Children Of The Deterrent

by Ian W. Sainsbury

  "Tony Moorhill, NME," I said. "Watcha." Then I threw up on his wellies.

  Beardy and his slightly shorter colleagues sorted me out a tin cup of water while they ran about doing boaty things, shouting into radios, and looking at a sonar screen, which made bleeping noises just like in the movies. It was all very tense, I suppose, but I was mostly concentrating on not puking again.

  The bloke standing by the sonar screen suddenly made a funny noise, halfway between a gasp and a choke. He was jabbing at the screen while making noises like a sexually aroused seal. Don't ask me how I know what that sounds like.

  The 'bippy' blob on the screen was moving, and the bips were getting louder and higher in pitch. All right, I'll move on. Like I said, read the newspaper reports if you want the factual stuff.

  Everyone ran onto the deck. I joined them at the rail where they were watching the grey, rolling water, despite how boring and potentially puke-inducing that promised to be.

  The top of the diving bell breached the surface. To my surprise, it looked similar to the way I'd pictured it - a white sphere with portholes. It was contained within a metal cage which supported it and, as became clear moments later, allowed it to sit upright on a flat surface. It carried on rising as if an invisible winch was in operation.

  We all variously gasped, swore, or screamed like a girl (it was exciting, all right? don't judge) when TD appeared underneath, lifting the entire structure into the air. He didn't waste any time posing, which was a good job as I'd forgotten I was supposed to bring a photographer. He placed the diving bell in the middle of the deck and stood aside.

  There was a second where everyone looked at him, then all the bearded ones, large and small, ran to the bell and started unscrewing things and twisting valves. Soon, they were reaching inside and scooping out what initially looked like giant caterpillars. I moved closer and saw they were the two divers, tucked into some kind of special thermal sleeping bag. They were both talking and seemed okay. They had beards, too.

  Later, I found out they had been rescued before hypothermia had set in, and they made a full recovery. Ta-da.

  I moved back to the rail and hung on. Now that the drama was over, the constant motion of the sea was again making itself known to what was left of the contents of my stomach.

  I hate the sodding sea.

  "What's wrong?"

  TD was at my side, dry as a bone. Clever trick. I realised that this was the first question he had asked me all morning. It made him seem, for a moment, normal. Almost.

  "Seasickness," I said, and gave him a practical demonstration.

  "The helicopter will be here in about thirty minutes," he said. I responded with a dry heave.

  He looked at me for a few seconds saying nothing. Hard to read someone when you can't see their eyes, but I think he was making a decision.

  "Come with me," he said, and picked me up again. Flying without the comforting surroundings of a plane with, well, actual wings and an engine, is terrifying, but I felt so much better once we'd left the see-sawing ship that I could have kissed him.

  He saluted the beards, and they cheered back at him. I hate the salute. I know it's a trademark, but its quasi-military nature is one reason I've never bought into Deterrentmania. Makes my skin crawl.

  We flew over a stony beach on the east coast, then up to a cliff top where he set me down. Outside a pub. Good work.

  "Pint?" I said.

  There were only half a dozen punters in there. They variously spat out their pints, dropped cutlery or coughed up pieces of scampi.

  "Two Adnams." The barman took it all in his stride.

  I didn't know how long we would have until the rest of the gang joined us, so, once he'd sunk the first pint and I'd ordered another round, I tried talking to him properly.

  It was a fascinating, if frustratingly short, conversation. In my defence, I would definitely have bought him an orange juice if I'd known this was his first experience of alcohol. Scout's honour.

  He dozed off after about ten minutes. The helicopter arrived five minutes after that. I was shouted at, accused of gutter journalism and left to find my own way home after they'd carried the big fellow out.

  It was only after I had started on a plate of chips that I realised I didn't have a clue where I was.

  Lowestoft.

  Took me three and a half hours to get home.

  Here's our conversation in full. I've edited out the long silences. He doesn't rush his answers. I felt like he was in there somewhere, lost in the fog. The booze made him talk more, but it definitely confused him.

  TONY: TD, you're a good-looking bloke. Is there a girlfriend in the picture? Or a boyfriend? You've got all these powers, I assume you can work wonders in the sack, right?

  TD: The sack?

  TONY: Bed. In bed.

  TD: Bed? Sleep?

  TONY: Sex, mate, sex. Are you getting some? You'd bloody better be, I mean, if you can't score, what chance do the rest of us have?

  TD: Oh. Treats?

  TONY: Treats? What do you mean?

  TD: Are you married?

  TONY: Me? No, mate. Maybe one day. Who knows?

  TD: Peter and Jane have a mummy and daddy. They are married.

  TONY: Peter and who? Are you talking about your parents?

  TD: I saw her room.

  TONY: Who? Whose room?

  (This was the longest pause in the conversation. I gave up in the end and changed the subject.)

  TONY: Where are you from?

  TD: (slurring a little, hard to make out): Before...not...station...station

  TONY: The station? That's where I met you today. But where do you come from? You mentioned Mum and Dad. Do they have powers too?

  TD: Tony?

  TONY: Yes, TD?

  TD: Are you happy?

  TONY: God, no. Bloody hell. Are you sure you're British? We don't ask each other questions like that. All right, all right. I'll tell you the truth. Sometimes I'm happy. Sometimes I'm sad. On balance, I'm probably sad more often than I'm happy. It's called the human condition. What about you? Are you happy?

  TD: No. No. I am not happy, Tony.

  TONY: Why not?

  After another long silence, he started snoring softly. I was wondering what the hell to do when I heard the helicopter. Minutes later, I was alone with my chips, waiting for a taxi to the station.

  And that was the end of my day with TD. Was he referring to sex as 'treats?' Whose room was he talking about? And why isn't he happy? Your guess is as good as mine. My advice? Buy him a beer and see if you can get clearer answers. Say hi from me.

  I promised to share my theory about the big chap. I liked him, despite deciding in advance that I wasn't going to. And I know why I liked him. Because no one can resist a child. And that's what I think he is. Underneath all those super muscles and power, he struck me as a kid. And not a very happy one.

  If I'm right, and I am of course, then that raises a number of questions. I'll leave you with one. The one I think about in the middle of the night.

  What happens when he grows up?

  35

  Cressida

  April 12th, 1981

  Friday evening and all yesterday, there was unrest in Brixton. Last night, it became a riot. I watched the events unfold from the comfort of our living room, but even subdued lighting and soft furnishings couldn't diminish the shock of seeing such rage and violence boiling over a few miles away.

  Father took himself off to his office to work, but I kept watching. A reporter—keeping a careful distance from the rioters—read out a government statement reassuring the public that The Deterrent would help "uphold the law and restore order," but that's not what happened.

  That's when I saw him.

  The police ranks parted like the Red Sea as he walked through to the front line, where officers in riot gear, carrying plastic shields, were trying to hold their ground.

  The crowd stopped throwing bricks when Abos walked out in front of them. He stood
between the opposing sides, silhouetted in front of a burning car, the flames reflected in those dark goggles.

  Someone shouted, "Whose side are you on, white boy?" Abos said nothing. He looked back at the police, then turned towards the mob again, scanning their faces. Abruptly, I felt as if I was seeing the scene as he was: an organised and trained police presence, uniformed and predominantly white-skinned, facing off a disorganised crowd full of passion and anger, mostly dark-skinned. He stood there, and he did nothing.

  Finally, someone lobbed a bottle at him, which bounced off his chest, and that seemed to act as a catalyst. Seconds later, the air was thick with flying objects, most of them aimed at Abos. The howl of rage from the crowd was terrifying as they rushed him.

  The police hung back and left him to face them alone.

  The rioters hit him with their fists, and with baseball bats and broken bottles. Their anger was like a living force, making the crowd a roiling mass of rage. They saw The Deterrent as a symbol of authority, and authority had betrayed them. They accused the police of targeting black men, stopping and searching them because of their race. I'm ashamed that I hadn't known about any of this until it erupted in violence. How could this situation have reached such a crisis without me knowing anything about it? I'd read a couple of newspaper articles suggesting government policy was encouraging institutional racism, but the government is always being blamed for one thing or another, isn't it?

  Abos let them hit him. He stood there and took it. He only acted when someone doused him with a petrol can and set him alight.

  He rose into the air, the flames spreading quickly. Two men who had hung onto him dropped away, one clutching his boots for a second, then screaming as he fell and hit the street.

  The camera followed Abos as far as it could, a flaming beacon heading for the Thames.

  I waited for more information, but none came. Finally, I went to bed. I know he can't be hurt, but why did he just stand there?

  I lay awake, thinking about him, feeling useless. Abos has never been far from my thoughts since the day he opened his eyes, but since reading that article, I haven't been able to get the idea out of my mind that he misses me too. That it could only be me he was talking about when he said, "I saw her room."

  Eventually, through sheer exhaustion, I slept.

  I woke an hour later. Something had disturbed me, but I didn't know what. I had fallen asleep outside the covers with the bedside light on, this diary with its glued-in NME article in my hand.

  I turned off the light. Then, for no reason I can explain, I walked to the window and opened the curtains.

  Abos was there, floating outside, looking at me. His trousers were burned, as was one side of his green jumper, but the flesh beneath was unmarked. He held his goggles and helmet in his right hand.

  I looked back at him, hardly daring to breathe.

  We stayed that way for what seemed like hours, but was, in fact, seven minutes according to my clock.

  He didn't smile, he just looked at me. There was soot on his face and his charred clothing had been torn by knives and broken bottles.

  I started to open my window. As if waking from a dream, he looked around, then back at me, before shooting upwards so fast it was if he vanished.

  When the tears had dried on my face, I went back to bed.

  36

  Daniel

  George ordered afternoon tea for us in the suite. Whatever the staff thought was going on with this profligate woman and her bodyguard, they were far too discreet to even raise an eyebrow.

  It had taken George all day to tell her story. Just before the tea arrived, she produced an old journal, placing it in my hands.

  I opened it. A photograph fell out and fluttered to the carpet. I picked it up. It was black and white, a man in his fifties and a younger woman. She was striking, giving the camera a frank, direct and intelligent smile. The man looked more guarded and serious.

  "Cressida and her father," said George.

  I turned the photograph over. There was writing on the back.

  September 1st, 1969. Our first day working together!

  I tucked the photograph back and turned the page.

  George shook her head.

  "Uh-uh. Tea first and I'll tell you how that came into my possession. Then I'll go down to the lobby bar, where I shall sip dry sherry and enjoy the pianist's repertoire of popular show tunes. A few hours should give you enough time to read Cressida's diary. It's a lot to take in, so don't rush. When I come back, you'll know almost as much about our father as I do. We'll get a good night's rest, then tomorrow I'll tell you what I've been planning, what I've stolen from Station, and how we can destroy that god-forsaken hellhole once and for all."

  It sounded good to me.

  George told me she knew her visit to Harris would set wheels in motion. Within twenty-four hours, thorough checks were made on her fabricated personal history. She wanted the extra attention. It was all part of her plan. If she could infiltrate the organisation who had worked with The Deterrent, she hoped to find out the truth about me, and any others like us.

  And she could steal three decades of information gathered during the hunt for The Deterrent.

  Harris's mind had given her the break she needed, possibly a shortcut. Now, she had to find Cressida Lofthouse.

  37

  Cressida

  November 22nd, 1991

  After Brixton, I saw Abos once more. Ten years ago. Ten years ago tonight.

  This is the first time I've even looked at this diary since then. I brought the bottle of J&B upstairs, prised up the floorboard under the rug, brushed the dust (and three dessicated spiders) off the box, poured my first glass and started reading.

  Now I'm a little tipsy. And sad.

  If anyone ever reads this and blows the whistle, there'll be such a scandal. I'd love to see Hopkins' and Carstairs' faces. It almost certainly won't be during my lifetime, unfortunately, so I doubt they will be around to face the consequences.

  Every year, I think about what happened, remember that night a decade ago, go over everything that was said and done.

  Afterwards, no one ever saw Abos again.

  The official story is that he disappeared in the storms. Missing, presumed dead, was how the military spokesman put it. We've all seen that clip a hundred times.

  And we've all read the articles and books, watched the documentaries, heard the radio shows. So many theories, some of them advanced so forcefully and plausibly that I find myself half-believing them. None of them anywhere near the truth.

  I know it wasn't the storms. He's not dead.

  I live here alone now, diary. Father died in his sleep six years ago. After Abos had gone, Station paid him for twelve months before pensioning him off and closing the department. Well, it wasn't closed completely. Mike Ainsleigh is still there. Some kind of research continues.

  Roger went back to America, leaving his wife and child. McKean returned to Scotland, where he took a research post, only to drown in a fishing accident within six months.

  As Father's next of kin, I have the house, a small government pension, and the savings he and Mother had built up. I have enough to get by. I don't work anymore, but I volunteer at the local library. A spinster librarian at forty-one!

  I could be rather wealthy if I were paid royalties for the book based on my reports when I was at Station. When it was first published, in 1983, it was the fastest-selling book in history.

  The Deterrent: The Inside Story Of Britain's Superhero, by HT Bowthorpe is a bestseller even now. As the only 'official' account written by someone attached to The Deterrent's scientific team (the mysterious HT Bowthorpe, whoever that is), it's considered the most accurate account of Britain's only superhero.

  The whole thing is poppycock. A fabrication. A tissue of lies. Like all good lies, it's partially based on the truth. Most of the descriptions of the inside of Station, the laboratory, and Abos himself, are lifted word for word from the notes I handed
in every week to Hopkins. The location and name of the facility have been redacted, naturally.

  When it comes to The Deterrent's origins, the book is one big red herring. The heavy hints about genetic research leading to the development of a superwarrior? I suppose Hopkins thought it would be more believable than the truth. And I doubt the British government wants anyone to know that they found their superhero lying around in the middle of London. They want every other nation to believe, even now, that we might create an army of Deterrents to replace Abos. After ten years, I wonder if anyone is still falling for that.

  This is the story told by HT Bowthorpe.

  In 1976, a British soldier, badly wounded in an explosion, was flown to a secret facility where new genetic and bio-mechanical techniques had been developed after the Second World War. The brightest and best scientists from the country had come up with ways of enhancing physical strength and mental capabilities but the techniques were unproven and potentially dangerous. They had not yet reached the stage where they would be prepared to test anything on humans. The dying soldier's arrival, an individual with no family, gave them that opportunity. Without their intervention, without attempting to use a combination of these untested procedures, the man would die.

  They operated. The description of the operation lasts a whole chapter in the book which is impressive since it never happened. The book is written for the general public, so scientists studying it hoping to find a hint of how the human brain might be rewired to enable it to move objects as big as Challenger tanks must have been disappointed. It was full of meaningless twaddle such as,