by Phil Brett
The architect we had expelled from the house had made his bucks from building office blocks. Because he had once won some civic award for best ergonomic design in a built-up area, he had come to consider himself a modern-day Christopher Wren. His house had the typical design of such a person: all clean lines, sharp angles and heaven forgive a brick. It dwarfed everything else in it. So, I sat there with this huge masterpiece of an English winter in front of me. A more relaxing scene could probably have not been imagined.
Warm and airless in front of silent snow and mixed with lethargy brought on by inactivity, I felt like falling asleep for the rest of my life. I decided that what was required was a bit of exercise.
Grabbing my trunks, a towel, hair gel and dressing gown, I headed for the marvellous pool which the great architect had installed here. A narrow fifteen metres wide and fifty metres long, it was housed in a glass cuboid that stuck out in an L shaped leg from the house. By the time I had collected all the gear, whatever had been making the noise in the dining room had stopped and cleared out. That wasn’t so strange, not for here anyway.
Happily, the pool was deserted when I got there. Glancing at one of the mirrors which took any space not covered by a window, I noted that, for a man of my age, I looked pretty trim. Indeed, I might even be developing the odd muscle or two because of lengthy daily visits here. It was the best part of being holed up in this place. Only a couple of the guests and staff swam, so I usually had the place to myself. Even so, you could never be too careful, so I locked the door. In doing so, the familiar pleasurable feeling of anticipation began to tingle in me. This would increase as I unlocked the door, walked by the side of the pool, took my dressing gown off and laid it over the back of one of the wicker chairs.
As I stood on the edge, the tingle grew until reaching its zenith the split second before I left the side. It froze as I dived. On entering the water, the sensation disappeared and on the first kick, was replaced with a feeling of security and isolation. The water cocooned me, and in its watery womb, I enjoyed the first length. I held my breath for as long as I could, surfacing after 10 metres before submerging once more. Length after length I swam. The first dozen or so I did so underwater; from there, I alternated lengths of different styles before returning to my preferred one of underwater breaststroke. I could do this almost as automatically, with no thought given on the mechanics of swimming; instead, I could let my mind wander. Today’s topic was a familiar one – did staying here actually help me in any way? Indeed, had I ever required help? Was it a cure, punishment or rehabilitation?
Officially, it was to help with my anger issues, which had been triggered by the grief of the loss of my partner Caroline and daughter Lisa in a road accident three years ago, whilst holidaying in Italy. That instability, so the prognosis went, had been exacerbated by an incorrect feeling of guilt, which had affected my judgment and caused me to commit an extreme act of violence.
Coming up for air on my fiftieth length, I reached for the side and turned; I'd do another twenty and then call it a day. For the final few, my mind drained of thoughts of why I was here, and indeed of any at all, and I just enjoyed the purity of the swimming. I had nothing to regret or reproach myself for, nothing to worry or think about except for breathing, kicking and pushing, turning and pulling my arms. Length number fifty five passed, as did number sixty. It was working. I was feeling awake, alive and a great deal more positive. Maybe I would see if I could reach eighty today?
3. Cytisus scoparius
After achieving eighty lengths, I pottered about. I was rather good at pottering. If it wasn't for the sporting boycott of the country, or the fact that it was the one thing which had not been classified as a sport, I could be a champion in pottering about. Making very little seem to be a lot. I’d changed twice. Feeling the cold, the shirt had been replaced by a black roll neck. Eventually, early evening had arrived, and having used up my ration of pottering and staring out onto a soul-less – but impeccably designed-for-all-those-soiree-needs – garden, I ventured out into the main common room. This had previously been the owner’s open plan lounge-cum-kitchen-cum-eating-area-cum-somewhere-to-park-a-commercial-air-liner. Cosy it wasn’t. It was huge. Two floors highs, with floor to ceiling glass windows and floor space which probably had a map of its own. With most of the present inhabitants out enjoying the therapeutic benefits of a bracing day’s walk, the place was empty. The feeling of people elsewhere and being left behind was enhanced by the stacks of S Beds by the left wall, neatly put away after the guests who’d slept in this part of the house had awoken.
Previously, the walls had been a solid white, but we had changed that. With an audacious use of the 3D printer, we had created a set of framed prints to go up. I had to admit: it had been a hugely enjoyable few nights, with guests, staff and even a few visitors all voting on what should hung. It had been in the third week of moving in and those white walls were too medical for many of us. Someone had had the idea that we should hang some pictures. That was a red rag to a bull, and I became the self-pointed chairperson, who had suggested, enlightened and, to be honest, showed off a rather a lot. Not that I had curtailed anyone’s right to put forward an idea as to what should go up. Indeed, there were a few personal hates which were leering at me right now. One such – a whopping great still life from the seventeenth century Dutch artist Clara Peteers – gloated over me. It had been my own fault: I had been showing examples of Neo-Expressionism and someone had asked me if I had really liked these ‘messes’. When I had said yes and that, in fact, I did – a lot – Mark Grove had asked, in mock outrage, whether there indeed was any art which I didn’t like. It was then that I made a howler: I had confessed a bodily distaste of the genre of still life. And so, to much amusement, they had decided to plonk one up. In pride of place. All breakfast and table cloth, with subtle-as-a-brick allegories.
In front of it sat Grove himself, munching on a piece of toast. Marvellous. A living still life. My arrival hadn’t disturbed him. He just sat on an armchair, watching the news and munching. The furniture here was either blue or green, none having the slightest straight edge. Personally, I thought it looked cool. But it felt bloody uncomfortable. Grove sat propped on pillows and watching a reporter from blizzard-torn Oslo discussing the latest vote from the Norwegian Social Democratic Government to defy the US blockade and to restart official trade with the new workers’ state.
Grove was a solid believer in the old ways and found every chance he could to denounce the NWC. For him, the glory days were when there would be an explosion of excitement at the news of a woman giving birth, if that woman happened to be one of the royals. I could imagine him raising a toast, flying the flag and wiping back a tear.
His hatred for the NWC was visceral, even despite the fact that National Workers Council Motion Number 4319, Imprisoned by the State, sub-section 4a, regarding those who were deemed to require medical support more than legal sanction for mental distress, had been the piece of legislation which had brought us all to this place. Or, in other words, it had got him released from being banged up. Not that he was grateful. On seeing my arrival, he had treated me to his views on the balance of support across the continent. He scoffed that Scandinavia wasn’t going to save us from starvation. He was forever predicting that we would be on our knees by the end of the year.
‘And then you’ll be back inside,’ I replied. As I always did.
Ignoring me, he wittered on; bewailing the fate of the country, of law and order and of civilisation itself.
My eyes did a roll. It would be so easy just to leave this place. There were no guards or locks and I could just walk. It wasn't a prison. But where to? What to? Who to?
It was then that two powerful beams of light shone against the house and lit my face. At the side of the garden, where the driveway ran from the road to the garage, a lilac sports saloon drove rapidly towards us. Fearing not the icy conditions, nor the possibility of running over any staff or guests, it didn’t slow down unti
l it was within metres of the door. Then it halted suddenly, stopping just as the external house sensor lights came on. To my surprise, I recognised it. Its dark colour, tinted windows, gleaming solar panels and the red fist at the back brought back memories. Memories of things which had brought me to this place.
A door opened and a pair of black ankle boots in blue denim trousers appeared. A slim body in an unseasonably lightweight green leather jacket followed. Victoria Cole got out, shivered and looked towards the building. She had been in my thoughts quite a lot these last few days, because Dr Brakus had wanted to ‘unpick our tangled and complex relationship’. My protestations that we didn’t have a relationship – and in any case, you unpicked knitting, not people with whom you had bugger all in common except that you had once worked with them – had not deterred her from returning to the tired old subject. So, maybe I had called her? I couldn’t remember doing so, but here she was. Could I have called her and forgotten? Surely Brakus hadn’t! She wouldn’t have been that crass, could she?
Still, here Cole was. Her hair looked a little blonder than I remembered, but then the last time I’d seen her in the flesh it had rather been sweat sodden. It was also a different style, with the back and sides clipped short and a longer fringe hanging over her right eye. She looked well. Certainly more so than on that occasion.
Our eyes met and she gave a small wave, which was somewhere between a friendly hello and a notification that she was visiting. I pointed around the corner to let her know where the front door was. Questions were buzzing around my brain as to the reason why she might be here. She wasn’t carrying flowers or chocolates. Then again, she wasn’t that type. Actually, could you even get flowers nowadays? I also couldn’t imagine her turning up out of the blue, especially not in this weather, just for a cosy chat about the good old times. The old times weren’t that particularly good, or old. No, she was here for a reason.
Putting one foot tentatively into our glorious establishment, she stood close to me. Her pure pale skin looked unblemished and healthy, her blue eyes crystal clear. Again, my memory was playing tricks on me, and she looked even younger than I remembered. Awkwardly, we both moved towards each other, both thinking on how to greet each other: to hug or not, to kiss cheeks or not? Singing the Internationale was out. After a moment or two of awkwardness, we leant forward and shook hands.
She smiled. ‘Good to see you, Pete.’
To my surprise, the words ‘You too’ came forth from my lips and – even weirder – there was more than a hint of sincerity about them. That, however, was about as gushing as we got. More milliseconds, which seemed like hours, passed, as we hovered in a social no-man’s land of embarrassment.
I still wasn’t sure whether I had indeed contacted her. In any case, getting draughty by the open door, I broke the social ice before the real stuff started to form around my nostrils. ‘What brings you here?’
Being a somewhat different person to me, she didn’t reply as I would have, and say, ‘a car'. Instead, she smiled again. That was new. Two smiles in a minute. Back in the days when we’d been thrust together, I couldn’t remember her smiling that much in total. I was still also puzzled as to why she was here. She hadn’t felt the need to come before. Actually, the last time I had seen Victoria had been at my trial and then that had only been by video link. Despite only having known each other for a few days and not being the best of buds, she had given a strong, and important, performance. Quite possibly it was because of her, of what she had said and from where she had said it – lying in a hospital bed, just weeks after nearly losing her life – which had ensured that I had not been given a stiffer sentence.
She interrupted my thoughts. ‘Any chance I can come in? It’s freezing!’
Turning, I looked around, thinking where we could go. The common room was still home to Grove, who was now ranting something about primary school teachers, so I ushered her in, across the room and into the kitchen area.
‘Tea, coffee?’ I asked, ever the gracious host.
For a split second, I noticed her glance at the clock on the far wall. But whatever was pressing, she evidently had decided that there was time for a hot drink. ‘Tea. Milk, no sugar,’ she replied.
Getting the beverage requirements gave me a few seconds to get my head together. She sat down by the table, distractedly straightening her yellow NWC Steward armband. I had noticed it as she had come in. On Day Two of the revolution, the various police service chiefs had been called in by the party and told that their constabularies would be dissolved within the week – though that effectively had already been the case anyway. If they agreed to do so peacefully, then all those not in active opposition to the new workers’ state would be allowed to become normal citizens and past crimes would be annulled. Not to do so would bring punishment. Their replacement had been the Stewards: elected representatives who were to be in charge of law and order in the workers’ state. Cole was one of the very few former police officers who had been transferred into it. No doubt, the fact that she had very publically joined the party, whilst still a member of the Metropolitan Police, had endeared her to the workers’ council. She just couldn’t stop telling people to move along, I guess. A cop in her heart, soul and brain. It was noticeable that she had instantly seen where the clock had been located. Always looking and observing – on the outside – investigating.
‘Still keeping the streets safe, I see,’ I mumbled, pouring the water.
‘Been back just over a month. They wanted me doing admin, but I wasn’t doing that, so I’ve been put on special duties.’ She stopped and left the phrase ‘special duties’ hanging above us. I searched for the milk and pondered what the loaded phrase might mean. Whatever it was, it wasn’t going to be good. She wasn’t going to be in charge of manicuring the public parks.
Drinks catered for, I sat down and joined her. No doubt, these duties had something to do with her being here, because I doubted very much she had come round just for a brew. Whatever our connection, it wasn’t one of sharing custard creams.
Looking at her flashed memories up, which maybe were ones which I didn’t want returning. Unspoken conversations lingered between us, the weight of which lowered our heads and made us both seem deeply preoccupied with hot drinks. I stirred with vigour, the spoon’s clanking accompanying Grove’s cursing. For a second or two, I considered mentioning the subject we both shared, but then thought better of it. What did we exactly share? What was there to say? No, the clanking was safer. Easier to understand. Less complicated and less compromised. Elephants in rooms didn’t bother me. In my experience, it was only when you acknowledged them that they crapped on your carpet.
Suddenly, as if the tea had given her the resolve she needed, she looked straight into my eyes. ‘Olivia Harrison has been found shot dead.’
I stopped my stirring. Olivia Harrison was a leading party member, who only a few months ago had been elected Chief Secretary for the State’s Power Supplies. That made her the lead minister for the electrical, wind, wave, fossil and nuclear industry. An important post, but Olivia was important to me in a more personal way, because she had been one of the comrades who had been embroiled in the matter which had brought Cole and I together; and thereafter, bringing me to the Anchorage and near-death to Cole.
Cole’s eyes seemed to grow in intensity. ‘Shot in the right temple with an Alavares Azevedo 12D.’
That really did grab my attention. The Alavares Azevedo 12D was a gun. Not a common or garden gun, one which you could find on the streets, but one which was a specialised piece of kit. A year ago, I had never heard of it and would have thought it was a Salsa band, but not now. It was favoured by secret service agents, including the agent who had been Cole’s and my quarry ten months ago. A bullet from one had lodged into Cole’s body and had nearly killed her.
Answering my unspoken question, she explained, ‘We think the . . . er . . . other one . . . the one used against us, has been either destroyed or safety locked away, so we are presum
ing that it’s a different AA12. We’re checking that. It’s too early to tell.’
Taking my puzzled gawping as a signal to explain further, she did so. ‘An hour ago, at roughly 17.15, the stewards of the South West London Workers received a call that Olivia Harrison had been fatally shot in a Battersea car park. She had been found by her partner, who was meeting her to get a lift home. He rang the local workers’ council hotline, and they sent two Stewards, who cordoned off the area and rang the local Party organiser, who then rang Jackie, who in turn rang me.’
Some list. The old days of 999 were much quicker. Something similar had been the case, almost a year back. Back then, it had also felt important to call Jackie Payne after the discovery of the death of a comrade. Then, she was the leading revolutionary of the movement, whereas now she was the nation’s president or, as she was officially known, President of the United and Equal Nations of the British Isles. She was the revolutionary who had led a successful workers’ revolution and now was the person of the moment. She was also, it seems, the person to call when a corpse appears. A rather odd thing for a head of state, but then these were odd days indeed.
Cradling my cup, I wondered what had brought her scurrying to me. ‘Is there something which would interest me?’ I asked.
‘No idea. I haven’t got there yet. Actually, I’m on my way there now, but I thought I would drop in here on route, talk to you and see if you were interested in coming along.’
I was astounded. She made it sound like she was inviting me to go shopping for a new pair of shoes. ‘Why the hell would I want to do that?’
She was prepared for my answer. ‘Because one of the initial questions our comrades asked her partner was whether he could think of any reason why someone would want to kill her. On first hearing, that sounds a dumb question. After all, we know the secret service is doing everything they can to destabilise the workers’ state, and we have tragic proof that assassinating leading members is one of their strategies. So, you could easily put it down to that, or the fact that they see our power supplies as a weakness. Her partner, Nick Morgan, though, had another possibility. It seems that Olivia Harrison had been conducting some research of her own. Pete, she was looking into the Alan Wiltshire affair.’