Children Of The Deterrent

by Ian W. Sainsbury

  Something is going on here. Hopkins has a hold over Father that I don't understand and Abos is, well, he's just wrong.

  My suspicions became deepened over the next few days when I didn't see Abos at all. Carstairs cancelled our Friday session, claiming Abos was "too busy."

  Diary, I will find out what's happening. Why Abos has changed, and why Father meekly goes along with Carstairs.

  It may take some time, but I'm determined to get a look inside the room where I once taught Abos. The room where he seems to spend most of his time now.

  I'll report back.

  25

  May 14th, 1979

  Now I know. I wish I didn't because of what it means.

  Father is away until tomorrow. I will confront him then. I've thought about it all day, and I imagine I'll be lying awake most of tonight. I can't see any way this could have happened without his involvement, but I must give him the chance to convince me otherwise. Although I already know he won't be able to. Oh, Father, how could you?

  I had no idea it would take this long, but perhaps I shouldn't have been surprised. After all, I'm working in the most secure facility in the country. The most secretive, too. Everyone who works at Station knows, in the event of a foreign invasion, a nuclear attack, or a direct attack on Station itself, the order would be given to detonate the charges that will bury the entire facility and everyone in it.

  When someone cares that much about security, it's difficult to sneak into an off-limits room.

  Difficult, but not impossible. And I had to do it. I've become more and more convinced something is terribly wrong. There's nothing new to say about my weekly meeting with Abos. It hasn't got any better. He's changed so much that his personality now bears little resemblance to the shy, strange, curious man I got to know last year.

  Carstairs is behind the changes in Abos. Today, I confirmed it. I just wish he was acting alone.

  Right. There's no easy way to admit this, so I'll just come right out and say it. I used my feminine wiles to get what I needed. I took the example of Mata Hari and seduced my way into the forbidden room.

  I'm not proud of it, but it had to be done. I sometimes suspect I'm the only person in Station who thinks of Abos as anything other than something to be manipulated and used. Maybe letting myself be used in turn is justifiable under the circumstances.

  By varying the times of my toilet breaks over the first few months, I built up a picture of who went to Abos's room, and when. The corridor with the blue Piccadilly line on it passes the lab and leads to his room. Father is an intermittent visitor, but he has refused to say anything about what he does there. Now I understand why. Carstairs is in the area every morning between ten and twelve-thirty. He comes back every afternoon between four-thirty and five-thirty. Abos accompanies an army squad for training every day between one-thirty and four. Two or three times a week, they leave the facility by helicopter, training outside in various locations. Abos wasn't allowed to tell me where. Or why. Or what they were doing.

  Due to the restrictions enforced by the regular hours I keep at Station, I couldn't find out any more about who visited Abos, and when. Carstairs cuts off questions he considers inappropriate. However, by keeping an eye on the window in the laboratory door, I could work out how many guards are assigned to Abos's room and jot down the pattern of their shifts.

  By the time Easter rolled around, I knew that my clearest opportunity to get a look would come at lunchtime. Twelve forty-five looked like the best bet. Abos and Carstairs would both be in the dining room. When Abos was present, two soldiers stood guard on his room. When the room is empty, only one guard is stationed. It's never unguarded.

  So my problem was simple: how to get past one guard without being seen or reported. I considered drugging the guard's food, hitting him over the head or setting off an alarm. The risk of subsequent discovery was too high in each case.

  I think I always knew what I was going to have to do. When I finally allowed myself consciously to consider using seduction as a tool, I conceded it made perfect sense, however distasteful it might seem. No one would have to get hurt.

  I picked my beau carefully. Soldiers assigned to Station serve long stretches. The fewer changes of personnel, the fewer chances of any rumours surfacing about Station and its secrets, I suppose. We all signed the Official Secrets Act, but still. One careless remark off-duty in a pub...why risk it? What this means for me is that I already have a friendly relationship with many of the soldiers. They spend much of their time underground, surrounded by other men, so, over the years, I've noticed I attract more than my fair share of nods, smiles, and even the occasional wink when they're certain Hopkins isn't looking. I have remained professional at all times.

  Until the week after Easter, that is.

  There's a Private Donovan who's been here for about eighteen months. I know he's got a soft spot for me because he once stopped outside the lab for almost an entire conversation before being barked at by a passing sergeant. Fraternisation is not encouraged.

  I wore a little more makeup, and attempted to catch Donovan's eye at meal times, give him the little half-smile I've practised in front of the mirror. How very teenaged of me. But it works. Within a few days, I noticed him making sure he could sit at a table affording him a clear view of me.

  As phase one was going so well, I moved to phase two. This involved waiting until Donovan was assigned the guard slot outside Abos's room. It took eight days, but one lunchtime, I caught sight of him heading down the corridor. A few minutes later, Carstairs, Abos, and two guards passed on their way to the dining room.

  I waited ten long minutes, my heart thumping. Then I slipped out to the bathroom, applied a fresh coat of lipstick and unbuttoned my blouse enough to draw the eye without making me look like a stripper. It's a fine balance, but I think I achieved it.

  Private Donovan certainly agreed. As I turned the corner, he moved his rifle across his chest and prepared to challenge me in exemplary military fashion. Then he recognised me, half-smiled, dropped his gaze to my cleavage, dragged his eyes upwards with a clear effort and stammered at me while his neck flushed.

  "M-M-Miss Lofthouse, you are not permitted to come into this area."

  I paused before speaking. I had put a lot of effort into this and my greatest risk of failure came there and then. If I pushed Donovan too hard, he would do his duty, send me packing, and, if I was very unlucky, report me to Hopkins.

  No. I was going to play this very carefully indeed.

  I stopped about six feet away from the door to Abos's room. I assumed what I think of as my demure but sexually available pose, something else I'd been practising in front of a mirror. I'm sure women have been using it for centuries. So much for my feminist ideals, eh, diary? Perhaps this makes me a more radical feminist? Or am I trying to make myself feel better about behaving like a tart? Anyway, the demure pose. I didn't smile but put my head ever so slightly on one side, my hands flat on my thighs. The hand position was crucial because it allowed me to use my upper arms to push my breasts together. I could feel my blouse taking the strain.

  "I'm sorry, Private Donovan," I said, and turned, making sure that he was looking where I wanted him to look. He was. "It's just, oh this will sound so pathetic...no, forget it. I apologise."

  I walked away - I've developed a new kind of walk just for Donovan. You can imagine. Oh dear.

  I'd almost made it to the corner when he spoke.

  "Miss Lofthouse?"

  And I knew I had him.

  "Cress. Please call me Cress."

  I told him I was lonely, lived with my father and just wanted someone to talk to sometimes, but if that wasn't allowed, I wouldn't bother him again. I turned to leave one more time, and he stopped me again. Said I might talk to him at lunchtimes for a few minutes if it was quiet. If anyone saw me, I could always pretend to be looking for someone. I tilted my chin down and looked up at him through my eyelashes. Men still fall for this rubbish, can you believe it?


  It took five more visits, one spell of holding hands, two hugs (one prolonged), plus one lingering kiss on the lips before I was confident of success. I made sure to always leave him wanting more.

  This lunchtime, I waited until it was all clear. It was now or never.

  Donovan smiled as I came around the corner. He's a sweet boy, really. I felt awful about using him this way. He put his rifle against the wall and held out his hand. For a few minutes, we held hands and talked, then I let him kiss me again. This time, when we broke apart, I put my hand around the back of his head and drew him back, opening my mouth and moving my body against his. He responded much as any healthy male would, and before I knew it, his lips on my neck and one hand was on my breast. I used the opportunity to start unbuttoning his shirt.

  He had a moment of clarity then. "I can't," he hissed, moving my hand away. I gently went back to what I was doing.

  "I want to touch your skin."

  He hesitated, then let me unbutton his shirt down to his midriff. I slipped my hand inside and ran my fingers through the hair on his chest.

  In the interests of candour, diary, I will admit I was getting a little hot under the collar myself at this point.

  When he had managed to get a couple of fingers inside my bra—which must have been awfully uncomfortable for the poor man, it's far too tight as it is—and reach a nipple, I judged the time was right to initialise my master plan.

  I suddenly went still, my body rigid. Donovan stopped what he was doing half a second later.

  "What's the matter?"

  "I heard something. I think someone's coming."

  He didn't waste any time speaking, just took his hand out of my underclothes (with some difficulty) and tried to re-button his shirt. Meanwhile, I rushed over to the corner and peeked round.

  "Hopkins and Carstairs," I said, hurrying back. "They've stopped to talk, but they're coming this way."

  Donovan paled. He looked on the brink of passing out when I told him his buttons were in the wrong order.

  "They can't find me here," I whispered. "You'll be court-martialled. I'll be fired. Hide me."

  Fortunately for both of us, no one locks a guarded door. Unfortunately for me—or so I thought at the time—Donovan opened the door opposite Abos's room and, before I had a chance to protest, bundled me into it. I could hear him frantically trying to rearrange his clothing.

  I was in utter darkness. I felt around for a few seconds, then found the light switch. A fluorescent bulb flickered into life, and I took stock of my surroundings.

  I was in a cupboard. A fairly big one, full of shelves, but a cupboard nonetheless. My heart sank. My plan had failed because I was stupid enough to imagine Donovan would hide me in the living quarters of the most powerful being in Britain rather than the store cupboard opposite. I swore, then resolved to make the best of it. I had a good look around, knowing my time would be short.

  The shelves to the right were of little interest. Towels, bedding, soap, and laundry products. Also, piles of oversized army clothing adapted for Abos. The shelves to the left contained a first aid kit and some jars of vitamin powder. That was it. Frustrated beyond belief, I looked for anything else I could find. A clipboard with a lined sheet and some handwriting hung next to the light switch. I took it and read the entries. They were in date order, and the last entry had been filled in less than an hour ago.

  May 14th, 8am, compound C, 125g with water. Subject stable.

  I flicked back quickly through the pages. There were four entries every day, the first at eight in the morning, the last at ten pm. They all said the same thing. I flicked back further and found some different results. There had been a compound A and a compound B. Compound A had been used for five days, compound B had lasted just one day. Against the compound A entries, the word inconclusive had been written. On the day that compound B appeared, the word unstable had been written and underlined. That had been the twenty-sixth of December.

  There was something about Boxing Day that nagged at the corner of my mind, but I couldn't place it straight away.

  There was a gentle knock on the door.

  "Cress?"

  I re-hung the clipboard. Donovan looked sheepish when he opened the door. He was still pale, and his forehead had a light sheen of sweat.

  "They didn't come this way," he said. Bless him, it didn't occur to him that I might have been lying through my teeth.

  He looked down at my chest again, and I remembered the state of my blouse. I buttoned up, blushing the whole time.

  "Er, Cress," he began. He was about to start stammering again with embarrassment.

  "I understand," I said, patting his arm. "We shouldn't have done it. I'm so sorry, Petey." Yes, his name's Petey. You see why I think of him as Donovan.

  We parted with a peck on the cheek and a promise to get back in touch once one of us has left Station.

  Not that many people ever seem to leave Station, now that I think about it.

  I got back to the lab and diverted to the toilet when I saw Father.

  I sat in a locked cubicle, shaking for about five minutes, trying to regain my composure. I remembered why Boxing day had stuck in my mind. That had been the day Hopkins had shouted at everyone, demanded results. I remembered how he had pointed at Father. At the time, I had thought something was wrong. It was the same time that Abos dropped out of sight. No one in the lab saw him for four days.

  December 26th, 8am, compound B, unstable.

  Whatever was in those jars, whatever it was they were giving Abos four times a day, it wasn't vitamins. And the most experienced chemist in Station is Father.

  Worst of all, although I was trying to preserve a glimmer of hope that Father wasn't involved with whatever they were doing to Abos, I couldn't ignore the handwriting. They say your handwriting is as distinctive as your voice. And I know Father's as well as I know my own.

  I will confront him when he gets home tomorrow. I'll call in sick and wait for him at home. I'll demand he tells me what they've been doing to Abos. What Father has been doing.

  26

  May 15th, 1979

  Father was back late. He telephoned to ask how I was. I mentioned the word 'menstrual,' and he stopped asking questions. He told me he would eat at Station and be back late.

  I was supposed to go to bed early like a good girl.

  He expected to come back to a warm house and a glass of whisky. What he got instead was me, sitting at the kitchen table in the darkness. He jumped about a foot when he flicked on the light and saw me there.

  I've had nearly thirty-six hours to think about it, and when Father sat down in the chair opposite, I knew exactly what to say.

  As I spoke, his expression changed, going through bluster, denial, embarrassment, anger, fear, and—finally—shame. For my part, I felt something tearing inside me as, for the first time, I stopped being proud of my father. His fall was that much greater, I suppose, because of the love and esteem I've had for him all my life. Since Mother died, we have been all the other has to rely on. Now, at the end of my twenties, I find that support slipping away forever. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to trust anyone like that again.

  To his credit, I suppose, he did at least answer my questions when he realised the alternative.

  "If you to refuse to tell me what you've been doing, I will pack a bag now, walk out of this house tonight, request a transfer in the morning and you will never see me again. Never."

  White-faced, grim, and looking old, his eyes didn't leave mine as I spoke.

  "If you lie about any aspect of what you are doing, tonight or at any point afterwards—and, remember, Station is a small place—I will leave. Don't do it. I expect the truth from you, and I expect it now."

  I let him speak.

  "And if you don't like what I'm about to tell you, Cress? What then?"

  I had barely thought about anything else since the previous day.

  "I can't promise anything until I hear what you have to say."


  He said nothing, just nodded.

  "It started when Carstairs arrived. Abos had shown abilities so powerful that the top level of military intelligence had become involved. Carstairs outranks everyone in Station, including Hopkins. For the first week, he simply observed, then he called Hopkins and me into his office. He believed that there was one aspect to the way we were dealing with Abos that was dangerous."

  "What was it?"

  "It was you, Cress."

  I stared at him.

  "What?"

  "Carstairs could see a relationship building between the two of you, a relationship that, although formed around a teacher-student model, was still based on an assumption of equality."

  I continued staring for a few moments before finding my voice.

  "How, exactly, is that supposed to be dangerous?"

  "Abos is not human. His development is, admittedly, proceeding at a far faster rate than even the most gifted child, but his brain is still at the most plastic, malleable stage."

  "I still don't see how our relationship is dangerous."

  "Carstairs considered it so. You would have been left with no contact at all if it hadn't been for Abos himself. He insisted on seeing you."

  I blushed. Betrayed by my body again.

  "Carstairs then imposed a new approach to his, and our, relationship with Abos. Parent to child, authority figure to subordinate. He set us to work to help him achieve it."

  "Wait. Why is it a good thing to have Abos treating you, or Carstairs, as if you're his superior? It's not true."

  "Cress, it's not a case of superiority." He looked at my face. "Well. For now, perhaps, it is, but it's temporary. During this foundational period, it's healthy for Abos to look up to us, to have boundaries, to flourish within the same kind of parent-child model that has worked for humanity."