by Phil Brett
The three of us sat there like naughty school children. I had known Glen Bale for donkey’s years and I had never seen him so angry. For a moment, I thought he might give us a slap each. Not that he was the violent type. His background being in computers and IT, it would have been a virtual slap.
‘Right,’ he said, breathing hard. ‘Vic, have you finished?’
She indicated that she had.
‘Pete, have you anything to add?’ he asked.
I indicated likewise, only with a damn sight more attitude.
Bale sat back down, satisfied that, if not peace, then an armed ceasefire had been brokered.
With such a space created, Gita and Jack gave their report backs, which, with all the good will in the world, didn’t add much to what we already knew. That was a little disheartening, when you considered that it wasn’t much.
Finally, the meeting broke up, with factitious bad feeling, simmering hostility and bruised egos.
‘That went well,’ I quipped to Victoria on the way out.
18. Hemerocallis
I hadn’t woken up in the greatest mood. No bear with a sore head ever felt this bad. Annoyance had clawed itself into my head. The meeting last night had pushed my meds to the limits. Being harangued and insulted was bad enough, but I had a fear that we didn't have the required skills to get the job done. Then, there was the simple fact that I was here. Usually, at weekends, I would be waking from sleep in my own bed, in my own room, in my own home. But, thanks to Dr Brakus’ misplaced concern, I was at the Anchorage.
Even though I had a wider selection than usual, choosing my day's attire didn't improve it any. Before dropping me off last night, Victoria had stopped at mine to pick up some essential supplies. She had surprised me with any lack of complaint. Nor had there been any when temptation raised its evil head and, succumbing to it, I had ridden my precious scooter back here. Victoria had followed with several suits and clothes which couldn’t fit in the rucksack. All cupboard space had now been utilised, with several items hanging precariously off door handles and corners of furniture.
I chose one hanging off the table: a well-cut three-button petrol-blue mohair suit, then picked a white shirt, matching pocket square and a narrow dark blue tie. Nice as it was, I hadn't chosen it solely for stylistic reasons: there was also the worry that if I didn't, it would fall to the floor at any moment. At least, as I ate my toast and drank my third cup of coffee, I didn’t have the pleasure of Mark Groves. He was at home for his weekend leave. I was pretty much alone as I gazed out into the winter’s morning at my red scooter, parked outside, with only a light film of snow on the seat.
The weather had improved dramatically, and we were today going to enjoy a positively balmy spell of being one degree above freezing. There were even signs that the snow was beginning to melt. We’d be having barbeques next. Even so, the wind-chill meant that it was going to be painfully cold when I travelled to the public meeting of the CIM, which was going to be at 11.30. Another day, another meeting. Lew Archer and Philip Marlow frequented low-life bars; I went to meetings.
It was just after ten, so I decided that now was the time to wrestle with the outer suit which I wore to keep me warm on the bike. Because of some kind of new fabric called heatin or something, it did quite a good job without the bulk which such clothes used to have. Then, people could look like fluorescent Incredible Hulks. Even so, it wasn’t perfect and it wasn’t the most effective. I hadn’t chosen it because it was. It was simply the least dweebish. Whilst buttoning up the over-trousers, I felt a tinge of guilt, realising that, just for a second, I had considered starting to drive cars again. No, no I wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Not so soon after the death of Caroline and Lisa.
Memories of them on an Italian roadside were interrupted when a car drove up to the house. It wasn’t Victoria; we weren’t due to meet till later. We both needed a break from each other. It wasn't her car. I didn’t recognize the make, but I could the wealth. If Cole's was about speed, this was about statement of power. Its smooth, silky curves purred to a stop. A pair of long black boots thrust themselves out of the driver’s side, followed by a pair of legs in tights and a knee length thick black skirt. To my total surprise, the body and then, the face of Sophie Humes, my sister, followed. What with Victoria turning up out of the blue and now Sophie, this was becoming a bit of a habit. You wait for one visit and then . . .
Sophie glanced at the building, looking for the front door. Probably, as I had, all she first saw was a cacophony of glass and steel, with no obvious way in. Quickly, she spotted one and walked towards it. Rather in a trance, I put down my cup.
Opening the door, she stood before me in a black overcoat, black gloves and an ushanka, the Russian-style fur hat.
‘Well, well, it’s Anna Karenina.’
She smiled. ‘Well, that would be appropriate, what with the Russian weather and politics we’re having.’
I wondered if she attended the same joke school as Mark Groves.
Not thinking of anything wise, witty or even approaching sensible, I replied, ‘Come in.’
She followed, looking around as she did and taking note where her left-wing dangerous brother now resided. She could console herself that she had always thought I'd end up in a place like this.
Leading her to the kitchen area, I offered her a drink, whilst I tried to reverse my brain out from the tree it had just hit. She agreed to a coffee and declined anything else. We both went silent, seemingly fascinated by the kettle boiling.
Finally, Sophie spoke, impressively finding something to say which was inane as watching a kettle boil. ‘It was a bit of a surprise when you came to my office. How long has it been?’
I knew exactly to the hour, but kept it to the event. ‘Caroline and Lisa’s funeral.’
‘Yes, yes,’ she mumbled. ‘About three years then. A tragedy.’
If that had been the moment for some bridge building, it didn't happen. I'd let her try to swim across. ‘But you hated Caroline and were indifferent to Lisa.’
She looked affronted. It was true, but perhaps a touch harsh. ‘I wouldn’t have said that was strictly fair, but even if it was, it would still be accurate to say that it was a tragedy.’
She was right, but I didn’t say so. Instead, I poured a coffee for her and another for me. I made mine extra strong. I was still mentally stuck and hoped the buzz would free me.
‘You wore all black,’ I said, passing her the cup.
‘It’s the traditional colour to wear to funerals.’
‘Everyone else, including me, was wearing something green and orange. Everyone had been asked to do so, because green was Caroline’s favourite colour and orange was Lisa’s.’
‘Yes I remember; you had on a dark green suit and an orange shirt. You looked like a Satsuma tree.’
This was one memory lane I did not want to wander down, so I left the funeral arrangements behind and got to the most obvious question. ‘So, why are you here, Sophie?’
She took a sip and gave a professional smile. ‘Your visit reminded me that it had been a while since we had talked, so I thought I would visit my big brother.’
‘Why?’ I asked. ‘You haven’t bothered since I’ve been in here. After your obligatory attendance at the funeral – which must have lasted, what, three quarters of an hour? – I haven’t heard anything from you. You managed to curb your familial instincts when I was in prison last year and when I was facing trial. At a time, by the way, when I could have been executed, I didn’t hear a dickie bird. Still, with your politics, I guess you wouldn’t have been too unhappy about that, but—’
‘Now, Pete, that is unfair,’ she said, in a voice which she would use if she had found herself in the economy class queue at an airport. ‘I was deeply concerned. I followed what was happening to you closely, but what could I do? If I were you, Peter, I would save your anger and bitterness for your comrades who were the ones who put you in here.’
‘And when I had my . . . difficulties .
. . after Caroline and Lisa’s death, I still didn’t see you!’
My voice had been raised higher than I had expected it to. She however, remained calm. ‘If you remember correctly,’ she said, ‘I offered to pay for private treatment for your self-inflicted wounds and to engage the services of a good psychiatrist.’
‘Well, you had your secretary ring and offer—’
‘And to whom you were very rude, which I would have thought was very un-socialist of you – she being one of the glorious proletariat.’
‘I’m against private health, and against purely financial offers of help from someone who could not even be bothered to do it in person!’
She didn’t answer. I knew from long experience that this was not from any feeling of being in the wrong. That rarely happened. Nor was she doing it out of love, affection, respect or even consideration. Instead, she was giving off a strange vibe which I couldn’t explain.
Why was she here?
‘So . . . ?’ I said, hands apart, leaving the question hanging.
She didn’t answer straight away, but instead looked up to the – very – high ceiling and around the open-plan kitchen. Was she looking for ideas for own home? I had no idea of its present state of décor. Or whether, indeed, in the name of the workers’ revolution, we had requisitioned it. Was she now living in a two-bed in Margate?
But she didn’t speak of colour schemes, the best materials to use or the question of ergonomics versus the aesthetics. She remained silent.
‘So,’ I said, finding these pregnant pauses painful, ‘are you and Cliff still living in Highgate Village?’
Cliff wasn’t the real name of her husband – it was Michael – but it was my nickname for him because on the few delightful occasions that I had revelled in his company, he had thought talking about his collection of Clarice Cliff ceramics was a safer subject than his high Toryism. It was a petty and unfunny joke, but it annoyed my wonderful sister, so I had kept it going for years.
‘I am, but Michael has decided to move to our Manhattan apartment. He felt that he was too uncomfortable here after the Marxist coup.’
‘Nationalised your ceramics collection, did we?’
Maybe I was imagining it, but I was sure a slight smile flickered across her lips. ‘No, Pete, he had no wish to witness the ruining of this once-wonderful country.’
‘And you stayed?’
She shrugged. ‘This is where I live, so why should I flee like a common criminal? And, yes, I still live in Highgate. Your comrades haven't got around to throwing me in the street yet. You should pop around sometime, before they do.’
I’d have to see if Dr Brakus would allow that.
I feigned mock surprise and outrage. ‘We haven’t moved you out and relocated any homeless people there in one of your many rooms? That does put my mind at ease. The thought of you slumming it with the proles who don’t know which fork to use would be too awful to comprehend.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Pete, as you know full well, I, like you, was brought up in a north London working class family. We shared the same parents, remember? I was the clever, pretty one, without the annoying sarcasm. And no, I’m on my own there. Contrary to what you think, it is only a three-bedroom house.’
‘We must be getting soft. Whatever you say, it’s pretty damn upmarket and it has historic pedigree. Cliff told me all about the actress that lived there in the 1990s. I think you still had the loo seat her arse had once sat on. Wasn't there also some Victorian naturalist or someone, who had lived there? At the time, Cliff was hoping to lobby, bully or bribe someone to put up a blue plaque. I guess that’s not a possibility now.’
‘We’ll, maybe I’ll get a red one for being your sister.’
‘And there you are. Still in post at the fracking industry! We can’t be the monsters you and Cliff take us for!’
Any good humour was rapidly declining, and I could tell that I was needling her.
She spoke through pursed lips. ‘I hadn’t realised that your party had problems with historic buildings. I guess brutalism is the only acceptable form of architecture. We should all live in multi-story car parks in the name of socialism. I know that you are asset-stripping philistine robbers, but Peter, you surely can’t begrudge someone having a home? Or in the name of egalitarianism, are we all becoming equal at the bottom?’
She breathed in, trying to lessen the venom. ‘And, as I told you in the office, Olivia Harrison had no problem whatsoever with me being left in post, as long as I did not undermine the power supplies of the country. Which I haven’t and won’t. Furthermore, as directed by the NWC in their Control in the Workplace, NWC motion, 134B, workers are to meet and decide on the management structure. They met and were happy for me to remain in post. Obviously, my pay was reduced to the average level.’
That explained, the silence returned. The temperature was colder than outside. It had been a good example of how cold anger could be a lot more biting than raging heat.
It was fair enough to be scolded. It had been petty of me. There had been no need for me to be so belligerent. Just because I knew what buttons to press to wind up my sister, it didn’t mean that I had to do so. I didn't have too many people on my side at the moment, so I tried to reopen diplomatic relations. ‘So, how did you know I was here?’
‘Oh,’ she said, sipping her coffee, ‘Contrary to what you think, Pete, I have kept an eye on you, because – and I know you won’t believe this – I still care for you. You are my only living relative.’
That wasn’t strictly true, as we had assorted cousins, uncles and aunties, but now wasn’t a time to discuss the family tree.
‘After all,’ she added, ‘you knew I was still working. I suppose we keep in touch in our own way. Look, do you mind if we go outside for a moment? I feel rather claustrophobic in here.’
She scanned the room again.
In this aircraft hangar? Claustrophobic? And she wants to go outside in this temperature? I considered calling Dr Brakus. I had her on speed dial.
But then, why not take a turn around the garden? A visit from family was such a rare treat. There was still some snow on the ground, and her boots crunched firmly as we walked to the two large bright-green garden chairs. They were made of the self-heating material which had been in vogue several years ago, and were not only free of snow but also pleasantly warm.
She seemed to relax and spoke first. ‘It was, as I said, a surprise to see you, Peter – a nice surprise, but it did rather discombobulate me. And, because of that, well, perhaps I didn’t tell you everything.’
‘Go on,’ I said, suddenly fearing that what I was going to hear was not going to be something which would lead to us spending more time together.
‘What I did not mention was that Olivia Harrison asked me if I was aware of any attempts to sabotage the power system, or if I knew of anyone who was actively working to undermine the revolution. I told her that I didn’t.’ She hesitated. ‘Which wasn’t quite true. I have been approached by various unnamed people, working for unnamed organisations, to see where – and I am paraphrasing them – my allegiances lie and to see how committed to my country I am. They have contacted me a few times to discuss my views on the NWC, on how I see the future and so on.’
I was dumbstruck. Sounding like cheap malfunctioning low-fi sci-fi robot, I asked, ‘When was this? How? Where?’
‘Oh, the first time was at an emergency conference for senior management in the power industry, soon after your “movement” had defeated the prime minister’s attempt to take a strong lead.’
“Strong lead” being the right-wing phrase for the attempted military coup.
‘At first it was,’ she continued, ‘pretty ethereal. It really was at the level of asking me whether I felt the actions of the prime minister were valid and did I see workers’ power as democracy. They were vague, but it was obvious that they were MI5 or similar. I told them what I thought. As, in fact, I did to Olivia Harrison. I make no secret of my views. I suppose th
ey liked my answers. It was then that they got more concrete in their questions.’
I wasn’t feeling the cold, with my heart now resembling a twenty minute hard bop jazz drum solo. Blood was pumping around my body. What was she telling me? I didn’t ask her what, precisely, were the questions or how concrete they were. I couldn’t. A crippling feeling of fear gripped me. Only my heart was moving, now at an even faster beat.
She spoke as if she was confessing something, ‘They wanted to know whether I was in the position to disrupt the extraction process and whether people would notice. I told them that I was too far removed to be able to do so. They’d need someone on site. Even then, it would not be easy, because the new regime is wary of sabotage, but it could be possible. Then they asked in what ways that might be. To be honest, they didn’t seem at all familiar with the processes at work. I gave them a number of possibilities.’
Christ Almighty. Possibilities. I wondered out loud what they might be.
‘That, I’m not willing to tell you. I’m not here to help your side beat them. Anyway, at the next meeting, they asked if I was willing to give them any assistance.’
‘And?’ I asked, despite not wanting to hear the answer and feeling distinctly nauseous.
‘I never enter a contract without knowing the small print. I asked them if this would involve putting people at risk or even costing lives. They prevaricated, but essentially it was obvious that it would. That was the important thing. I abhor what you and your movement are doing to Britain, but I believe you will be beaten by argument and persuasion, not terrorism. I said much the same to Ms Harrison. Well, obviously not about the approaches from the security services, but I was clear about my position on the regime.’
‘And what was her reaction?’ I said, hardly able to believe what she was saying.
‘She was happy with that. As I told you, her view, and therefore I presume the great leader Payne’s, was that as long as I wasn’t actively taking action against the revolution and was doing my job, it did not matter what I thought politically. It was partly her attitude that has kept me in post and partly why I am here.’