*
John Howard sat at his desk, looking through reports that had been passed to him by the governmental moles in each sector. The Charing Cross report automatically caught his eye. Something had stood out from the rest of the documents; something was amiss. He noticed that there had been far more black-market activity than normal in that area. The time to take a stand had arrived. Charing Cross had been spared the scrutiny of the patrols, but it was now time for that to change. It wouldn’t happen straight away; the prime minister had called in the operatives for that area to discuss a plan of action.
‘What exactly has been going on in this area? Is there anything besides the black market that I have to worry about?’ he asked sternly, as he looked on each of the four faces that stood in front of him.
‘There have been a couple of instances of racketeering and substance abuse, but nothing to concern yourself with,’ the group leader replied deferentially. ‘What course of action do you wish us to take, sir?’
‘Just keep doing what you’re doing! That’s all I ask for at the moment. But I do want to know straight away if you see or hear anything of this rabble calling themselves The Independent Mind—and I mean anything! Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir! But what is The Independent Mind?’ the leader replied.
‘Read these!’ Howard passed the group of four a newsletter each. ‘They’ve been peddling this over the past few months. They have the temerity and the obvious know-how to publish this incendiary material, but when it comes to their name, they have to resurrect an old rebel cell—no imagination!’ he harrumphed.
‘As soon as you hear anything, even the smallest of whispers, I want to know! Now, get out of here!’
The governmental moles did as they were told, making their way through the main corridor. Gerick Meyer brushed past them as they beat a hasty retreat through the Parliament buildings’ main exit.
Gerick found himself losing his balance with every knock to the shoulder. He wasn’t the strongest of people. Indeed, he was a bit of a stick insect: it seemed like he would float away on a stiff breeze if he happened to go outside. Gerick was your typical geeky scientific type who was an easy target for bullying, but John Howard had charged him with an incredibly important job—a job he was not too thrilled about undertaking. Nobody knew about the extracurricular activities he had taken up, but it would be the end of The Independent Mind if anyone were to find out. He would surely crack under interrogation and give up names.
*
‘I’ve finished for the day, Myron—I’ll meet you at the depot,’ Jen whispered into the portable wireless intercom she had been provided with as part of the job. The depot was a derelict porta-cabin in the centre of Charing Cross, just around the corner from the rundown main line station, hidden away from view.
Jen tucked the intercom back inside her coat and headed briskly towards the depot, feeling a sense of freedom as she did so. It was refreshing to know she could move freely without having to look over her shoulder, but at the same time a nagging doubt lurked in the back of her mind. She somehow knew their freedom was short-lived, but she had nothing to back up her suspicions and kept her personal thoughts to herself. The last thing Jen wanted to do was shatter the illusion around which people had built their lives in the network. She needed the likes of Gerick Meyer to confirm her suspicions for her, but like everyone else, he knew nothing of John Howard’s plan. Only the moles that had been posted in the Charing Cross network knew of his intentions.
Jen was relieved to see the porta-cabin in the distance, her brisk walk turning into a sprint. She wanted to relieve herself of the Hessian postal bag rubbing uncomfortably against the side of her neck. The door was open, welcoming her in, but she lingered outside.
‘Aren’t you going in, then?’
The eeriness of the situation caused Jen to jump, as she hadn’t heard anyone approaching from behind. Myron grabbed her shoulders and pushed down.
‘Don’t do that again, Myron!’ she groused over her shoulder.
‘Jumpy, aren’t we?’ Myron replied.
She grabbed hold of his hands and began to squeeze. Jen’s strong grip was painful, as the look on Myron’s face made plain.
‘Jen, what the hell is wrong with you? Let go of my hands!’ Myron said, wincing.
Jen relinquished her grip and proceeded through the door of the porta-cabin, followed closely by Myron, nursing his hands—and his pride.
Although Myron was with her, Jen still felt uneasy that the door was open with no one about. They entered with caution, and both of them prepared themselves for what might greet them.
‘Get behind me, Jen!’ Myron ordered.
‘No way, Myron, not a chance,’ she said, pushing him aside. ‘If anyone’s going to be doing any damage, it’s going to be me!’
Jen mentally prepared herself for a fight. It had been a long time since she had felt the urge to lash out at someone, and the situation they were facing had given her an excuse to unleash the redheaded beast that had given her such a bad reputation in previous years.
Myron knew what was on the horizon. He could tell by her tone and the mannerisms that accompanied it, but chose not to do anything about her sudden advance. He had, on more than one occasion, sampled what would happen if he tried to intervene.
After a good look round the porta-cabin, Jen had come to the conclusion that there was nothing to worry about. There was no sign of an intruder; everything was how it should have been. But why did it still seem like something was wrong?
‘Let’s just dump our gear and go,’ Myron urged.
Jen was still apprehensive. ‘I can’t explain it, Myron, but I’ve got a strange feeling.’
‘It’s nothing to worry about, Jen, but you were right to be concerned,’ Myron said reassuringly.
They dumped the bags in the corner with the others and made a hasty retreat.
Myron and Jen followed the crowds of people after exiting the porta-cabin. They seemed to be heading in the same direction, but not towards the tunnel networks as usual. Myron and Jen were curious. The people within the network obeyed the curfew as if they were still beyond Charing Cross, even though they considered themselves reasonably safe from the patrols. Tonight, nobody observed the curfew; something had drawn them away from the safety of the network. A rumour had been circulating that someone within the network had dared to defy more than one of the laws of the land. A supplier of banned substances had set up shop in Charing Cross, brewing homemade potato-based alcohol and micro beers. He had taken up residence in an abandoned old store several weeks ago, disguising the front of it as an olde curiosity shop to deflect any suspicion.
Myron and Jen turned a corner to watch as a number of people walked behind one particular building. Jen strained to get a better look, but Myron held her back.
‘Wait, Jen,’ he whispered, ‘we can’t just waltz over there—we’ve got to be inconspicuous!’
‘Stop manhandling me, you gorilla,’ Jen protested, but she stayed put.
‘We’ll wait a bit longer, and then we make our move,’ said Myron. ‘I’m dying to know what all these folks find so fascinating.’
‘Me, too,’ Jen echoed.
Five minutes later they moved slowly from behind the wall to the alley, slinking in and out of doorways along the way. They had made it to within a few metres of the olde curiosity shop. From the front it looked like any other curiosity shop, quaint and charming, with a window displaying doodads, trinkets, and other beguiling wares.
Myron heard a faint tapping sound coming from behind the building, like a code that only members would know. Three more times Myron heard the same knocking sound, with exactly the same amount of raps and misses on each occasion. He memorised the simple sequence and pulled Jen around to the back of the curiosity shop, where they watched as the last person in the queue entered through a nondescript wooden door. Myron crept closer, dragging Jen along behind him. She was not pleased about being flung around like a rag dol
l.
‘Myron, will you please let go of my wrist!’ Jen barked with menace. ‘You’re hurting me!’
She began to pull away ferociously, but Myron refused to let go.
‘Stop it! We’re nearly there,’ he replied excitedly, not realising the damage he was doing.
A few yards separated them from the entrance of the highly illicit establishment. Myron plastered himself against the wall, letting go of Jen and pushing her back. He inched his way to the end slowly before cautiously poking his head around the corner. Jen kept a lookout while Myron assessed the situation. The coast was clear as curfew approached.
‘I think it’s safe to proceed,’ Myron said after a few moments. ‘Let’s go!’ They walked quickly up to the door, whereupon Myron performed the secret signal he’d memorised. In a trice, the burly proprietor appeared and bade them enter.
‘Welcome to Ryker’s,’ he said in a gravely Cockney accent. ‘Jonah Markham, at your service. And who might you be?’
‘My name’s Myron.’
‘And I’m Jen.’
‘No last names, eh?’ said Jonah. ‘Well, I suppose that’ll do for now. Come on in and let your hair down.’
‘Why Ryker’s, if you don’t mind my asking?’ said Jen boldly.
‘Well, little lady,’ said Jonah, ‘it’s the name of an old Sunday morning meeting place that me and my old biker buddies used to hang out at, just the other side of Dorking. Ryker’s of Boxhill was famous for its burgers—more for their size than anything, I reckon. I liked the name and picked it for this joint. Any objections?’ he added gruffly.
‘None, sir,’ said Myron diplomatically.
‘Fine, then. I run a clean, respectable establishment, and I expects my guests to behave themselves. Just so’s you know, I’ll be keeping my eye on you, like I does with all new patrons.’
Jonah left them to tend bar, but he was true to his word. He chatted them up several times as the evening wore on, prying little details out of them and watching them like a hawk from the bar.
One thing was certain: the moles that had been conveniently placed within the Charing Cross network had no idea about the existence of Ryker’s bar. It was one of the network’s best-kept secrets, it wouldn’t be long before the olde curiosity shop’s true identity was revealed: John Howard had just passed down new orders. So far, though, Jonah had done a good job of keeping the wolves from the door. He continued to take steps to ensure that detection would never occur. People were good at keeping secrets in the Charing Cross network. The newsletters had mentioned moles and the fact that they had been lying dormant, waiting for someone to make the wrong move, or say the wrong thing. Vigilance was key.
*
Myron and Jen spent most of their evening secretly recruiting new members for their underground cell. From his vantage point behind the bar, Jonah was in the proverbial catbird’s seat. He could see everything that was going on. He had mastered the art of reading lips, and knowing whom to trust just by looking at a person’s face. Even though he had only known them for a little over an hour, he considered Myron and Jen to be trustworthy, but he wasn’t exactly overjoyed with them using his establishment as a recruiting station.
Jonah finally thought enough was enough and beckoned Myron and Jen over to the bar. Myron moved slowly towards the stern-looking face that seemed to be eating into his. Jen followed close behind, shielding herself from the icy stare behind Myron’s broad shoulders.
‘I know what you two are up to!’ said Jonah bluntly. ‘This is my establishment, and I won’t have you spreading your propaganda all over the place. Is that clear? People come in here to have a relaxing drink, not to be hounded by the likes of you!’
‘Uh, sir, I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Myron stammered. ‘All we’ve been doing is chatting, making new friends, you know?’
Jonah stared menacingly at him, and then at Jen, who remained behind Myron’s back.
‘I’ve been reading your lips all night, young man, and I know exactly what you’ve been saying—and doing! I want to know who you really are and what you’re doing here.’
Myron felt every ounce of strength drain from his body; he didn’t know how to reply to Jonah’s question.
Jen saw the predicament Myron was in and courageously stepped out from behind him. ‘Jonah, have you heard about The Voice of the People?’ she blurted out foolishly.
Myron didn’t know what to do with himself. Jen was on the verge of divulging everything and exposing their true agenda. Jen took one look at Myron’s face and realised immediately she was close to saying too much. She needed to say something to take away any suspicion that Jonah may have.
‘We believe what the newsletter says,’ she said quickly, ‘and we’ve just been trying to get other people to support it, that’s all!’
Jonah seemed to think that Jen was being sincere. ‘Right, then, carry on with your drinkin’. Kindly leave the preachin’ for the outside world!’ Jonah said bluntly.
Jen stared blankly at him as Myron dragged her away from the bar.
‘Bloody hell, Jen, do you know how close you were to blowing our cover? Next time think before you open your big gob!’ Myron hissed in her ear.
True to form, Jen cursed him and stormed off, but Myron expected nothing less. He let her simmer for a while, knowing that she always calmed down eventually.
Myron made his way over to their table and sat down to finish off the rest of his lukewarm beer, as he watched Jen pacing and mumbling angrily to herself.
*
Another hour had passed. Jen found herself falling into a drunken stupor, and Myron was desperately trying to stay awake. Jonah’s lethal mixture of vodka and beer had taken its toll on them both, but the people around them seemed untouched by it. They had become immune to the intoxicating brew, which Jonah appropriately called a ‘depth charge.’
It was far too risky to leave the bar and head for the underground network. Jonah was always very obliging with his patrons, letting them bed down in his establishment until the following morning. Although the patrols seemed to bypass Charing Cross, he still insisted that people stay put to be on the safe side. Jonah seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to sniffing out trouble. Some people found him unusual and eccentric, but no less likeable despite these peccadilloes.
*
John Howard was becoming increasingly frustrated by the lack of respect he was receiving from the people he considered to be beneath him. The angrier he got, the worse things got for the people in the networks, and around the British Isles. Meaningless arrests and unwarranted killings had grown in number since he had taken power, and it was all put down to the newsletter.
Although people had come to revere The Independent Mind, some also found themselves hating everything about them, blaming these rabble-rousing malcontents as the true cause of the new and deadly regime.
*
Morning arrived. Jonah aroused Myron and Jen from their drink-induced slumber. The other patrons were long gone. Jen nursed an epic hangover, while Myron seemed none the worse for wear. His hair was sexily tousled, and his boyish face had spouted a sparse crop of bristles overnight.
The outside world was beckoning. Jonah suggested they browse for a while in the olde curiosity shop like ordinary customers, and then leave via the front entrance. Myron rose first, slowly followed by Jen, whose head felt like it was about to explode.
‘Oh, my bloody head! Whoever invented alcohol should be shot!’ She stared menacingly at Jonah. ‘What the hell was I drinking last night?’
Jonah sniggered; he found Jen highly amusing. Big mistake! In the next instant, Jonah found himself on his back on the floor while Jen stood over him in a pugilistic stance, ready to use her fist again. Myron grabbed both muscular forearms and pulled her away.
‘Jen, leave it! We have to get to work—we’re late!’
Jen shot daggers at Jonah as he struggled to his feet.
‘Quite a right hook you have there, champ,’ he
said, brushing himself off.
‘What were we drinking last night?’ Jen demanded again.
Jonah said nothing, only smiled.
‘Come on, Jen,’ Myron pleaded, ‘let’s go out the front, like he said.’
‘Nothing doing!’ said Jen. She kicked open the door to Ryker’s and strutted out, with Myron sheepishly in tow.
*
Once in the open, Jen couldn’t tolerate the sun. ‘Ugh,’ she groaned. ‘Now I know how a vampire must feel.’
Jen squinted at Myron, whose sexy stubble was driving her crazy, and asked, ‘Hey, how come you’re not hung over?’
Myron shrugged. ‘Some can hold their liquor, some can’t. You can’t!’
The atmosphere in the streets was extremely subdued. People seemed to be robotic in their mannerisms, which Myron and Jen found curious and disturbing. People they had seen being boisterous and loutish a few days before were walking round as if hollowed out and empty, showing no emotions.
It had begun: John Howard had started the culling procedure. The people walking the streets were, in fact, clones—replacements for the murdered.
Myron and Jen thought it best to blend in with the robotic masses, staring blankly into nothingness and becoming wooden in their manner.
Chapter Eighteen
Myron and Jen made their way towards the warehouse on the outskirts of Hyde Park. The journey proceeded without incident, with Myron and Jen’s convincing robotic façade protecting them from suspicion.
Something was amiss on their arrival at the warehouse. The door had been left swinging in the breeze. Myron and Jen made their way slowly into the warehouse, looking in every direction and making sure it was safe to continue.
They breathed a twin sigh of relief upon encountering Oscar’s beaming face.
‘Myron, Jen, come here!’ Oscar said excitedly. ‘I have something to show you.’
Going Underground Page 22