by Phil Brett
‘None. Just that we were due to meet here tomorrow at 9am, in the outer hall.’
‘Do you know what about?’
‘Nah. Like I said, she refused to discuss it on any of the communication platforms; said they couldn’t be trusted. I think she would have flown out to meet me, except she was committed to some party work here so couldn’t. I must admit, I was intrigued.’
‘And she gave no hint as to what it was about?’
‘Well, I assumed from her cloak-and-dagger attitude that it was about the same thing. She was insistent that it was of the utmost importance and that she had to talk to me. But we never got to meet. It’s a tragedy, her murder. They just won’t let go, will they?’
There was silence.
Victoria spoke again. Once more, there was a risk of exploding grenades. Unworried by the aggression she provoked, she asked Emily, ‘Were you in the country?’
‘Yeah,’ Emily replied, with the warmth of a cold winter’s day on Jupiter.
It didn’t seem to bother Victoria. ‘Did she know that?’
‘I would imagine so. She saw me every day at this place.’
Victoria ignored the sarcasm. ‘So, she only wanted to talk to you, Gita?’
‘Guess so.’
‘And tell us what exactly she said that she wanted to talk about.’
Gita spoke through gritted teeth. ‘As I told Peter, she didn’t say. Only that she wanted to ask more questions about it—’
‘You’re definite that it was about the bombings? She made that clear?’
Gita was about to snarl a reply, but paused, before toning it down, ‘Well, no, but from her cryptic manner, it was obvious that it was.’
‘Sorry, Gita, but can you tell us what she exactly said? It is important.’
For a second, Gita looked at me, probably wondering whether smacking Cole in the mouth was the done thing at the NWC. Deciding that it might damage the working relationship between the AF and us, she decided not to.
‘Okay.’ Gita closed her eyes to think. ‘She said that she wanted to talk to me because “with your experience, you might know something which could give crucial help to the revolution.’’’
Cole didn’t say anything, but sat thinking, presumably about whether that got us anywhere. I wasn’t too sure that it did. I didn’t quite understand what Olivia had said.
‘What experience did you think she was talking about?’ I asked.
Gita sighed. ‘I’d guess that I’m in an organisation affiliated to the AF and I’d know people she didn't.’
Clearly feeling that the interview was finished, Cole got to her feet and thanked them. Sometimes, she really did sound like a copper.
Startled, I also rose, thanking them in what I hoped was a more sincere tone. In doing so, I attempted to put my overcoat on without clipping Emily with my right arm, who, like Gita, had remained seated.
‘Oh, and one last thing,’ Cole said, ‘could you both tell us what your movements were this morning?’
I couldn’t believe that she had just come out and said that.
They, too, were rather surprised and exchanged looks with each other, rather than blows with us.
I prayed. No, please don’t say it. Please don’t say it, Victoria.
‘To help us with our enquiries.’
She had! Face palm. Once a copper, always a copper. Did she take those outmoded clichés seriously? Didn’t we have a new way of working now which must include language?
Quickly, before they reacted, I decided to intervene, as my former job didn’t come with the conveyer belt of baggage that hers did. The worst I’d sound would be like an art history researcher, so unless they took offence at my views on Cubism, we’d be okay. ‘We all know that the deposed ruling class haven’t totally been disposed of and are doing their hardest to destabilise us, so it is important that we stick together, despite our differences. It’s a cold, murderous class enemy we are after, so we need your help. Comrade Cole, here, might seem indelicate, but we have been tasked to look into everywhere and everyone, using the powers which the AF agreed to. We are an equal society, and no one is above the law.’
Impressive speech I thought. I was ready to use my notoriety if need be. I would recount how many times I had fired, and into what parts of the anatomy, of the MI5 spy, if it helped. Maybe even draw a diagram if they wanted. Luckily, I didn’t need to.
Emily nodded. She was obviously angry at being asked to account for herself, but she couldn't really argue against equality before the workers’ state law. So, she succinctly told us, ‘I got up at 7, took a few calls, worked at home on some projects which involve obtaining fuel from algae farms and then came here. I took the LK45 bus and must have arrived here late morning. I logged in, so the time will be there.’
Gita, with slightly less grace, gave her account of her morning. ‘Got up at 7.30. Had a shower and a shit. Came straight here. Arrived at ten.’
Then, a sudden fear took hold of me. Please, Victoria, do not, under any circumstances, ask if anyone can verify this. Please.
Thankfully, she didn’t, but instead asked, ‘Thank you. I understand that this is unpleasant, but needs must. We may need to talk to you later. Would that be okay?’
They exchanged looks, asking each other silently whether this was an acceptable request, especially as – despite Victoria asking in her most polite tone – she still sounded uncomfortably like the old regime. Too much like the old ways of a police officer demanding by asking.
‘Of course,’ Gita replied. ‘My number’s on record. We’ll do anything we can.’
Victoria muttered a thank you, which they ignored, and she strode out. To avoid furthering tension in the revolutionary bloc, I followed her out.
As the door closed and we headed for the exit, Cole put her phone to her mouth, ‘Get that, Roijin? Check their story and analyse everything from Devar’s communication devices. Also look into Ian and Maria Gibbett-Hope. Get help if you have to. Cheers. Will be in touch.’
I didn’t even attempt to analyse what Cole had just done.
9. Symphytum
Barely had we left our anarchist sisters, when Victoria had grabbed my elbow and led me to a door, pulling me through into a small confined space. Something told me that she wasn’t going to jump on me, wrapping me in a warm passionate embrace. Neither did I think that she had organised a huge “Welcome back to the World” party, festooned with balloons, long lost friends and sausage rolls. The place was barely large enough for a streamer, let alone anything else. We only just managed to get in, having to squash against rows of piled-up chairs.
We were to have a high powered conference in the furniture cupboard.
With us almost touching each other, I felt uncomfortable at her nearness. We were close enough to dance if some slow smoochie number had been playing, and if my welcome party happened to be occurring next door. Luckily for the pair of us, neither was happening. I wondered if my slight feeling of nausea was due to that particular thought or it was the odour of cheap stale carpet mixing with moulded plastic furniture.
I wrenched myself free of an internal rotation of pointless conversation. ‘Why are we in here?’ I asked, feeling pleased that, at least vocally, I made sense. ‘We’re in the middle of the NWC! Surely, you don’t feel the need to hide away like thieves in the night. I mean, Vic, if we can’t feel safe here, where can we?’
She didn’t reply; indeed, she gave the appearance of not even noticing that I had spoken. Which was quite a trick, as she must have been feeling my breath on her forehead.
She didn't answer. Instead, she asked, ‘So, what do you think?’
I all but passed out. She was asking my opinion!
‘Well, I think spying on NWC delegates is not exactly the new way of justice we had hoped for in the workers’ state. We are for open and above-board democratic system. Not this.’
‘No one is above the law.’
Yes, I had just said that back there. It was hardly an original s
tatement, and one which had been as much abused as used.
‘Not even us, Victoria,’ I replied, matching her banality with my own.
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Everything we do will be open, public and accountable. We will explain our actions and be judged by them.’
I humphed.
Taking that as an end to my stirring defence of civil liberties, she asked what I thought about what had been said.
I replied, wanting to avoid sounding like a befuddled school boy. I told her where I thought we were at: ‘We know that, after an initial interest in the possibility of other members of the security services being involved in the St. Paul’s bombing, Harrison drops the idea. But then, a few days ago, her interest is reignited. Why, we don't know. What revived her interest, we don't know. What she was exactly interested in – whether it specifically concerned the bombing or something related to it, we can only guess. Or, it might be a more general security problem. I think it is still rather vague, to say the least. So, I guess that there are two questions which we need to think about: what exactly was she looking into? and what was it that got her interested once more?’
‘Exactly!’
I was deliriously happy that I had passed her test. If only there was space enough for me to jump with joy. Personally, I wasn't that sure we had made any progress at all.
‘And did you notice what, or rather who, she was interested in?’
Was she asking me the simple questions to make me feel good? To raise my confidence?
‘Gita Devar.’
‘Exactly!’
I wondered why she was so excited at my reply, because the answer was ruddy obvious. I had been with her at the time. What was the next question going to be: what’s this room used for?
‘From what Gita said,” I continued, “Olivia turned up at the AF centre not with any clear direction, just asking around and stirring up things to see what she could find. It was pure chance that she ran into Gita, or at least we don't know anything to the contrary.’ Whilst not the quickest on the running track, I was catching on. ‘Which suggests to me that, from her enquiries into the St Paul’s bombing, she had found something out about the special branch pair embedded with the anarchists. She needed to talk to Gita because she trusted her. But Gita told us that she hadn’t known them, so why did Harrison want to talk to her?’
‘Exactly!’
Was this the only word that she knew?
‘Seems to me, Pete, that we have find out where Olivia has been and who she has communicated with in the previous fortnight, especially in the last few days. We need to know what she found out in that time frame to rekindle her interest. What was it that made her desperate to talk to Devar? And to insist that she do so personally. She found something she knew only Devar could help her with. We need to know where she went, whom she spoke to and what she saw.’
‘Couldn’t we just talk to Devar again? Maybe get her to send a call-out to all members of the AF to see if anyone had been spoken to by Harrison?’
She waved away the idea. Or would have done, if there had been enough room in this glorified cupboard to do such a thing.
‘You think they would accept a request from the party to investigate themselves as to who could possibly be a murdering treacherous class enemy? I don’t think that’s a realistic option. There is too much suspicion between us – not enough trust. There’s not much love lost there.’
Don’t you just love a cliché? I wondered if getting Roijin to spy on them was going to help on the old trust issue thing.
‘It seems obvious to me that we need to urgently trace Olivia’s movements, whom she met, whom she talked to—’
Then she stopped. Did she want applause? In here?
Not getting any, she took out her phone and held it up. For a second, I wondered if she was going to take my photo. I hoped not, as she was rather close, and I feared a double chin look. Instead, she explained, ‘One way we can do this is to scan all the records of NWC meetings, motions and work done in that period. MI5 might be able to wipe her own records, but they’re unlikely to be able to do that here. I’m doing that now and we can look at that them later.’
‘Ok,’ I said, wanting to both show that I had an idea or two in my head and also to end this cosy chat and get out of here ASAP. ‘We should organise a CIM as soon as possible.’
She looked at me with surprise. She hadn’t expected that.
‘A Community Investigation Meeting,’ I explained, knowing full well that to do so was unnecessary, ‘where we arrange for people who have a connection to a crime to meet, share information, discuss what is required and allocate the tasks which need to be done. The principle being that, unlike the policing of the past, law and order would be by the community, with roots in the area, by the class rather than by a force outside it. Jackie said, when looking into civil misbehaviour, such roots are important.’
‘I know what a CIM is. I’m just a surprised that you do!’
This was exactly the reaction that I had hoped for.
‘I’ve been in a clinic, not solitary confinement. We do get the news.’
My smugness was making it even more cloistered in here. Possibly feeling it, she announced that we should go and she’d make a few calls.
Easing ourselves to face the door, I added, ‘Which is where we can show this accountability you claim we have, and explain why we have been checking the alibis for Gita Devar and Emily Messager.’
It was her turn to give a non-verbal reply.
‘Your first call should be to Jackie Payne,’ I said, just to swing the smugometer into red.
Ignoring me, she moved to the door. In doing so, I had no choice but to open it myself. It was that, or we were going to be body to body. I turned. I opened.
Whilst negotiating our way out of the building, she was on the phone to Jackie. I wasn’t particularly listening whilst she regaled our glorious leader with what we had done so far, but I did catch my name being given credit for the idea of calling a CIM for tonight. This, I gathered, was impossible because of the hour, but one could be called for tomorrow. With that, Victoria stopped talking and listened. She did mutter, ‘I’ll tell him.’ I didn’t have time to wonder what that might be because, at that precise moment, the front entrance doors slid open and a jet-blast of cold air hit us. The open palm of winter blackness slapped my cheeks, stole my breath and clawed my stomach.
Gingerly, I left the building. My body shrunk into my coat in a desperate attempt to find something which resembled warmth. Instinctively, I pulled up one of my gloves so I could see my watch, it had the temperature at -9. It had dropped a whole seven degrees whilst we had been in the NWC for little over an hour. I could almost feel my bodily liquids freezing. It was brutal. Not that Cole appeared to notice the freak weather conditions, because she was still discussing what should be on the agenda for the tonight’s meeting. I noted that she hadn’t even zipped up her coat. Freak.
I quickened my pace to get to her car. Suddenly, its heating system had become my one true love and one which I had to return to. I wanted it to hug me hard as soon as possible. I hoped Victoria would do likewise – quicken her pace, that is – not hug me. Christ, what a thought. Whatever the matters of state she was discussing, I needed warmth. To my relief, her pace quickened. Evidently, she was now noticing that London was doing a fair impression of Alaska. All we needed was a couple of lumberjacks in plaid jackets, a few huskies and a convoy of logging trucks and we’d be all set.
Instead, we made for her car, which I noticed had two female NWC militia guards eyeing it up suspiciously. Dark in colour and away from any of the street lighting, its slickness and conspicuous consumption did make it look dodgy in the extreme. That said, maybe they were just envying its heating. Surely, your average saboteur didn’t drive around in this type of flash motor. I mean, it was hardly subtle.
Cole ended her call with a promise to keep in touch and curtly showed her ID. The smaller of the women – although, in their full lengt
h padded overcoats, gender was difficult to tell – approached and looked at it closely. She even scanned it with her TechSpex. Having been satisfied with what she'd seen, she demanded to see mine. Ah, now that was going to be difficult. What would mine say? Patient with controlled freedom? Undergoing help with mental distress? This pair would love that.
‘He’s with me.’ Victoria said quickly. ‘We’re seconded to help the investigation into the murder of comrade Olivia Harrison. The request came from Jackie Payne personally.’
She was met with a fake smile. ‘We’re in a new world now, comrade. Knowing friends in high places isn’t what it used to be. I don’t care if it is Jackie Payne or God Almighty who you’re working with. I need to check his ID.’
She held out her hand. Interestingly, Victoria did not argue but stepped back. Hoping for the best, I held my ID up, which was kept in my phone. She looked and scanned. I braced myself for the questions, accusations and firm handling.
‘It says here that you have been allowed temporary leave from the Anchorage Care Home. You’re to be back at 24.00 hrs. So, you’ve got just under twenty minutes. You better go.’ She indicated the exit with her torch.
Obviously, Jackie had managed to get the guest and staff committee to slightly slacken the chains. That was quick. I wondered if that was the news Victoria was to tell me. A cause for a celebration then.
‘Drive carefully, comrades. It’s a bit icy out there.’
I got into the car, revelling in the heat which roared out the vents when Victoria had the start instructions. I could feel her looking at me out of the corner of her eye, whilst she switched it to deep traction. ‘Well, Cinders,’ she said, ‘we better get you back. It’s later than I thought and, in any case, there’s no harm in calling it a day anyway. It’s better if we have some plan of action, and I think the CIM can best do that.’
She turned the news on, no doubt to see if Olivia Harrison would get a mention. A sombre-looking newsman with a well-trimmed, if greying, beard was talking in a tone which only ever accompanied bad news. It looked like she would. But as we pulled away in a manner not remotely carefully, I watched and saw that I was wrong. It wasn’t the murder of Olivia, but of five engineers at the Hackney East Underground caught up in an explosion. Plainly, it was as an act of sabotage and those who had planted the bomb had hoped for a greater death toll. Because the station had been one of the most recently constructed – it had opened less than a decade ago – it was also one of the deepest of stations and relied on a sophisticated air conditioning system, which was where the bomb had been planted. The bomb had been a smallish device, but as the presenter informed us, it had been placed to destroy the system, which they guessed was intended to spark a chain reaction. This would have both put the station out of commission and taken many lives. That it hadn’t done so was due to pure luck. There had been, he reminded the viewers, much larger explosions at several main line stations across the country, the most recent being Long Eaton airport and the Leicester coach station.