by E. M. Brown
CHAPTER SIX
January, 2030
ELLA LOOKED UP from Ed Richie’s hand-written journal as the train slowed and came to a halt. They were somewhere in the Midlands, three hours into a journey that should have taken two and a half hours. This was the fourth unscheduled stop due to, respectively, snow on the rails, signals failure, track maintenance work and whatever excuse would soon be announced over the public address system. It was a white-out beyond the window, with snow drifts obscuring the walls and hedges between the fields, and only electricity pylons visible as they marched across the undulating landscape. The mood in the packed carriage was almost mutinous, the occasional comment giving rise to a general babble of discontent. At one point the door at the far end of the carriage slid open, and heads turned in expectation of an official; the passengers fell silent as a brutish police officer strode down the aisle, clutching a machine gun to his chest.
He was followed by an announcement. “Due to an unforeseen bomb threat at PeterboroughStation, this train will be delayed by approximately twenty minutes. The revised time of arrival at King’s Cross is now five forty-five.” Wondering if there might be such a thing as a foreseen bomb threat, Ella was grateful that she wasn’t due to meet Sam Charlesworth until seven that evening.
The armed officer passed through the carriage, and it was as if his proximity stifled protest. People communed with their wrist-coms, mobiles, and softscreens, and a silence settled over the becalmed carriage.
Across the aisle from Ella was a family of three seated around a table: the little girl, perhaps twelve years old, was slight and blonde and the sight of her – so similar to Annabelle at that age – produced a hard fist of pain in Ella’s chest. She shut all thought of her sister from her mind and resumed reading Ed Richie’s journal.
It was a fat ledger, made even fatter with loose pages. The combination of Richie’s small handwriting, and the fact that he rarely wrote more than a dozen or so lines per entry, and then only two or three times a week, meant that the journal covered a period of almost thirty years before his disappearance in 2025.
She had begun reading near the end, covering the period from 2020 to 2024, when Richie’s greatest success as a novelist corresponded with the most draconian period of English politics under the UK Front. Under their inept stewardship, the United Kingdom became disunited, losing Scotland and Wales in close succession, followed by a period of military rule when the troops were called in to quell civil unrest in major cities from Newcastle to London, Bristol to Norwich.
Richie spent little time detailing his political discontent – saving that for his novels – but instead wrote about his day-to-day life.
15th June, 2022: Saw Diggers for a lunchtime pint in Leeds. One turned to five. Glad I went by train. Word is that the bastards at the Beeb are caving in under pressure from the Cabinet to axe The State We’re In… I tried to reassure D that it wouldn’t happen, but he wasn’t sanguine. He has it on good authority, from his contact at the BBC, that this series will be the last. D in a hell of a state… pun unintentional. He doesn’t need the money, but that’s hardly the point. It’s far bigger than personal careers. This is state interference in culture. Where will it end? Christ, had anyone told me ten years ago that we’d be under military rule…
2nd July, 2022: Sue is becoming irritating. Two months is all it took – is that a record? She was going on the other day about my slovenly habits. I told her that when I’m writing, everything goes out of the window – I really don’t give a damn that I’ve been wearing the same fucking shirt for days… Sue was out with friends last night so Diggers invited me over. I got pissed as per usual and displeased Caroline. I’d been moaning about Sue, and then talk turned to Diggers’ old dog, Archie. I have a dim recollection of saying something along the lines that no matter how badly you treat a dog, they never hold it against you. Caroline gave me a frosty glare and said, “No, they don’t, do they?” I was too blathered to twig, but it came back to me this morning. A bottle of gin as a peace offering, methinks.
15th September, 2022: Sue left me last night. Said she couldn’t stand living with a fat drunken slob any longer. We didn’t row. I’m past arguing. I won’t miss her. After a period of melancholy reflection – lasting all of an hour – I looked on the bright side: I was free again. I went to the Bull for lunch today, in celebration. The Old Peculier was like nectar. And more good news: Cindy’s secured the leasehold of the Bull after her father retired. That’s what I want in this uncertain world: continuity.
11th October, 2022: Diggers was gloomier than usual last night at the Bull. The pusillanimous bastards at the Beeb have caved in and axed State… Diggers and his co-writer are out on their ears. And to add insult to injury, some jumped up little ponce at Broadcasting House suggested they apply for a couple of vacancies that’ve just come up on the team writing the fucking Archers. Diggers, in his own inimitable fashion, told the young man to introduce his smug face to his lower intestinal tract. This was at a packed meeting. Didn’t go down well. Talk about burning one’s bridges. Good old Diggers!
Ella smiled and continued reading.
21st December, 2022: We’re here again. My favourite time of the year, that appalling reminder of humanity’s susceptibility to greed and gullibility. Diggers and Caroline are buggering off to the soon-to-be Republic of Wales to share the festivities with their son. I’ll hole up here with plenty of frozen curry and a drop of the cup that cheers. And the Bull will be open every bloody day, thank Christ. Note for a one-off radio or TV play, not that anyone would commission it: Miserable sixty-something curmudgeon, sick to the gills of the farce of Xmas, pisses off to Malaysia or some other country where they don’t celebrate the bloody thing. Only… the proprietor of the guest-house where he’s staying takes pity and arranges Yuletide festivities to cheer our hero… I like it, but there’s a big BUT: where on Earth doesn’t do Xmas these days? Of course there’s all those blighted Islamic holes, but there the drink doesn’t flow… And with the fall of communism in Cuba and the uptake of Mammon… North Korea? Bloody hell, has it come to that? Our hero flees the totalitarian regime of ye jolly olde England for another even worse. Must rethink.
Ella laughed to herself and turned the page.
5th January, 2023: Deep in our cups at the Bull last night, Diggers suggested we emigrate to Scotland. Pros: it’s liberal, democratic; its publishing industry, though small, is free, and TV and radio likewise – and its links to Europe are a bonus. Cons: we’d be running away, and I don’t like that. Diggers, well blathered by this time, says that it’s all very well for me: my publisher hasn’t been got at by the Cabinet, yet. But the fact is that old D is on a blacklist, not that anyone would admit as much. He’s applied for work on a couple of shows in the past month or so, to no avail, and his last three outlines have been quietly shelved. I suggested he write a novel, but he just shook his head and stared into his beer like a dyspeptic bulldog.
Ella looked up from the page and stared through the window.
Ten years ago, she had met Kit Marquez and fallen hopelessly in love; Kit had just landed a lectureship at Edinburgh University after three years languishing at UCL, and had wanted Ella to move in with her. Fait accompli.
Only later had she worried that she was guilty of what Richie had suggested, running away. Wouldn’t it have been more honourable to stay in England and fight the erosion of civil liberties, however ineffective her opposition might be? But she’d rationalised her decision by telling herself that she could just as effectively oppose England’s regime from a base north of the border – in fact, given the free rein offered her by ScotFreeMedia, her opposition would be far more effective.
The train started up and trundled south. Sheep stood stoically in undefined fields, grey-white against the backdrop of driven snow.
Ella flipped through the journal, dipping into Ed Richie’s thoughts. She counted references to a further three live-in lovers, and three break-ups. She came to the entry mentioni
ng Ralph Dennison, and recalled what Digby Lincoln had said about Richie meeting with an old university friend.
4th December 2024:Bolt from the blue. Ralph Dennison emailed this morning. It’s been over forty years since we last met. Hard to believe that we three, Ralph, Ed and Digby – Diggers had made much of the acronym at the time – had been inseparable at uni, and then lost contact. I followed R’s career for a few years, and then he seemed to fall off the radar. It’s odd, but last year I was wondering what had become of him. Not that he gave much away in the email, the same old Ralph. Simply said he’d enjoyed my books and would like to meet up. He’ll be in Leeds next week, so we’ve arranged lunch.
Ella scanned the following entries, looking for mention of Richie’s old university friend.
12th December, 2024: Lunch with Ralph at Venner’s on the Headrow, then a pint around the corner. He looks well, and he’s taken care of himself. Could pass for fifty, not nearly sixty-five. He told me a little about his research.
She jumped to the next entry, but it was a brief description of a woman he’d met at the Bull. She turned the pages, looking for reference to Dennison.
25th April, 2025: Met Ralph for lunch.
She turned the page, looking for more.
A month before Richie’s disappearance, she came across one of the last entries.
21st June, 2025. Lunch with R. He wants to know what I think. I told him I need time.
Time? Time for what?
The last entry concerning Ralph Dennison was dated the 26th June, 2025:Ralph came to see me. Lunch at the Bull.
And no more, no detail, no description of what transpired at that lunch.
There were three more brief entries in the journal, all dated July 2025, the month he vanished: a note for a story idea, a description of dinner with the woman – Francesca – he’d met at the Bull, and the last entry of all, on the 7th of July: Hell of a session last night with Diggers. Can’t recall a bloody thing.
And then nothing, just a wad of blank pages denoting the future into which Ed Richie had vanished.
She accessed her wrist-com and Googled Ralph Dennison, only to receive the message that connectivity was poor. That was another thing about England; cyber-infrastructure had suffered during the economic recession of the late ’twenties, and word on the street was that the government, eager to crack down on the dissemination of information over the net, had done nothing to improve the service in the years following.
She scrolled down a list of names and got through to Kit.
Thanks to the poor reception, it was a voice-only connection. “El, how’s it going? Where are you?”
“On a cold train north of Coventry. I’m not interrupting anything?”
“Just finished a piece for old misery-boots. I’m about to pop out for lunch with Aimee at the Chinese place where she’s working.”
“Look… I wonder if you could do me a favour? There’s no hurry at all, but the net’s crap down here. I’m trying to trace an old friend of Ed Richie’s. They were at Cambridge back in the late ’seventies. He’s called Ralph Dennison, and he’s a scientist of some kind. Any info at all would be welcome.”
“Of course. As soon as I come back after lunch, I’ll work on it.”
“You’re a star, Kit. Enjoy your lunch, and say hi to Aimee.” She cut the connection.
The train snailed through the grey suburbs of Coventry, a succession of dour, Victorian estates, red-brick factories and pre-fab warehouses – and a cowed and shuffling populace that put her in mind of Lowry’s dark, malnourished wraiths.
Colour was provided a little later as the train pulled out of the station. The door at the end of the carriage slid open to reveal a tall young man dressed as a nun, with a blue-painted face, ethereal, otherworldly, and quite beautiful. He glided along the aisle, handing out leaflets, arousing muttered comments and cat-calls to which he responded with blown kisses and batted eyelids. Ella smiled at the foolhardy soul and took a leaflet, printed with a rainbow arching over the legend: Queers Against the Front.
The nun passed a leaflet to the family seated around a table across the aisle from Ella; the little blonde girl took it. Ella was gratified that her parents did nothing to prevent the exchange. In fact, the mother gave the nun a covert smile. As the nun passed on down the aisle, a middle-aged woman seated behind Ella stood up and approached the family.
She hissed something to the mother, who replied, “I don’t see what business…”
“It’s disgusting,” the woman said. “Perverts like that should be…” And unable to finishthe sentence for sheer rage, she snatched the leaflet from the bemused child and returned to her seat.
Ella made a show of leaning over to the family and saying, “If it’s okay with you, she can read mine.”
The mother smiled. “Say thank you to the nice lady, Kathryn.”
The child thanked her and took the leaflet, and Ella was gratified to hear an outraged muttering from the woman seated behind her.
She glanced across the aisle, to the person occupying the fourth seat around the table; a man in his mid-forties whose cold expression told Ella exactly what he thought of her.
She heard a commotion at the far end of the carriage, and turned in time to see two armed guards dragging the nun through the sliding door. He was waving and blowing kisses, defiant to the last. Ragged cheering greeted the arrest. Ella couldn’t work out if it was in derision of the police or the nun.
She returned Richie’s journal to her bag, then sat back and closed her eyes as the train gained speed towards London.
THE MATINEE PERFORMANCE of Puss in Boots had just finished and the well-muffled audience was filing from the Old Vic when Ella alighted from the taxi and hurried down the side-street to the theatre. London depressed her, and she would be glad to be away from the place as soon as possible. She didn’t particularly like the atmosphere in the city – with its xenophobic graffiti, openly racist Mayor, and sense of superiority and privilege – but much of her dislike was a result of her memories of the place: being kettled by the police at protest rallies and Gay Pride marches; being knocked over by a police horse and spat on by passersby; being evicted from a squat in Streatham by bailiffs.
She approached the stage-door, told the doorman she had an appointment with Samantha Charlesworth, and was admitted into a dark, narrow corridorsmelling of sweat and greasepaint. She asked a cloakroom attendant where she might find the actress, and the woman said, “Third door along the corridor. Can’t miss it. Look for the big silver star.”
She found the star on the third door and knocked.
A contralto, loud with post-show adrenalin-rush, called out, “Come in!”
Ella opened the door a crack and peered inside. A young man in doublet and hose was seated before a dressing-table.
“Sorry!” Ella pulled the door shut and retreated.
The door opened instantly and the youth laughed. “Ella Shaw?”
Ella peered. “Good God – Sam Charlesworth?”
“Underneath all the face-paint and this bloody ridiculous costume, yes. Come in.”
Ella followed the actress into the dressing-room, marvelling not only at what a transformation make-up and costume could achieve, but that the woman standing before her was in her mid-fifties.
“Would you be an absolute darling and help me out of this damned thing?” She indicated the criss-cross laces across the back of the bodice.
As Ella pulled at the laces, loosening the bodice, she glanced over the actress’s shoulder at her face in the mirror. Samantha was applying cleansing cream, stripping away the make-up to reveal a face that seemed innocent of the ravages of time. Her skin was translucent, without a single wrinkle, and the flesh of her neck was taut and firm. It had been a long time since Ella had undressed a beautiful woman, and she found herself flushing.
“When I’m human again, we’ll scoot off to a cosy little bistro around the corner. There’s no evening show tonight, thank God, so I’m all yours.�
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“That sounds great.”
The laces undone, Samantha pulled off the bodice. She turned and said, “Would you look at that…” revealing small, high breasts imprinted with red weals from the bodice. “The things one does for one’s art.” She touched her pixie-cut hair and went on, “And would you believe I had to have my tresses shorn for the part?”
She ducked, easing down her pantaloons and knickers and kicking off a pair of pointed shoes. Entirely naked, she leaned against the dresser, lit up a joint, and inhaled gratefully. “Hell, I needed that. I’ve been gasping. Do you know, this is one of the few places in London I feel free to indulge. You know what the pigs are like these days. No one dares enter here, you see.”
On cue, the door opened and a slim young man walked in.
“Well,” Samantha said, “almost no one. But Timmy is a darling.”
“Hark at Lady Godiva,” Timmy said, scooping the Dick Whittington costume from the floor, and in an aside to Ella, “She keeps a picture in her attic, she does.” Then he was gone.