by Phil Brett
Looking up at the room, which had nearly filled to capacity, he saw me dead in front of him. I gave a big cheesy grin. That would piss him off. He nodded back. No kisses or bodily fluids were exchanged in such a warm hello.
Comrade big hair looked around, then at her watch, and then checked to see if both projections were operational. She reminded me of an umpire at Wimbledon. The chairperson introduced Glen Bale and said that she was sure that we all aware of who he was. She thanked him for finding the time to be there and that we all appreciated it. I didn't. I wanted to know why he was here. Stick with your busy oh-so-important life was what I had wanted.
The chairperson had said something else, but I wasn't listening. Any more praise of Bale and I would throw up.
The sound of the familiar strong voice of Jackie jolted me back to the meeting. She was, she said, speaking from Lisbon. She gave her apologies not only for being unable to attend in person, but also for perhaps looking rather weary, but that was because she had been up all night and had just driven from the airport.
Actually, I didn't think she looked that bad. She looked quite well. Indeed, better than I had ever seen her for ages. Certainly, she looked a damn sight more upbeat than she had previously, when Victoria had broken the news that one Pete Kalder was back. Despite the long hours she put in, her skin looked clear and any tired greyness had gone. Her beautiful black skin looking gleaming. I could detect the odd touch of makeup around the eyes, but that was all. Even the cherry-red hair looked bouncy. One of the lesser known benefits of revolution was how invigorating it could be. An uprising was worth a thousand face creams and hair lotions. Life appeared to be throbbing through her; positivity flooded out of her. Not that she was singing and dancing when she spoke.
‘I did really want to be there,’ she explained, ‘because Olivia was both a close friend and a trusted comrade. I loved her as both and, I’ll be honest, I am still in shock at her death. We have lost so many good people over these last few years that I wondered if I have tears left for any more, but the barbaric murder of Olivia has proved to me that I have.’
She spoke further about what Olivia had done and how she would be remembered. The whole room sat stock still, watching her as if she was actually with us. Her eyes moved around, connecting with each one there, keeping everyone’s attention. There was never any daydreaming, doodling or secretive social messaging when she spoke. You looked, you listened; you felt what she was saying.
Being Jackie, she finished on the political and spoke about how exciting the seizure of power in Portugal had been and how honoured she felt to be addressing their national soviet later today. She said that this would be a fitting way to remember Olivia. And with that, and taking no contributions or questions, she wished us luck and then her voice changed. With emotion charging through it, she urged us to, ‘Catch and bring to justice the person who has committed this crime!’
The applause had not subsided before the link had been broken.
The chairperson waited a polite amount of time for the clapping to subside, before introducing Glen Bale. Now, from the sublime to the . . .
Bale stood up and echoed Jackie’s sentiments before detailing the situation which we now found ourselves in, ‘History moves at different speeds. Sometime we can go years, decades, centuries even, without very much seeming to change. And then the world can be turned upside down in days. I’m sure you’ll agree how the years before preceding our taking power were long and hard and yet now, with the events across Europe and especially in Portugal, events are moving quicker. Actually, it is taking my breath away. Things seem far more direct now.’
I wish you would be, I thought. Bale was the verbal equivalent of a provincial series of mini-roundabouts – heading in the right direction but being slowed down with each one. He continued to outline where we were in the UK for several minutes. It was a fair enough introduction, but it was Bale who was saying it. Eventually, he moved onto to talking about Olivia herself and the role she had played in all this. Here, we were treated to some of his wit, as he recalled amusing anecdotes. Thankfully, after a couple of minutes, he had finished. Polite clapping followed. Not wanting to appear petty, I joined in, but with the minimum of effort.
The chairperson then announced that Bale would next explain how the meeting was going to be conducted and what was being proposed by the NWC. Oh, it just got better – he was to talk some more. I stifled a yawn. Hadn't Michael Parker just said all this?
‘You will be aware that we have disbanded the police force,’ Bale began again, ‘regarding it as an agent of state repression. That is correct and as it should be. However, we do though have to realise that as we attempt to create a socialist future, order will have to be maintained. We are not in a socialist society, merely a transitional one, and so elements of the old must be utilised. That is why we have organised the stewards, who are accountable to the area workers’ councils. We understand that, as we change society, the causes of crime will fade out. But we are not so naive as to believe that will occur overnight, nor can the stewards tackle the most serious of crimes.’
Yes, Parker had pretty much said all this before. People politely listened. I shuffled in my seat and looked at my watch.
He paused to take a sip of his drink. We waited, with bated breath, for what the great man was going say. The Israelites must have felt like this they were waiting for Moses to come down from Mount Sinai. Only he had descended with a lot less verbosity. If Bale had been in charge of the Commandments, they'd have been fifty, with thirty-two amendments.
‘We are still exploring how this might be achieved. In Croydon, following a horrific murder of a young lad, the local people organised a CIM, a Community Information Meeting, just like we have here. From that meeting, a smaller, more self-contained committee was created to investigate the crime. This we called the CIMC. The CIMC organised and led the investigation. This is what we are proposing here. We are putting forward to this meeting a small list of comrades who will be the CIMC for the tragic murder of Olivia.’
Now that was new. The original intention had been to organise an investigation directly from the CIMs.
Bale continued, but not for long. ‘How—’
‘Why do we need some secret group?’ Gita Devar shouted.
Everyone in the room looked at her. She was standing, fiddling with one of her (many) earrings in her left ear. ‘I thought the NWC had decided that such investigations would be run by a CIM. That is why we are here. This CIM should run the investigation. We have sisters and brothers from the area where she was killed, from her workplace and from her home. We even have,’ she paused as if finding the words unpalatable, ‘“technicians” who are now members of the Usurps that Payne has brought in to “help” us.’
She was staring at Cole and those of us sat by her, with a piercing accusatory look of distrust. By chair geography and association, I too was guilty of being one of these. It certainly looked like I was running with a rum crowd. I didn't want to think what she was going to say when she found out that we had been checking her and Emily Messager’s alibis.
‘It seems to me that the CIM here is good enough. Why do we need a small, undemocratic group?’ she demanded.
‘The CIM still has a role,’ Bale replied, totally unfazed by her rather strident tone, ‘but we found in Croydon that it was too unwieldy. Meetings could go on for hours, with the discussion unfocussed.’
‘So who would be in this cell?’
‘Actually, I was just getting to that, Gita, and it is a committee, who—’
‘And would it include those who have already started looking into it? The ex-cops?’
A murmur spread around the room. All eyes now looked at us and then to Bale to explain. Should I stand and point out that actually I was an ex-art researcher who was on sick leave?
I didn’t have the chance, because Bale swiftly replied.
‘Yes, we are lucky enough to have comrades Kemal, Joseph and Cole, who – yes, it is true
–used to work for the police, but they had joined the URSP before the revolution. They made their choice. Pete Kalder has also been asked to help. Pete was the comrade who helped uncover the MI5 mole in the Wiltshire affair. You may know that he has been in a hospital facility, but they have deemed him well enough to be involved.’
Thanks for mentioning that.
Prat.
‘I have no problem with comrade Kalder. He is a hero in my and many other people’s eyes.’
That took the bad taste of Bale’s crass remark away. Even better was when I heard a few voices in support. Suck on that, Bale. Maybe I would join the Anarchos. It might require a change of wardrobe, but you never know.
All this didn't fluster Bale. He was too self-assured for that. Instead, he just smiled and began to speak.
But Gita hadn’t finished. ‘The problem I have,’ she said, ‘is that the revolution was supposed to be more than replacing one set of coppers with another. Only now they wear fetching little red fists, and I do think it is noticeable that these 'technicians' all happen to be members of your party. That seems, to me, the worry. It sounds undemocratic. I mean, who decided on these people anyway? Was it hatched up between you and Payne? Your own secret police?’
Support for her was growing in the room. The feeling was decidedly not one for Bale. That made me feel awkward, because much as I enjoyed him getting flak, I did feel a sense of party loyalty. To my distaste, I found myself not only on the side of the ex-cops here, but Bale as well.
He smiled. ‘Well, let’s hope not, Gita. You’re one of those we are proposing.’ His reply took her by surprise.
I hadn’t expected humour; Devar hadn’t expected that she’d be on it. Pressing his advantage home, Bale listed the proposed slate. ‘As I said, we thought you would be ideal, Gita, because of your experience and your role in the AF. We are also proposing Victoria Cole, Asher Joseph and Roisin Kemal for technical support; Pete Kalder, because, as you said yourself, he did a good job before; and Jack Foxton, chairperson of the Battersea workers council. He’s an independent; he couldn’t make it this morning as they’re having issues with travel in his area. He sends his apologies. Plus there would be me, as the rep from the NWC, and, I guess, political and ICT support.’
Gita had sat down, but there were others who had questions and concerns. The fact that five out of seven of those proposed were party members wasn’t going down well. Speaker after speaker argued against.
To my surprise, Bale did not say that he regarded it to be more like four and half, being that he did not regard me as a full party comrade. Instead, he kept pointing out that the CIMC would be publically answerable to the Battersea Workers Council, and as Olivia was a delegate of the NWC, to the NWC itself – the supreme decision body of revolutionary Britain. In addition to this, there would be, if required, regular CIMs such as this one. ‘It couldn’t be any more democratic! This secret cell will have three public forums to answer to, even before we get anywhere near a trial!’ he said, visibly growing in exasperation.
Youssef Ali had been quiet up until now; indeed, I had forgotten he was there. But following an elderly woman, who had demanded that there not only there be fewer party members, but that there should be absolutely no ex-coppers, he appeared to feel a sudden urge to speak. As he darted to his feet, a strange look shot across his face – a mash-up of anger and anguish. His voice, though, was slow and sure. ‘The fact that we have spent over half an hour deciding on who will be supervising the investigation makes me wonder how long the meetings would be when we have actual evidence to evaluate. This should not be an occasion for sectarian point scoring but one to create the machinery which will be used to find out who murdered a comrade – and, I should say, a close friend of mine.’
‘And my love,’ said a voice behind him.
All eyes looked to where the comment had originated from. And there, in the shadows, in the corner, stood a heartbroken shambles of a man.
Bale’s eyes dropped down and gently said ‘For those who don’t know, this is Nick Morgan, the partner of Olivia. I’m sorry, Nick. I didn’t know you were here. Please accept all our condolences for your loss. You have our love and support. Some of us were privileged to know her personally and feel her tragic loss very deeply. I know that we all knew her from her heroic work in defending the revolution. You have our solemn promise that we will find the person or persons responsible for this.’
The whole room murmured agreement.
Morgan spoke with the strength that only severe pain can create. ‘It seems to me that this proposed CIMC has the right balance of technical knowledge, political strength and accountability.’ He paused. ‘And for all of you criticising the party being in the majority, you should remember that Olivia was a member of that party . . . as am I.’
He stopped and looked around him. In that moment, opposition collapsed with no one daring to argue against him.
The vote was taken, and I found myself in a new method of tackling crime – in, from, and answerable to - the community. As opposed to the former way of policing of being from outside.
Once agreed, the meeting trundled through the agenda, précising the information which so far had been collected. Bale had informed the meeting that it was to be a précis, but judging from the quantity of data shared and how everyone in the room felt the need to speak at least twice, the revolution had yet to master summarising.
Joseph told the meeting what he had found, or perhaps more accurately what we hadn’t. Ditto, Kemal. Both spoke in that quasi-formal voice which increased in efficiency sound bites the less it had to say. If I was so inclined, and if I wanted to be fair, I might say that a good reason for their wooden tone was nerves. It was obvious that Gita wasn’t the only one in the room who was suspicious of them for being ex-cops. Cole was more relaxed but, interestingly, rather vague on what we had found out at the NWC.
Finally, it was agreed that we would all meet again when there had been anything substantial to report. Information gathered would be sent to Asher Joseph, who would be in charge of collating it. Joseph himself nodded agreement.
As people filed out, Bale gathered the six of us at the back of the room. Once the last of us had moved our chairs into an approximation of a circle, Bale led off.
‘Actually, I’ll be brief because I have a meeting at the NWC, but I propose that we meet up again this evening to discuss in detail what we plan to do. Any suggestions where we could meet? Personally, I don’t think it should be a former police station because that gives the wrong impression. And, let’s face it, most of them have been gutted.’ He smirked.
Most chuckled. I inwardly groaned. Was there anything more puke-inducing than Bale attempting humour?
Still with a smile, he continued, ‘I don’t think it should be any of the NWC buildings either. Whilst we are answerable to it, we do need to keep some distance whilst we conduct this investigation. It also shouldn’t be a URSP building, for obvious reasons.’
Then, ever willing to state the obvious, he gave them. ‘Although Olivia was an URSP member, we need to show impartiality and keep the integrity of the inquiry.’
He was certainly mastering the investigational lingo pretty quickly.
‘We cannot be seen to be purely party political.’
No one looked at Gita, but we were all thinking about her.
‘So, any ideas where might be suitable?’
None followed, except for a minute’s silence. I stuck my hand up and made a suggestion.
‘It’s rather a left-field one . . .’ Heroically, I tried to resist the temptation to make a pun. But I failed. ‘But then considering who we are, that’s rather appropriate…’
I paused for laughter, but none came. Bale just looked at me with his dead squinty eyes, whilst Kemal and Joseph could barely keep snarls from their lips. Tough crowd.
‘Somerset House, where the Courtauld Gallery is. It’s by the Thames, Waterloo Bridge.’
‘Jesus!’ Kemal muttered, rolling h
er eyes. ‘Staring at pretty pictures!’
‘Let me finish,’ I snapped.
Kemal wasn’t about to, and was just going to say something, when Cole flashed her a look. Kemal kept quiet and made do with glaring.
I explained. ‘I know the place well from work. It is under the general canopy of the NWC but not controlled by it. It has space; there’s plenty of rooms there. The tech equipment is exemplary, because of the art research they conduct. Roijin, you’d have plenty to play with there. Transport access is also good. It’s a good position in relation to the NWC and the scene of the crime.
‘And yes, Roijin, there are pretty pictures there, which means two things: firstly, there is no harm in having a calm, relaxed atmosphere to work and think in, and even if you don’t consider thinking a priority, consider the second – it has security. You’ll remember that the former ruling class have tried to asset-strip the country, including the great works of art. Because of that, all galleries have beefed up their security. We can use that to our advantage. Not even the MI5 would have thought of infiltrating gallery guards. Talking of which, the former homes of MI5, MI6 and Special Branch are not too far away. I know that they’re pretty much destroyed, but there may be something of note which we need to find. So, I suggest the Courtauld.’
I stopped, readying myself for the abuse and ridicule. Instead, to my surprise, I saw faces showing that they were taking the idea seriously, so I continued. ‘I know the person who runs the gallery – he keeps in contact with me – and I know that there are some rooms free at Somerset House, because he’s been trying get them transferred over to the gallery. We could use them.’