In 2011, she made more overt enquiries about The Deterrent and his children. She emailed government departments, wrote letters, telephoned and, on a few occasions, presented herself at the British army press office, asking to speak to anyone who had been directly involved with the superhero.
She was variously ignored, fobbed off, or handed information already in the public domain. George increased the frequency of her calls, getting exasperated at how long it took for someone to respond to her persistency.
Finally, someone, somewhere, started to pay a little attention and an automatic email alerted her to the fact that her forged records had been accessed online.
A few days later, she received an invitation from a Major Harris.
Ushered into a Whitehall office the following week, George found herself opposite a middle-aged woman who had met The Deterrent. The Major answered her questions in such a helpful way, while simultaneously avoiding giving her any information, that George wondered why Harris hadn't ended up in politics.
Then the Major asked questions of her own. George had noticed the security cameras on the way in. She knew she was being recorded. And, from the impressions she had already gathered from Harris's mind, she knew the date of birth she had chosen for Georgina Carlton-Marshall's birth certificate—only a month earlier than her own—had been identified as a point of interest. She fell neatly into the age bracket that made her a possible child of The Deterrent. They'd wanted to get a good look at her. She wondered if her wasted body had disappointed them. Harris had certainly already dismissed her, but she knew now that the Major was just a pawn in the game.
By this time, George was well practised in engaging with people on two levels. She could hold a conversation while probing a mind.
Major Harris was a disappointed woman. Far from rising through the ranks as expected, an early clash with a senior officer left a blemish on her record she'd never been able to expunge.
As George sifted Harris's memories, she saw The Deterrent—her father—for the first time, through this woman's eyes. Harris had taken him out of...a station?...to a park where he had saved a man from being run over. George remembered the story from her own research. It was an early, unofficial sighting reported in a London paper. Now she knew it had happened on Harris's watch, which was why, thirty years later, she was a major, rather than, as she had hoped, a general.
To George's mounting excitement, she found three names still clear in Harris's memories from that time. One of them, a Professor McKean, was long dead. The other two were far more intriguing. Colonel Hopkins had been the superior officer who had, in Harris's eyes, ruined her career. The last name, along with some clear memories, was half familiar to George. The surname had come up again and again in her research and was filed in the deceased folder along with McKean and a handful of others. But the Christian name was different.
Who was Cressida Lofthouse?
34
Cressida
February 13th, 1981
The Deterrent's office finally softened its approach to PR and let a journalist from the New Musical Express meet Abos. I guess they're worried The Deterrent is not as popular with the younger generation as the old. Daily Mail readers love him - a big, white man with a Union Jack on his head, how could they not? The left-leaning papers are a little less enthusiastic, but they still praise the amazing work he has done, the lives he has saved.
I doubt Carstairs and his cronies care a jot if Abos is popular with anyone, but since their golden boy is officially sanctioned by the British government, his public image may be more of a concern to those whose jobs might go at the next general election.
My personal theory about the NME piece is that it's a reaction to the appearance, late last year, of The Detergent, a punk band from North London, who had a Christmas number one with Cleaning Up Crime (With My Pants On The Outside).
So maybe The Deterrent's PR people want to make sure Abos is perceived as 'cool', rather than a superpowered figure of fun.
Whatever their reasons, they let Tony Moorhill, a self-confessed 'cocaine socialist' (whatever that is) accompany Abos on a carefully stage-managed visit to a sixth-form college in Ipswich. A month ago, a building had collapsed, trapping a teacher and six students. The Deterrent had cleared tonnes of rubble and lifted a pre-fab classroom to let them out. It had looked great on TV as the dusty figures emerged into the light. As usual, selected members of the press were there to cover it.
The day with the NME journalist didn't go quite to plan. Makes for fascinating reading. Particularly because I think Abos mentions me. And it gives me hope. Perhaps Station's hold over him is not as secure as it was. That description right at the end...it gave me goosebumps.
UNDETERRED: TONY MOORHILL MEETS THE MOST TALKED ABOUT MAN IN HISTORY
A seven-foot question mark with no answer. That's The Deterrent. Like most of you, I first saw him back in October 1979, dropped my vodka onto the carpet and shouted, "What the f— is that?" at my TV. The whole thing was too bizarre to be a hoax, but, really? A giant flying soldier who can trash tanks with telekinesis?
Since then, I've watched him stop robberies, put out fires, and rescue victims of a pile-up on the M1 by peeling back car roofs with his bare hands. Fires, explosions, train wrecks, landslides, fallen trees, he's always there for the photo op. Last week, in the 'And Finally' bit of the news, he rescued a dog from a river. A seriously cute dog. He returned her to her owner, a seriously cute little girl with pigtails who cried when she was reunited with little Fido. Aaaaaaah. Seriously?
Anyone else starting to get the feeling we're being manipulated? Just a teeny tiny bit? Injustice, racism, sexism, and poverty are still rife. Our 'ruling classes' continue to ignore our pain because they're doing very nicely, thank you. Very nicely indeed. (They forget that they'll be just as dead as you and me when the nuclear holocaust levels their mansions and turns their Bentleys into lumps of charcoal. I digress) But, hey, just as it seems the seething masses might get pissed off enough to take action, a 'superhero' appears, everyone screams, 'ooooh' and everything else fades into insignificance.
Have you looked at the newspapers lately? Can you remember a day when The Deterrent didn't get a mention? One single day? I'll save you the trouble: it didn't happen.
Thatcher halves benefit payments to striking steelworkers; who cares? Look at this picture of The Deterrent lifting an ambulance out of a traffic jam.
American nuclear missiles to be housed in Berkshire and Cambridgeshire? Forget about it, look over here, where our home-grown superhero has played a charity cricket game and hit the ball into orbit!
What did the papers lead with today? Dead civil rights activist? Industrial action planned on the railways? Or flying man joins the Red Arrows for a display? I'm not giving you three guesses.
So when I was offered exclusive access to The Distraction, sorry, The Deterrent for a day, I jumped at the chance.
I wasn't given any info up front, just told to be at Liverpool Street Station at seven last Saturday morning. My protests that there was only one seven o'clock in the day for me, so couldn't we make it, say, noon, fell on deaf ears.
I want you to know that I took this assignment very seriously. The first journalist to interview the big man! I was determined to be professional, prepared and clear-headed. But then Mordo from the Bombs called me that Friday night and invited me to a party. A party. With Mordo. From the Bombs! Obviously, it would have been extremely unprofessional of me to even think about going.
Six hours later, by standing in the middle of the road and waving wads of tenners in the air, I made a cab stop for me. Unfortunately, I had forgotten my address. But I did remember I was supposed to go to Liverpool Street. I arrived before dawn and attempted to sleep off an unlikely amount of drugs and alcohol on a passing bench. A copper shook me awake at six-thirty. I made a beeline to the nearest bog and shoved some wake-up powder up my nose.
I checked my reflection. Unshaven, hair sticking up everywhere, bloo
dshot eyes with pupils like pinpricks. Perfect. I breathed into my hand. After gagging for a moment, I fished a can of deodorant out of my bag and sprayed my entire body, then necked a whole packet of polos.
Good to go.
After being mistaken for a tramp, which wasn't the best start, I was escorted onto a platform by The Deterrent's assistants, a couple of charmless chumps called Tomkins and Smith. Or Smithkins and Thompson. Tomcat and Smeg. Whatever. They didn't like me, I didn't like them. They stuck me into a first-class carriage (I took one for the team, comrades, and I want you to know that I didn't even so much as glance at the free biscuits), stuck a black coffee in my hand, and directed me to the seats at the far end. Not that I needed directions. Hard to miss a seven-foot man squeezed into a British Rail seat. Two middle-aged, scary-looking stuffed shirts in army uniforms were sitting at a nearby table, watching me. I waved cheerily at them.
I eased into the seat opposite The Deterrent and wondered why a man who can fly was taking the train to Ipswich.
"Why would a man who can fly take a train to Ipswich?" I said.
"Flying is tiring," he said. "And I like the train. It means I can travel with my colleagues." I looked at the sinister blokes in the seats opposite and looked over my shoulder at Smithy and Tonka.
"That's nice," I said.
Up close, he's quite something. I wasn't sure what to call him at first - Powerman is definitely out, although they seem to have quietly dropped that idea anyway. The Deterrent is a mouthful and sounds ridiculous in conversation. He admitted he has a name, but wouldn't share it. I suggested TD, and he was happy enough with that.
He is bloody massive. I know you've all seen pictures. Some of you might even have seen him at one of his press calls. But you've never sat opposite him. He's intimidatingly large. His head is enormous, but it has to be, otherwise it would look stupid sitting on that huge neck leading to those oversized shoulders. I'm all out of adjectives. He makes normal people look like little kids in comparison.
He wasn't wearing the stupid helmet. Before you get excited and want details ("TD shook his mass of blonde curls, and winked, his eyes the piercing blue of a movie star."), I should tell you he was wearing a bandana. Plain black, covered his hair. I can't help you. If I had to guess, judging from the hairs on the nape of his neck (swoon), I'd say dirty blonde. He was wearing dark sunglasses, but I interview musicians for a living, so I'm used to that.
We talked for about ten minutes before he said he needed a nap. And he actually used the word 'nap,' too. My granddad used to have a nap. And my nan. Cats nap. Since when do superheroes nap? I should have asked him about that, I suppose, but—between you and me—I was bloody delighted to get my head down myself.
Next thing I know, we're at Ipswich, and the platform was lined with people hoping for a glimpse of the big lad. He was wearing the goggles and helmet now. He got off the train and was instantly mobbed, men shaking his hand, women hugging him, people passing him flowers, chocolates, books, babies - as if he were a cross between a rock star and the pope.
The rest of us disembarked and elbowed our way through the crush while TD was posing for photos and signing breasts. I saw one of his lackeys nearby.
"He'll be there all bloody day," I said. He shook his head and pointed. I looked back, and TD was flying over the station building towards us. He landed by the college minibus, and we all got on board.
All right. I admit it. The flying thing is impressive. I've listened to scientists try to explain it on TV, I've read through, skimmed—okay, glanced at—the articles with theories about how he does it. They all say something different. No one has a clue really. I will say this: it's bloody cool. The man has style.
"What do you think about the adulation?" I asked. TD had to stand - none of the minibus seats could accommodate him.
He looked blankly at me. Then something unexpected happened. Thommo or Smippy leaned across and said, "What do you think about all these people liking you so much?"
TD had blanked at the word 'adulation.'
So, I've discovered his weakness. Every superhero is supposed to have one. Well, The Deterrent's weakness is a limited vocabulary. Apologies to any supervillain reading this paragraph with mounting excitement, hoping he could eliminate his nemesis and take over the world. Nah, you're not going to do it by hitting him over the head with a dictionary. Sorry, buddy.
It's interesting, though. Hard to judge TD's age with any accuracy, and that's one of the questions he wouldn't answer, but he looks anywhere between mid-twenties and mid-forties. But he doesn't know the meaning of 'adulation.' In the interests of research, and not because I was taking the piss or anything, I threw in a few long words during that journey and was rewarded with that blank look for most of them. I got in 'supercilious,' 'credulity,' 'Machiavellian,' and 'purview,' but Thomlinson and Smedly threatened to stop the bus and throw me off by the time I got to 'discombobulation.'
Perhaps TD's not that bright, and his entourage are there to cover for him. He wouldn't be the first amazing physical specimen to have found himself at the back of the queue when they were handing out brains.Somehow, though, I don't think that's it. TD seems intelligent. Slow, yes, careful with his words, but not thick. There's something else going on, and it wasn't until I finally got home and wrote this up that I realised what it was.
I'll tell you later.
The visit to the college was utterly devoid of any interest. TD had his photo taken with the principal and some of the students he'd rescued. Don't get me wrong, he did an amazing thing, but ceremonies bore me. I've been thrown out of four weddings when I tried to liven them up. I dutifully kept my mouth shut this time, as TD lifted a massive stone with his bare hands and laid it on the spot where the foundations for The Deterrent wing are due to be started next week. I didn't know whether to yawn or puke.
It was just as the polite applause was dying away that the day got interesting. One of the stuffed shirts from the train hurried over to TD and showed him a message on his pager. They hurried into the college in search of a phone. I gave them a few seconds, then followed.
When I got close to the office they were using, the army bloke was on the phone. I couldn't quite make out what he was saying, but he saved me the trouble by summarising it for TD.
"Single Anchor Leg Mooring System, seven miles off the coast, east of Lowestoft. There's a diving bell conducting repairs. Two men trapped underwater - the winch is snagged. They have about three hours before they run out of air but hypothermia—exposure to cold which will cause their bodies to shut down—could become life-threatening within the next hour."
As he spoke, they all came out of the office and hurried back out, paying no attention to me. As I burst through the front door, the army bloke was giving TD coordinates. TD looked ready to go.
"Wait!" I shouted. "The interview. I was promised the whole morning."
That was when something unexpected happened. I didn't anticipate it, and the entourage was totally gobsmacked.
TD nodded, took three huge strides over to me, wrapped a massive arm around my waist and picked me up.
"Close your eyes," he said. I don't know about you, but when a seven-foot bloke wider than my freezer who can crush steel just by thinking about it tells me to close my eyes, I close my eyes.
I didn't know what had happened until I heard the word, "no" being shouted. It sounded a fair distance away. And it was coming from below.
I opened my eyes and looked down past my dangling trainers. The college was far below, the people around it tiny specks.
If it hadn't been for the fact that I hadn't eaten, an embarrassing incident might have occurred in my underpants. Instead of which, I passed out.
I couldn't have been out long, because when I looked again, we were still flying over land, a yellow ribbon of beach below us as TD followed the coastline north.
I made a quick mental deal with myself to treat the entire episode as if it were a trip brought on by something slipped into my dri
nk at Mordo's party. Everything was easier after that. I even managed a friendly nod at a passing seagull.
I was bloody glad of my trench coat. It was freezing up there. I risked releasing one of my hands from the death grip I had taken on TD's forearm, which was wrapped around my chest. I dug into my bag and found another journalistic essential: the woolly hat. I jammed it on my noggin with one hand, saving my ears from falling off from frostbite.
Within a few more minutes, we were descending towards a red-hulled ship. I'm no nautical expert, so if you want to know all the details, go and read the newspaper reports. It was big, red, it floated, and it had lots of machinery on it, and hefty bearded men who wore Arran jumpers un-ironically.
At the blunt end of the boat, there was a winch carrying a metal cable thicker than my arm. It had been pulled back in, and I could see the frayed end where it had snapped, leaving two poor bastards in a metal ball five hundred feet below us.
TD didn't waste any time, just set me down and talked briefly to the bigger, most bearded man of all. Beardy was evidently a Scot.
"The umbilical cord connecting them to the ship has been completely torn away. We tried to winch them to the surface, but the winch must have snagged on the same point as the umbilical. Can ye reach them, man? If ye cannae, they're doomed."
In the interests of journalistic integrity, I admit that he didn't actually say that last bit. It's just that he sounded just like Private Frazer in Dad's Army. Sorry.
TD took three long, loping strides to the side before throwing himself overboard. There was a splash, then silence.
The big, bearded man looked at me. I looked at him and sniffed. I wondered how hard it would be to chop a line of coke in the bog if the ship kept moving around this much.
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