by Phil Brett
Gingerly entering, we found ourselves in a large room, full with over a hundred people, plus screens, 3D images and sundry technology. A speaker, a woman, who I guessed was in her mid-thirties and of West African heritage, was talking about several villages in Suffolk. The villages were well-known because they were no longer there. Global warming had created extreme flooding, so the county now boasted a large permanent lake, with the villages now at the bottom of it. What with this and the wind farm attack, they were having it rough in that part of the world.
I looked around but could not see Ali. Neither, if I read her shrugging shoulders correctly, could Cole. As we were doing this fine impression of a silent movie comedy duo, an elderly man of pink skin, a pronounced limp, and the hushed tone of a concerned librarian approached and asked us what we wanted.
Before I could answer, there was a round of huge applause for the speaker and a crescendo of demands that a vote be taken. I had no idea what the nature of the debate was about, although I guessed it wasn’t plans for creating a water-park there. It seemed that saving humanity was more than just defending the revolution; you had to defend nature too. In truth, it was not as exciting as armed rebellion, but then again, it was pretty important stuff.
After explaining our purpose there was not to cause trouble or undermine the recovery of East Anglia, he was convinced that we meant no harm to him, the revolution and the area’s natural habitats. He lowered his voice even more, so I could barely hear him above a clearly excited brother who was arguing that the debate should be continued and must include his area of Devon.
Judging from how often the excitable brother used the word ‘comrades’(approximately every third word), I guessed that he was a new member. They tended to say ‘comrades’ a great deal because of the excitement of the new. ‘Comrades!’ he yelled, oblivious to the power of the microphone. ‘We have gained control of the merchant banks. Let us do so of river ones!’ I smiled. With puns like that, he was one comrade I’d keep an eye on.
Straining to hear the old man, I heard him say that Ali had left the meeting and was probably in the lounge down the corridor. As we turned to find Ali, the old man's voice dropped to a level where lip-reading was required: ‘The news of Comrade Harrison really shook him.’
We left, before he resorted to sign language. Two doors down, by a woman on the phone, we found the lounge. That was a rather grand name for a pokey side room, which had four grey armchairs and a small, round, three-legged table, which gamely sported a blue vase with five sad and past their best flowers. Obviously, interior décor wasn’t high on the NWC agenda.
Our friend Ali was not there. Instead sat a very pale spotty male, in desperate need of sunshine. He unashamedly wore a black woolly hat thrust down on his short, dyed hair. He grunted hello and told us in bored monosyllables that we had just missed Ali. The effort of the sentence obviously exhausted him, as he didn't enlighten us as to where Ali might have gone.
‘Any idea where he went?’ Cole asked.
Gathering all his energy, he told us that Ali had decided to go back to his office.
No doubt, Ali had been unable to take any more of this kid’s sparkling wit or amazing hat sense. Then, with what seemed a great effort, the kid told us where to find this office of Ali’s.
There followed several wrong turns, a growing sense that this wasting valuable time and an even bigger annoyance at the bustling, which was only marginally less than rush-hour crowding. We were further hampered by the building’s navigational screens being down, and people seemingly being unable to give us simple directions. And to think that the revolution was in the hands of these people. Finally, thanks be to Marx, Engels and Lenin, we found the office.
Once more, I took the lead and went in. Presumably, Cole only entered rooms by smashing her way in.
Once more, you had to wonder at what the National Workers’ Council take was on interior design. Indeed, had it even been considered? Okay, we had slightly more important matters to think about, but still, a lick of paint and a well-positioned piece of furniture could make all the difference. Comrade Youssef Ali’s office was not the grand baroque office of a workers’ state you might imagine, with large wooden desks, top of the range computer equipment, maps charting the spread of the revolution and a large red framed and strikingly heroic picture of Jackie Payne, painted in a noble pose next to a barricade in Pall Mall.
No. It was a room about the size of a classroom and with the same amount of charm. There were a few posters up, but they looked as if someone thought that they should make an effort. The effort, though, had not lasted much beyond three minutes. In the main, it was drab grey walls which met you with a bland welcome. There were six desks, which had been imaginatively arranged in two rows of three. There were also your common or garden 3D printers. Ditto the chairs. The only hint of humanity was the usual office clutter you could see in any room of this type. Obviously, from the size and layout of the room, this was not a cloistered venue of power and decision making but a shared place for admin duties. Nothing shouted at you that here worked the person who had been elected to lead the state’s vital water supply. I couldn’t even see a hose pipe.
Ali was sitting at the first desk, the only person in the room, although he barely appeared to be there himself. Some things crossed borders – grief was one thing which I myself knew only too well, knew no nationality. Ali was of mixed heritage, whereas Nick Morgan, as far I was aware, was pretty much all UK white, and yet both looked the same. There was the same vacant but pained look and tears streaming down cheeks that looked like a vacuum cleaner had sucked them in. It was a face rapidly becoming overrun by anguish. Skin tint almost gets neutralised in the battle, with sagging paleness being the colour of choice for bereavement. He looked twice his age. I knew how he felt – been there, got the black suit.
I looked down at my feet. This was becoming the norm when faced with a grieving man. It was as if looking at my slush-stained trouser bottoms was an escape from the awkwardness of the situation.
Ali looked up and cuffed away a tear, staring at us in total surprise. ‘What are you doing here?’ he snapped.
I didn’t have time to give an answer before I was treated to further proof of his – shall we say ambivalent – feelings towards me.
‘Who let you out?’ he demanded. ‘I thought you had been forcibly sent to a mental-health hospital because of your violent tendencies.’
I had received warmer welcomes, although, to be honest, not recently. You wouldn’t describe it as loving or caring, or of comradely support or even, indeed, of vague indifference. Taking a wild guess, I’d say it was one of antagonism. My Christmas list was growing shorter by the second. Maybe he could set up some sort of on-line appreciation group with Asher and Roijin.
My sympathy, being somewhat ethereal at present, fluttered its wings and flew out the window. Or it would have done, if there had been any. The fight to get here had drained any good will, and my tolerance at being an object of sneering was in the negative.
‘I was found not guilty. It was self-defence,’ I replied to a statement which, in actual fact, he hadn’t made. It was just this tag of violent tendencies was one which I didn’t recognise. I was the least violent person I knew. But then, comparing myself to some of them in the Anchorage, that wasn’t saying too much.
Deciding that replying to what he had actually said, as opposed to what was going on in my head, was probably the wisest course of action, I passed on our commiserations on his loss and how we were all feeling it. Whilst giving my tribute, I got the distinct feeling that he wasn’t listening. Lacking a bugle to play the last post and the energy to carry on, I stopped and got straight to the point. I told him that we had come straight from Olivia Harrison and asked him if he have any theories why she was murdered.
He didn't shout this time. He just shrugged. ‘Part of the destabilising strategy? To behead the movement?’
‘Possibly,’ I conceded, although it didn't fit my pet theory.
‘She was killed by an AA12, standard issue for the security services. It was clean and professional. Nothing stolen. Just one bullet. The surveillance equipment was jammed. So, that sounds to us like a professional hit.’
His eyes were reddening and I could see that we would have to be quick if we were to stand a chance of finding out anything before he disintegrated.
I didn’t mess around. ‘Her partner, Nick, told us that she was particularly interested in how the Anarchist Federation had been stitched up for the St Paul’s bombings just before the coup attempt. Do you know what she had found out?’
His top lip slid from a hint of a sneer to the downward curl of sadness. He shook his head. ‘I know that, for a short while, she’d been looking into it, but when she didn't find anything, she dropped it. She never told me any details.’
‘You don't know what she found so interesting?’
‘Like I said: she never really told me anything. Only that something you had once said had rung alarm bells and she wanted to follow it up.’
‘What, in particular?’
He stared into space. For a moment, I didn't think he was going to reply, but then in a soft, almost child-like voice he did. ‘I'm sorry, Pete. I don't know. But whatever it was, from what I could tell, after losing interest in it, something reawakened her attention.’
‘What?’ I demanded, sounding more desperate than commanding.
‘No idea. She didn’t share.’
I tried my newly acquired investigative skills to find out what she had found out. This basically amounted to repeatedly asking, ‘What did she find out?’
Without worrying that the conversation was getting repetitive, he just kept replying that he had no idea. ‘Like I said: she didn’t tell me anything. She said that she didn’t want to until she had some solid proof. She didn’t want to alarm anyone or waste anyone's time, when there was too much to do. She was hoping to find out more and tell me the day after tomorrow, at the Environment Conference.’
‘About the St Paul's?’
‘Yes. Well, no. To be honest, I don't think so. Like I said, I don't really know.’
‘Did she give any idea to what she expected find out?’
‘No, only that she said something about you being right about there being moles in the movement.’
Cole was the epitome of frozen professionalism when I flashed her a look. That word. Again. Moles. Taking her lead, I didn’t jump in the air and scream, ‘I told you so, you disbelieving bastards!’ Instead, I tried to look passive. Actually, that wasn’t too difficult with the meds I was on.
‘I wonder why the wait?’ Cole pondered out loud. ‘What was she hoping to find between then and now?’
Ali didn’t know.
I was following Cole’s train of thought. ‘So, do you know where she intended to go and who she might be meeting in the next few days?’
‘Dunno. All I know was that she had visited the AF Centre a few times and was pleased how fraternal and helpful they had been. That’s not always the case when leading members of the Party visit.’
That was all too true. Although the Anarchist Federation, a loose alliance of number of groups, had supported the party’s actions to tackle the coup, they had expressed real concerns over what had followed. Endless meetings had ensued, with games of Who’s gonna be the grave-digger of the movement? playing for months. Being either in prison or the Anchorage for this period, I had been spared the debates, only witnessing them through the media. But I’d got the gist: we might work together, but we were not what you would call close. We and they were the largest part of the revolutionary bloc, but it was gravity which kept us together, not adhesive.
‘When did she go?’
He thought for a second or two. ‘More than once. She wanted to see—’
‘Who?’ I asked, rather too loudly.
‘Gita Devar.’
‘Any idea why?’
Again, he did not know. He was never going to be called a font of all knowledge.
I was getting bored with this and, judging by the increase in blinking and heavy breathing, it was obvious that his self-control was about to disappear. Not wanting to witness a performance similar to the one we had seen from Morgan, I thought we needed to wind this up pretty sharpish. His brain was going to be Suffolk at any minute.
‘Which AF centre was it?’ I asked, getting up.
‘The central London one,’ he said with a sniffle, ‘but you don’t need to go all the way there, because Gita Devar’s here. She was in the meeting I’ve just come from.’
Now that was a stroke of luck. With that, I was happy to scarper, but Cole still had a few questions to ask. ‘Her computer and cloud have been wiped. Did she have an office here at the NWC?’
‘You’re in it.’ He sniffled again. ‘We shared it. Quite a few of us do: thirty, at the last count. Though what with one thing and another, you don’t find many people in here at any one time. It's seen as useful to have non-departmentalised offices. There's an obvious overlap between her industry and mine.’
‘Did she use a particular desk?’ Cole asked.
He sighed, seeing ghosts. ‘Not really. We use the one that’s not in use. I guess this one was the one she preferred. It was closer to the door and she liked the draft. She said it was the closest she got to fresh air in this place.’
‘May we look?’ I asked.
He muttered, ‘Why not,’. Then with what appeared to be a huge amount of effort, he got to his feet. After managing that Herculean feat, he shuffled a few paces to the wall, and stood against it.
There he stayed, passively watching whilst we searched first ‘her favoured desk’ and then the others. That is, after Cole had scanned the room with her phone, making a film of what was there. Other than finding that the NWC appeared to have a stockpile of vintage staplers which were lacking staples, we didn’t find anything. Indeed, there appeared to be nothing at all in the way of personal items. We didn't even manage to locate a hidden store of mints, or a stockpile of digestives. Not even a face wipe could be found.
Logging into the Red Cloud, she copied the usage files from computers based in this room. It was, she said, probably the case that anything concerning Olivia had been erased as well, but we could try. We’d have close look later.
Turning her attention back to Ali, who was now pressed so hard against the wall that he had almost had become a part of it, she told him that he was to leave the office and that she was going to seal the room. ‘No one is to use it until Asher Joseph has had a chance to give it a once over.’
He agreed. It was pretty obvious that he didn’t have the emotional energy to do otherwise.
I thanked him. Then, to show what a truly sensitive and caring guy I was, I gave him a pathetic tap on the shoulder and headed back to where we’d just come from.
I wasn’t sure whether it was my medication or dedication, or maybe the chill from outside - which was still lingering in my bones - that was freezing my emotions, but I was strangely unmoved by the sound of sobbing which followed us as we both left.
8. Lavandula
Arriving back at the meeting hall, we did our now familiar shuffling about at the back, looking simultaneously dodgy, nervous and plain old stupid. It wasn’t a good look. And it was never going to catch on as a dance craze. Once more, the old guy with the limp and hushed tones came to our rescue. He asked us if we had found Youssef Ali, and if we hadn’t, then he was happy to help us to. The question as to exactly who this bloke was popped into my head – was he the meeter and greeter for the water sector? Not that Cole seemed bothered about his identity. She simply explained that, yes, we had found him, but now we were looking for Gita Devar. Again, we gave no reason, and again he did not ask for one. Heaven knows what he thought we were up to. Spying? Lobbying? Trying to make friends?
Whatever he thought, he was happy once more to help, and he told us which room we could find her. Once more, as if on some quest in a fairy tale castle, looking for a pot of gold, w
e followed his instructions. This time, Cole heroically led, as the knight with a firm chin and determined purpose. Then there was I, her bumbling but faithful sidekick, who usually tied up the mule. Or would, if we'd had one. The corridors were still bustling with delegates, canvassers, observers, journalists and lobbyists. None of them looked particularly mythical. The hum of conversation, argument and phone conversations grew as we approached our destination. Obviously, this part of the building was where the magic was.
On getting there, Cole did as all heroes should do: she didn’t dither at the door or pause before the dilemma of how to enter a room, because without hesitation or knocking, she pushed the door open and marched in. The room was no dungeon or palace, just one very similar to the one we had just left Ali in. Complete with wilting flowers.
This time, there were two women by the flora. I used my famed detective skills to ascertain that they were finding something amusing. They were laughing. However, they had no burning desire to share the joke because, on seeing us, they instantly stopped. Indeed, all social interaction did so. Suddenly, we became the centre of attention. Theirs.
For an awkward second, there was silence. One of the women, the taller white woman, who was dressed in what you might call casual formal, hurled a question which was anything but casual or formal. ‘Yes? Can we help you?’ This was said in a voice which didn’t particularly convey a desire to help. It was more of one that wanted to grab us by our throats.
She was possibly in her late thirties, and would have once, in a past gender specific time, been described as androgynous, with strong and attractive features. Several piercings in her ears and nose contrasted nicely with her well-cut blue trousers and white shirt. I could see a small anarchist tattoo on her neck. That would be a bummer if she ever changed her politics. It was also unusual, with the present consensus on body adornment fashion being against tats. You usually only saw them on the elderly, with the colours long faded and images drooping. She had jet black hair, which was off her face and tightly bound into a ponytail, highlighting another obvious features – a large amount of bold make-up and an attitude to match. The former, at least, was unusual on a delegate. The overall effect was to suggest a physical violence, swiftly followed by a retouch of her mascara.