the hook on the wall.
Mike was coming around to my bargain, despite his head shaking. The silence of his questioning told me he’d already given up fighting.
“Plus I bought pizza.”
We were on the road within five minutes, the three of us lined up along the front seats.
Mike drove, which was his only clause in our forced contract, Dan already digging into the pizza still hot enough to steam his glasses.
With no traffic, we parked across a heavy set of black iron gates just off the road ten minutes later.
I was at the video intercom before the pair of square-jawed protection officers in festive jumpers had left their spots by the two colourful trees flanking the front door, the call picked up before they’d reached the other side of the gate.
It was another few minutes before I was in, leaving the windows of the van to steam. With my message relayed as I walked across the wide block-paving forecourt, the Home Secretary was at the door as I arrived, the two officers waved away to separate corners.
“Ms Carmichael,” the secretary said in his trademark low voice. He was still wearing a shirt, the loose top button and missing tie his only nod to the season. He stood with the opening spread just wide enough for his thin body, making no motion for me to enter.
“Jessica, please,” I replied with my on-camera smile.
“What is it that cannot wait until my office reopens?” he said, the deep lines around his mouth curling to a glimpse of a smile.
“How’s Mrs Secretary?” I said, and watched as he tried to pull the door tighter against his body.
“The family is well, thank you,” he said. “Is this a social call?” he replied, raising his brow.
“No, sorry. Business.” His brow stayed raised. “Invasion of the Bodmin Snatchers?” I added and watched as the smile fell from his face, his gaze shooting behind me.
I turned as I saw one of the protection officers looking my way, turning back to see the secretary shake his head. I glanced back to the van for effect.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Is that your final comment? I have a source,” I said, raising my eyebrows.
His face had paled and his hands were shaking. This man had signed off war. He’d signed off benefit cuts to put millions into poverty. He’d taken money for the party that should have gone elsewhere and he’d done it with a smile. Still, the professional liar couldn’t keep this down.
“Shit.” I let the word slip. “Shit,” I said to the percussion of my heartbeat. Fear for Toni ballooned in my chest, excitement bubbling through my brain.
What the hell have I stumbled into?
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll just have to take the crew and find out for myself.”
“Jessica,” he said as I turned, but I didn’t look back. “Leave this alone.”
For a moment I thought I heard a tremble in his voice.
With my heels clicking on the paving, I watched as the two officers headed in my direction, only diverting when at arm’s reach. The gates slid open.
The call came through before we’d left the curb. Stan again, this time his temper boiling over.
I held the phone away from my ear, cringing at words shouted down the line. Watching the road as we headed back to the office.
This was big, bigger than I could have known, but it looked like it might cost me my career. I wasn’t scared of losing my job. Turning the other cheek was my fear and letting something big out of my grasp. There were other channels. Other stations. If I cracked whatever this was, I’d have my pick.
I wasn’t scared of going it alone. It was just a little bigger than I expected.
We sat in silence as the miles rumbled by like a countdown to my fate, not knowing what waited for me as we headed back to the office. Stan with a torn-up contract probably.
I thanked them both, apologising for taking them out of the warmth, but when they both looked back, confused, I told Mike to stop the van.
Dan jumped as his phone rang, handing it over after he answered the call.
“It’s for you,” he said, his face screwed up. The screen showed a withheld number, but it was Stan’s gruff voice on the line.
“Stick with it, but you’re on your own kid,” he said, before the line went dead.
Handing back the phone, the two conversations tangled in my head and I watched as the tall door mirrors lit up in a sea of flashing blue lights.
3
The strobe of blue light grew as we slowed, the phone’s tone ringing in my ear only twice before the flat voice answered.
“How’s your Christmas going Mrs Commissioner? Did you get any unexpected presents this year?” I replied.
The call went dead before she spoke and before I had a chance to make myself blush by describing the details of the photos of her locked in a naked embrace with a man who wasn’t her husband.
With the empty echo still in my ear, I watched in the tall door mirror, counting in my head the few moments I imagined it took for her hurried call to connect and for despatch to find the right car.
It was a full twenty seconds before the police car behind veered right as it neared, its lights winking as if still not sure if it would cut across at the last minute and bring us to a stop. As it sped into the distance I knew I’d burnt another bridge and it would only be fair to burn the photos hidden in my safe deposit box.
Mike continued to brake.
“What the fuck?” he replied as we slowed to the curb, his voice as always sounding on the edge of a cough. That along with a scar on his throat reminded everyone of his surgery just as I joined the team.
“Let me out,” I said, motioning for Dan to shuffle out of the way. He glared back with a furrowed brow, but without moving to let me by.
>
“What are you on to?” he said, shaking his head with none of the usual cheer in his voice.
I turned to him, his face hanging with the same fixed expression.
“It’s big, but I need to do this alone,” I replied.
“And your friend?” Mike said. “Is she in danger?”
I nodded. It was all I could manage, knowing the words would force tears I didn’t want to show in front of my colleagues.
Mike and Dan swapped looks across me and the van pulled away from the curb.
“Where are we going, boss?” he said with his cheer returning.
“Cornwall,” I replied, my head already filling with ideas while Dan recovered from his double take at my words, Mike nearly choking on his breath. “Thank you. Take the back roads. I want to avoid the ANPR cameras as much as we can.”
“You owe us more pizza,” Mike said, flicking his gaze to the empty box at my feet as he turned us down a side street, leaving behind the only other car on the road.
“You owe us a pizza shop,” Dan said with a great smile.
Gratitude welled in my chest, a renewed optimism I was doing the right thing. The feeling subsided as I saw the phone in my hand. I wanted to throw it away.
About to pull the sim card and snap it in two, I paused with Toni’s wide smile flashing before my eyes. It was the only way she could get in touch.
Breathing back the welling pressure, I unlocked the screen and slid my finger to turn off data. It would have to do for now.
The journey was slow, the van not meant for a high-speed getaway along the A-Roads, but at least the tarmac was clear in the most part. The drive was pleasant enough, watching families as they travelled, their exhausts white in the cold, Christmas jumpers on show, winding their way between friends and family.
Joining the motorway, Mike asked for directions or a postcode for the Sat Nav, but I had none to give. Bodmin was all I could say, was all I’d got from the one-sided conversation over four hours ago.
I spent the time holding back the worry for what had become of Toni, thinking of how her words couldn’t be true.
Experiments, yes. She was a biologist of some sort.
Experiments on the living? It wasn’t a big leap to make. But the mention of the dead rising and the fear in her voice chilled me, but at the same time pulled at my need to know more. My need to spread the word. That need had given me the success I’d already achieved. And some might say helped a few people less fortunate along the way.
Turning off the motorway I was already planning what I would say when we met again. I would say hello, exchange small talk perhaps. I’d get the story and make sure she was safe, then I’d be on my way. No complications. No lingering in the past, determined not to jump back in headfirst, remembering why I’d had to pull us apart.
Maybe this was just what I needed to close that chapter of my life and find another to write the rest of my story with.
We stuck to the main road, heading in the general direction of Bodmin, crossing into Cornwall after forty-five minutes. No signs highlighted our approach to the moor, but as the red and white warnings appeared at the roadside, I questioned the words which had started this all off.
Repeating for the hundredth time, I replayed her voice in my head with my stomach sinking further every time I read the evenly-spaced signs declaring the ‘Foot and Mouth Infected Area’.
“Slow down,” I said, squinting through the cold air.
The van slowed, halving the speed as sign after sign went past the window.
I’d seen this before. I’d reported for Bare Facts as a Student Features Editor in Surrey.
Back in 2007, I’d stood at the roadblocks, cleaning my boots so many times. I’d chatted with the police manning the road closures. I’d watched as trucks brimmed with carcasses, hoofed feet jutting over the top as they moved the culled to their resting place. I’d watched the smoke rise into the sky and seen the fear for their livelihoods in the farmer’s weary eyes.
Each side road we passed on the A30 had a sign declaring ‘Road Closed’, accompanied with a static line of cones. The turn off for Bolventor was the only open junction. We took it, slowing to take in the line of army trucks on the grass verge as we turned the first corner.
Moving closer to the hamlet, we watched the line peppered with police cars. The crests were different to what we’d expected; military, not Devon and Cornwall Constabulary.
Eyes peered back, mouths pulling on cigarettes. We didn’t stop, kept up the momentum.
At the centre of the small collection of buildings was a pub, The Jamaica Inn. The car park to its side was full of heavy canvas olive-drab tents. We didn’t stop.
Driving back towards the dual carriageway, we saw the same line of trucks repeated as we built up the distance.
Mike was the first to spot our tail, the low sun reflecting from the Range Rover’s white, blue and yellow paintwork. Two dark figures stared towards us as they kept two car lengths behind.
Still we drove on, re-joining the slow lane and getting up to speed before we hit our first traffic jam.
Still, it was reminiscent. I remembered the archive footage; Tony Blair with rolled-up shirt sleeves in the command centre, over-viewing the massive operation during an outbreak as the century turned. I remembered the headlines, the cancelled sporting events. The restrictions on country pursuits and mass graves with carcass after carcass dropped from the scoop of a JCB. The government had taken it seriously.
I took a second look at the road ahead and saw the few cars in front, watching as they released each one to crawl around a pair of green trucks parked on the inside lane at obscure angles.
Without a word, Dan jumped in the back, already unpacking the camera to film what looked to be a traffic accident, while a soldier in a yellow hi-vis vest stood by the Armco central reservation, motioning the cars forward to squeeze past a third truck blocking the second lane.
Soon we were next in line, the hand motioning for us to slow as Mike negotiated the tight turn, micro-correcting the wheel to the soldier’s instructions so we could get through the gap.
We were through and he turned hard left to avoid the truck in our way, but slammed on the brakes.
I looked up and saw I’d been right all along. We were in the right place, the three-pointed rifles clearing away my doubt.
4
The doors pulled wide before we could slam the central locking into place. They gave us no chance to come quietly, hands bundling us to the cold tarmac.
I didn’t put up a fight and tried to tell Mike to do the same, but I knew the words would be in vain. The compulsory training for all foreign reporters told me to relax, watching as the moments blurred past as I tried to pay attention to the details.
With my wrists held together with zip ties, I could no longer see Mike, but could hear his language explode with emotion as the ex-Royal Marine gave the young soldiers a verbal beating I hoped stung harder than a punch in the face.
I kept quiet. There would be no changing course; instead I watched as the soldiers left the van with just a cursory glance in the back, leaving Dan, who must have hidden in one of the tall cupboards.
Bundled into a waiting Snatch Land Rover, I saw only the inside of a musty canvas hood pulled down over my head. Mike’s voice stifled, with what remained evaporating into the distance as the engine note rose.
There was no Foot and Mouth Disease. I knew for certain.
I’d found what I’d been looking for even though I didn’t quite know what it was. At least I was closer to Toni. I hoped.
We didn’t arrive in the car park of the Jamaica Inn. The road surface was too loose, too uneven. I had no idea where we were when we stopped. I heard the rattle of a chain-link fence, the collective tap of boots marching on the hard ground and the turn of keys, the rumble of engines and a pervasive odour that smelt like the Portaloos needed emptying.
As the engine cut and light invaded from below, hands helped me to stand, guiding my
feet down to the solid ground but not before pulling off my heels and letting my tights split, sharp stones jabbing with each step.
With my feet grateful for a smooth new floor, bright, cold air glinted from below, but just for a moment.
The air turned warm and the hum of electricity filled my ears. The whine of a generator perhaps?
Doors opened and closed at our backs as I counted my steps. A confusion of boots against the floor were the only sound until chair legs scraped along the floor, causing me to flinch back. The hands holding tight at my bound wrists wouldn’t let me budge, instead forcing me forward, pushing down until all I could do was bend my knees and sit.
With a snap of plastic my hands were free, but not under my control; each wrist dragged forward, held firm and re-tied in place.
Light poured in as the hood pulled away with a sharp tug. I tried moving my hands to waft chaotic hair from my face, but I saw my wrists tied to a metal ring either side of the surface of a stainless-steel desk. The desk held firm as I tested its weight.
Flicking my head back, I still couldn’t move the loose strands.
I let the irritation from my hair pass, moving my head slowly so not to aggravate, just as the door clattered closed at my back.
The room was a small box with no windows and just the one door at my back. The walls, painted white, had dulled with time, covered with the sheen of grime.
Along with the table and my chair, another cheap plastic seat with metal legs waited opposite. I forced a deep breath to let my mind settle and tried to form the words I would use in the documentary. Every few moments Toni’s face would invade my head, my thoughts turning to what I would say when the moment came.
The words dried up as the minutes went by; the dull ache in my full bladder was enough of a distraction to pull me back into the room.
The door opened. I took a deep breath and dressed my face in a smile, sitting up straight whilst trying not to flinch at the hand which appeared from my side to push the hair away from my face.