1990

by Wilfred Greatorex

  The two men had left the car and were walking towards the freighter.

  'Evening, Mr Brett,' the voice sounded behind them.

  The agent looked round casually to see two Emigration Officers coming towards them from the shadows.

  'Bob,' he said easily to the senior man. 'Out on such a night! I'd have thought you'd be watching telly under a sun-lamp!'

  'I'm a spartan. Who's your friend?'

  But Kyle had beaten him to it and was holding out his fake identity card.

  'Not another!' exclaimed the official. 'You import/export agents must be minting it!'

  'Well, the State didn't when they took us over,' remarked Brett. 'They couldn't trade a toffee apple and it was "Come back! All is forgiven".'

  'They're not as keen on the ready as you boys,' the other commented tartly.

  Brett looked suitably pained and shrugged towards Kyle. 'He gets a cut of my percentage. We're both on the breadline,' he protested.

  The Emigration Officer waved towards the car, lying glossily under the floodlight. 'They give those away on Supplementary Benefit now, do they?'

  It was an old wrangle the two resurrected sociably each time they met.

  'See if they'll commute your pension,' advised Brett. 'Then you can buy one.'

  'I'm too cautious,' the other replied, almost regretfully.

  A half-drunk seaman staggered past them on his way to the ship. Kyle and Brett followed him up the gangplank, where he stumbled by the waiting duty seaman, who turned towards them.

  'Mr Brett.'

  'We're just checking freight against manifests, Steve. You on check-point a bit yet?'

  Steve Harper, the young seaman, nodded.

  'Half an hour, that's all,' Brett promised.

  The two Emigration Officers were still watching from the quay as he and Kyle went below.

  They made their way to the end of a short passage, where Brett knocked sharply four times and a door was opened into a spacious cabin. Its portholes were firmly shut and the interior was lit by a dim electric bulb. The four men were not surprised to see them. Two were playing a board game, another lay reading on a bunk and the fourth stood by the door. They looked bored yet tense, with the same mixture of excitement and fear generated by any group of imprisoned men planning an escape.

  'Any complaints?' Brett asked.

  'We're still O.K. for oxygen,' answered the man who had let them in.

  'Hello, Kendall,' Kyle greeted him. 'I thought you'd be spokesman somehow. You could have sold me a second-hand car any day.'

  The man laughed. 'All I've ever sold is ideas.'

  'Lousy ones, if the Department of Science is to be believed,' responded Kyle.

  The other grimaced. 'I'm no Einstein.'

  'No - I'll take your word for that,' Kyle gagged.. 'I'm surprised they even tried to stop you getting out.'

  The emigrant chuckled. A recent member of the government think-tank on energy and now on his way to the U.S.A., he could afford not to be offended.

  Brett had tugged open a radiator panel by one of the bunks. Now he pressed a button and a section of wall panelling, some 18" wide, slid back. Kyle peered into the gap.

  'We can get thirty in there, if pushed,' his partner said and tapped two nozzles set into the wall. '...Oxygen intake.'

  'How about Customs rummage crews?' Kyle asked.

  Brett pointed to the panelling. 'Tap it. If you get hollow sound, you'll be the first.'

  Kyle rapped with his knuckles. The sound was heavy and solid.

  'X-rays?' he queried.

  'Nothing shows through,' Dave Brett insisted, proudly. 'It's a new metal from Germany.'

  On deck, Harper, the duty seaman, was still watching the two Emigration Officers from the head of the gangplank. Another seaman wandered past them and came up towards him, producing a pass. He checked it, looked into the man's unknown face and shouted to a mate. Grabbing the seaman, he hurried him to the passage below.

  Kendall opened the door when he heard the signal and Harper pushed Nolan, disguised as a seaman, into the cabin. Kendall held out his hand to the dazed West Indian. 'Welcome to the getaway set.'

  'I think we'd best get back there,' Harper urged. 'Tarrant's on look-out, but the E.Os. are sniffing.'

  Kyle and Brett quickly followed him and were soon on the quay again beside the two officials.

  Brett pulled out a hip flask. 'I know,' he said accusingly to them. 'You're after a duty-free rum.'

  He took a swig and offered it to the senior man. 'It's the next best thing - Napoleon brandy.'

  The other shook his head, reluctantly.

  'A tot of brandy's not corruption,' the agent persuaded.

  'That's corrupt,' the official asserted. 'You didn't wipe it!'

  Brett wiped the mouth of the flask and the first officer took a long swig, before passing it to his second, who refused, primly. Kyle also declined.

  Every third Tuesday in the month was surgery day - constituency surgery day for Fred Bingham, M.P. He found the task dull, because his constituency was dull and his constituents were dull, and those who came to the morning surgery were the dullest of the lot.

  He looked disagreeably over his desk at Alan Vickers and wondered how many times he would have to spell it out to him. Doctors were supposed to be intelligent, but this one seemed remarkably slow on the uptake and Fred Bingham had no time for fools or losers.

  He was a bright, smug, little man, who had made his way up through the union, by being seen at all the best meetings, quoting every catch phrase and knowing those in the know. Still in his late forties, his ambitions were far from satisfied. The wall poster behind him shouted 'Vote Fred Bingham For a Just Society'. One day, he hoped powerful supporters would be whispering, 'Vote Fred Bingham for P.M.'

  Meanwhile, he religiously went through the motions of listening to endless voters' gripes at the monthly surgery. At least the dreary duty had been made more comfortable after the political parties had begun to draw State subsidies and he had been able to leave that dingy back room downtown for a suite of modern offices in the centre. Nevertheless, he had had more than enough for today.

  'I've just said I'll do what I can, Doctor Vickers,' he allowed a note of impatience to sharpen his voice. 'They were acting within the law and you admit they didn't use violence. Not real violence. Now don't get me wrong. We're not changing society to give bullies a field day.'

  'But that's what's happening,' insisted Vickers.

  'That's your point of view, doctor,' the M.P. replied, silkily.

  'Have they searched your home?' Vickers challenged.

  'If they had good reason I...' Bingham began.

  'M.P.s are exempt from search and entry, and you know it,' retorted the doctor.

  'That's an essential privilege to safeguard freedom.'

  'Whose freedom?'

  The M.P. sighed. 'I've said I'll look into both cases - your patient's and yours. What more can I do?'

  His complacency was suddenly too much for Vickers, who leant over the desk, snatched Bingham by the lapels and began to shake him and shout.

  'You'll do nothing! Nothing! And you'll do nothing because you're all right, Jack!'

  The M.P. pulled away in fear. Breathing rapidly, Vickers tried to regain control of himself. The two men stared at each other for a long minute.

  At last Bingham began, warily, 'Violence is the language of lunatics. I thought doctors were here to cure, not cripple...'

  Vickers' fists were still clenched, but he began to look slightly ashamed. The M.P. pointed to a stack of files in his In-tray. 'I'm just one poor bloody M.P., doctor, don't you see that? I can't take on every damn complaint. Look...'

  He picked up a letter and a wheedling note crept into his voice. 'This shopkeeper. He reckons the PCD Wealth Tax boys ripped up his floors looking for gold sovereigns and krugerrands and all they found was dry rot and not a word of apology. It'll take time to sort out the bureaucrats, doctor. Time and courage. And, on the part
of people like you, patience.'

  He had managed to end in quite rousing style, but Vickers was no longer listening. He was on his way out. The door slammed behind him. Bingham pressed an intercom button.

  'You all right, Fred?' the local party manager's voice sounded worried.

  'No disrespect to my flock, Bert. But I'm going for that one o'clock back to London. I've had a bellyful of whiners.'

  Bingham stuffed a few papers into his briefcase, picked up his overnight bag, left his office briskly and made for the Station Hotel bar.

  A couple of neat Scotches and he began to recover. Before long, he was settling into a warm, first class compartment on the Intercity. Glancing from the window, he was annoyed to catch the eye of Alan Vickers, who was walking along the platform, looking in for a seat.

  Bingham quickly hid behind a copy of the state paper, the British Gazette. The banner headline screamed 'CONCENTRATION CAMPS? TOSH! - Home Secretary: New Centres Will Help Misfits.'

  Vickers walked on to enter the train through a door marked Second Class.

  In the London newsroom, Greaves and Kyle were also looking at the front page of the British Gazette and comparing its headline with their own, which splashed, '5 SECRET CENTRES FOR THE PCD. Home Secretary Denies "Sinister Motives" - by Jim Kyle.' The two newspapers lay side by side on the desk.

  'Our comrade hacks sound shrill today,' observed the massive news editor.

  'Their pensions are at stake,' said Kyle, with mock sympathy. 'But if they will work for a state-run rag...'

  'They're teaching Pravda a thing or two.' Greaves looked highly satisfied. 'I like today. Some days I can't stand. But today I'm in love with. I don't suppose you have a good follow-up to make 'em twitch tomorrow?'

  'I might have.' Kyle looked towards the other reporters and turned the subject back to the Gazette. 'I hear their editors were called in to have the riot act read to 'em by Skardon last night. The Home Secretary thought their front page banner was too tame.'

  'They changed it..?'

  Kyle nodded.

  '...To this..?' Greaves was astounded.

  He nodded again.

  '...THEY could wind up as first patients in the ARCs.'

  'Serve the bums right.' There was no sympathy in Kyle's voice.

  Marly came up with a scribbled message. He read it and felt his stomach muscles tighten. Taking Greaves' lighter from the desk, he spun a flame, burnt the scrap of paper and crushed the ashes to dust.

  'I'll be out for a bit, Tiny,' he murmured.

  'Idea for Features,' the news editor said, heartily. 'How many non-smokers still use lighters?'

  As Kyle left the office, Greaves beckoned Wilkie, who had been watching their exchange steadily. He gave him a taped news flash from the Reuters' monitor.

  'The Minister for Family Affairs is once again attacking illegitimacy and one-parent families. See if the Archbishop will give you a quote,' he instructed.

  The young reporter looked irritated. 'He never has done before.'

  'Try him, laddie,' Greaves insisted. 'You never know, he might just find he's still got backbone.'

  Kyle had left the building immediately, run to his car and was now careering towards the Aldwych, zig-zagging between taxis and buses. Sometimes he was quite glad he could only run a small car. Skidding left, he rattled across Waterloo Bridge and arrived on the eighth floor of a multistorey car park on the South Bank exactly ten minutes after receiving the message.

  His phlegmatic style had deserted him, leaving him twitchy and awkward, as he drew in to park close to a car with smoked windows.

  The driver's window of the other car was lowered just enough to reveal a forehead and eyebrows. Kyle gripped his steering wheel, sweatily. Meetings with Faceless were the worst part of the job.

  'Good afternoon,' he muttered.

  'I believe it is, Kyle,' a cool voice answered. 'Lunch at the PCD today was like the Last Supper. Everyone looking for Judas.'

  The newsman gave a sick smile. 'He was there?'

  'He found the steak not to his liking...' A gloved hand came through the window opening and Kyle collected a folder.

  '...Classified secret, Kyle. Burn the photocopies when you've done. They show the senior appointments for the new ARCs. On these papers they're no more than recommendations. You can take it from me that they're all confirmed...' He gave Kyle's eyes time to flicker over the first page in the file. 'You will see that certain notorious mind-benders are among them. Professor Ellis has control of Centre Three and Doctor Boswell Centre Five.'

  'I know of them,' Kyle said, uncertainly.

  'Some poor devils will presently know them at close quarters,' Faceless responded.

  'Are they...?' Kyle began, but the window opposite had shot up and the car was already moving away.

  Kyle was shaking.

  Skardon was almost suffocated with rage, made all the more ferocious by an underlying sense of panic. Being a devout servant of the government and its creed of 'Necessity' was not enough in present circumstances, especially when one worked for a Home Secretary known to have a touch of the Himmlers. The Controller liked his security, his nine-to-five business day, his orthodox family life and his weekend roses, but now all were being threatened. So Skardon was worried and, because he was worried, he was angry. He glared at Delly Lomas with near-hatred.

  'You can sit there and tell us Kyle's got the ARC appointments?' His voice had lost its customary calm.

  'And got them right.' She sounded almost pleased.

  He could hardly believe it. 'The Home Secretary only ratified them this morning.' His mind cowered at the possibilities. 'I suppose Kyle went off our tracking screens.'

  'As usual,' Tasker confirmed.

  What was the point of being Controller if he could not even control his own staff? Skardon felt stiff with depression. 'This department's top heavy. Judas could be any of forty men.'

  'Or women,' Tasker put in, quickly.

  'Or them.' Skardon glowered at Delly again. 'What did you say when he rang?'

  'I said the story was completely untrue.'

  'You said it off the record I trust?'

  'I'm never on the record with Kyle.'

  A nightmare of the snarling Home Secretary came into his mind and he shuddered. 'You don't have to put up with the Home Secretary's wrath, either of you. We needed another month or so before these appointments were made public,' he said, desperately. 'Both Professor Ellis and Doctor Boswell will need to be put over to the people first.'

  'Or kept right out of the picture,' Delly suggested.

  She could be quite stupid. 'And how do you think that would be possible?' he asked, sarcastically.

  'By cancelling their appointments.'

  'And you think the Home Secretary would do that?' he said, contemptuously.

  'He'd do anything to save his skin. He's not known as Survivor for nothing.'

  'I should be careful, Delly,' he said, automatically, while realising at once that she was right.

  'He'd not like to hear that,' said Henry Tasker.

  'Then don't tell him, Tasker,' she retorted. 'Survivors don't put freaks like Ellis and Boswell in charge of sensitive centres of correction. It's not so much like putting Doctor Jekyll and Mr Hyde in control, as Mr Hyde and Mr Hyde.'

  Skardon was beginning to pull himself together. 'Don't quote that bourgeois pap at me, Delly.'

  'We do have less unattractive men who know just as much about happiness and misery pills, and who don't actually look like monsters,' she reasoned. 'The Department musn't let idiots make fools of us. I'll talk to Kyle about killing the story.'

  'You had a lot of success with him yesterday over the ARC stuff, I must say,' the Controller sneered, feeling quite himself again.

  'I said I'd talk to him.'

  'If he calls you back,' needled Tasker.

  'You try, then. See if he calls you back.' She smiled sweetly at him.

  Skardon decided this was the moment for a little softness. 'Dell
y, we are to some extent in your hands,' he began, persuasively. 'Although I don't quite see how you can persuade Kyle...'

  'Perhaps we could try treatment at one of the new ARCs,' Tasker interrupted, eagerly.

  His boss frowned at him and Delly ignored it.

  'I'll try to persuade Kyle on condition you tell me the Home Secretary will rescind those two appointments,' she offered.

  'You have my word,' Skardon promised with deep sincerity.

  'And who'd believe that?' she thought to herself. But aloud challenged neatly, 'I can tell Kyle that?'

  The Controller nodded.

  'That's if you can locate him.' Tasker, unable to resist scoring another point, gave a sly look in Skardon's direction, but Skardon was looking at his internal TV monitor, which showed a man sitting in a chair against a blank wall. It was Doctor Vickers.

  'Your visitor's here, I think,' the Controller said to Delly, who checked in the monitor.

  'Yes, that's him. He looks younger than his print-out shows.'

  'Who is he?' Skardon asked casually.

  'Some doctor with a beef about our inspectors.'

  'I'm surprised you waste your time on him.'

  She had stood up and crossed towards the door. 'Oh, I don't know, we don't want to be known as a tyranny, do we?' With a special glance of reproof for Tasker and one of disdain for Skardon, she went out.

  'What's wrong with her? Isn't she getting it any more?' Tasker gave what he hoped was a conspiratorial, manly grin at his boss.

  'Keep an eye on her for me, Henry, will you?' Skardon said, smoothly.

  The Deputy Controller felt quick triumph. It was going his way, after all.

  'How can you know the Home Secretary will go back on those two appointments?' he asked, with the respectful alacrity of a student.

  'He will. Never fear,' Skardon assured him, then explained. 'There are two hundred more just like Professor Ellis and Doctor Boswell queueing up. The work will go on, Henry. It will not be jeopardised.'

  It was half past four and already dark by the time Alan Vickers left the PCD headquarters and took a taxi to Fleet Street. He felt drained, but still determined to keep trying.

  The cab drew up outside the newspaper office and, minutes later, he was telling Kyle the history of his case, concluding with his abortive visits to his M.P. and the PCD.