1990

by Wilfred Greatorex

  'Thursday. It's a doddle,' his partner confirmed. 'I could get five more out besides him...' Answering the journalist's questioning look, 'I've seen the emigration officers' duty roster and we're on clover Thursday and next Tuesday.'

  The newsman looked annoyed. 'We haven't five more ready.'

  'Some of the other groups have,' put in Cursley. 'I know Cardiff has a queue and so has Manchester.'

  'What? Ready and fixed to go?' queried Kyle. He and Brett regarded each other for a few moments, before he added, 'No. We're not ready to link up yet. I don't know enough about 'em.'

  The agent objected, keenly, 'So we chuck away valuable freight space?'

  'I didn't say that. I didn't say that at all.'

  They fell silent as the crusher crumpled another heap of junk metal behind them, roaring and crashing like a foundry.

  Kyle turned back to confirm the number of spaces. Six. Then wondered aloud how much the escape operation was costing him in bribes and payola. But the other only scratched his head and grinned, claiming that few activists wanted tips.

  'You're in for a busy couple of days, Ian,' the journalist cautioned Cursley. 'First, Vickers. Make sure he knows what he's doing. He's not to go home from surgery. He'll come straight to us. If he wants any family goodbyes, they'd best drop into the health centre, very casually. I don't want him going home...'

  The machine hammered down behind them again, then pulled away. 'I reckon we could pick up five more quickies from tomorrow's courts,' he suggested.

  Guarded looks passed between them. They had never carried out such an eleventh hour arrangement before, without time for reconnoitre or security checks. The current official stir over illegal emigrants had increased the risk of PCD plants among court appellants. Nevertheless, they were all agreed. The vacant freight space was too valuable to lose.

  The first leaves had opened on his rose bushes, so that each parked like a burgundy cloud on the circular bed. The Controller noticed them with immense satisfaction before breakfast. The journey to the office was swift and uninterrupted by a single traffic jam and the duty police had been deferential. A new and pretty receptionist had smiled invitingly at him from her desk and the Memo had been waiting on his desk. It was Herbert Skardon's day.

  After reading it, he pounced on the video-intercom and then bustled about the room in a kind of tantrum of delight until his deputies arrived. Their boss pointed gleefully to the Memo, the only piece of paper on the vast wooden surface. Tasker read it over Delly Lomas' shoulder.

  'Well?' beamed Herbert Skardon, actually rubbing his hands.

  'Very good. Splendid,' enthused Tasker.

  'It's a start,' Delly was forced to admit.

  'It's the break-through! It's just what we need!' her boss asserted, expansively. 'I've wanted this bunch for months! And I'll not be surprised if the Home Secretary decides to announce this personally to a press conference.' He eyed the red telephone, longingly.

  'I doubt it,' Delly Lomas remarked.

  Trust the bitch to try to detract from one of his achievements. Skardon scowled at her. 'I know you had no part in our work against this particular group,' he snapped. 'But at least you might show some appreciation for those of us who had.'

  'Congratulations,' she drawled. 'It's just that I happen to know the Home Secretary doesn't relish being personally identified with emigration control.'

  The Controller lit a leisurely cigarette and tried to look wise. 'It's up to us, as senior civil servants, to see the politicians keep centre-stage. We pull the strings. They take the applause.'

  'And the rotten eggs.'

  Today he could afford to be magnanimous. 'People think twice these days before complaining. Our Department can take some credit for that.' He viewed her, loftily. She was jealous, of course. He knew that, just as he knew she was after his job. 'You have a better idea?'

  'I'd let Kyle have the story exclusive.'

  He leered. 'You're not beginning to fancy this bloke?'

  The unmistakable contempt in her look shook him. 'I've put forward a proposal and I'd like it to go on record,' she stated in a hard voice. 'Help Kyle. He can help us. The rest of the media follow his stories, anyhow.'

  Skardon thought he had better not commit himself. He looked at Tasker. 'So?'

  'I'm inclined to support Delly.' The reply came reluctantly.

  The Controller affected to ponder his decision, before agreeing, 'Very well. Let's have Kyle in.' He reached for the intercom control.

  'Wouldn't it be better if I leaked the story to him privately?' Delly Lomas suggested.

  He puzzled unkindly over her motives. She was too smart for her own good - too smart for him at times. The uneasiness she induced in him rankled. Occasionally, she almost seemed to make him feel slightly stupid. But he would never have admitted that, even to himself.

  People queued outside the Ombudsman's court, some waiting on the wooden chairs, which lined the corridors, and latecomers standing about aimlessly. No-one spoke. They did not even look at each other. A few had opened newspapers, but without absorbing the words. The rest simply gazed blankly at the grubby cream walls. Kyle had arrived early to listen to the proceedings from the press section in the court.

  'We have some sympathy for you, Mr Clayton. But you did sign Form P17 binding you to work ten years in Britain after graduating. And this country needs all the managerial talent it has just now.'

  The Chairman was addressing an intelligent-looking man in his mid-thirties, who was standing to attention, like a child trying to behave.

  'One day, we may be in a position as a nation to release people like you from such a solemn and binding commitment. That time is not yet. We must, therefore, dismiss your appeal.'

  The appellant looked round the crowded room pugnaciously and met Kyle's eyes for an instant, before wheeling round and leaving. Another name was called and a slightly younger man entered to detail the reasons for his appeal.

  His wife was German, he explained, twisting a handkerchief in his hands. After living several years in Britain, she had become homesick and gone back to Berlin, refusing to return to the U.K. He wished to join her in Germany. Under questioning, he outlined his job and circumstances.

  The chairman pronounced his decision. 'Marital separation is not acceptable under the law for your being excused your commitments. You signed P17. Your training as an aerospace designer was costly. This court hopes you will be able to persuade your wife to rejoin you here. We have to dismiss your appeal.'

  It had all taken less than fifteen minutes and the man looked bitter as Kyle watched. The next name was called.

  The chairman yawned, a little bored. He was another elderly civil servant, only a few years from retirement. After a lifetime of obedience to the system, he could be relied on to do nothing unexpected and to make no exceptions.

  An attractive brunette in her twenties stepped into the court and the old man referred to his notes.

  'Carol Harper?'

  She nodded.

  'I see you are a biochemist on clinical research and your appeal is against the Public Control Department's refusal to grant you an exit visa for post-graduate studies in America.'

  Kyle checked that his tape recorder was still running, then glanced absently across the court. Delly Lomas appeared near the door and beckoned to him. He began to edge out.

  The chairman probed, 'You are aware that, in these critical times, there is a quota to limit the number of those wishing to pursue post-graduate studies abroad?'

  The girl nodded again, but her eyes pleaded.

  'You are probably not aware that the quota for 1990 has already been exceeded...' His voice carried after Kyle and Delly as they left. 'Those who have been granted visas have been security-vetted and have given solemn undertakings to return here.' The words followed them, growing fainter as they walked down the corridor.

  'What's the game?' quizzed Kyle. 'Luring me from my favourite bullring?'

  She looked arch. 'I was going
to give you an exclusive.'

  'Give, then,' he encouraged. 'I love the sound of your voice.'

  'I'd rather talk elsewhere.'

  'Name it.'

  'My flat this evening... strictly business.'

  'I'd not assume otherwise with you.'

  She took his arm and bent her head towards him, warning him that he was being location-bugged. Her spicy scent filled his nostrils and he caught his breath sharply. She imagined she had surprised him. But then he merely indicated his tape recorder and replied, 'I know. One of your clowns put one in here. What you mean is that you'd like me to get rid of it before I come to your place.'

  'It doesn't matter to me,' she responded, casually. 'I was thinking of you, that's all. Depends on who you're seeing after me.'

  'What time then?' There were less pleasant ways of opposing the regime than spending an evening with Delly Lomas. The journalist looked suitably eager.

  'Half past seven. It's two exclusives you're coming for. One for tomorrow. One for the day after,' she promised.

  He eyed her knowingly. 'You must be secretly in love with me, or something.'

  'It's "or something",' she confirmed, laughing, her long neck curving sensually, so that he felt both drawn and repelled. It was like playing with a tarantula.

  If Kyle had any secret idea that an intimate, candlelit dinner for two would be waiting when he arrived at her flat that evening, he was disappointed. Admittedly, she poured him a glass of wine and sat him cosily beside her on the sofa, but the living room was fully lit and the children clearly audible next door.

  He retaliated by heckling her about the possibility of their being bugged. After all, she was the one spilling official secrets. She replied, with some asperity, that not only was she up-to-date in bugging techniques, but in anti-b.ts. also.

  So he needled her about civil servants' privileges. 'Who else in this country can be sure of such privacy?'

  'You don't do so badly,' she retorted.

  'I make sure of that.'

  She cut through to business. 'You have another two hours before your deadline. And I have one condition.'

  'Catch Twenty-Two?'

  'No catch. I give you an exclusive for tomorrow and another for the day after,' she confirmed. 'But you run them in the order I say.'

  'I don't write to instructions from civil servants - not even super ones with sexy mouths,' the journalist protested, indignantly.

  'Then drink up and I'll see all the media get the stories,' she flashed.

  'It's a deal.' Kyle capitulated almost instantly.

  She crossed to collect her brief-case from an occasional table by the door and brought out a photograph, a poker-faced line-up of four men and a woman, like a multiple police record still.

  'That lot have been getting illegal emigrants out from Liverpool.' The newsman tensed and stared at it. '...at least twenty a week over the past year.'

  'That's bad.' His mind darted to the last meeting with Cursley. They had had a very near miss. 'You've got them all?'

  'They'll be charged the day after tomorrow.'

  He studied the faces and masked his own with disapproval. 'Cleaning up, were they?'

  'I don't know what their price was.'

  'Could have been a free service, of course,' he suggested.

  'Do you believe that?'

  'No. People do this for greed,' he agreed. 'What will they get? Five years each?'

  'Three of them will. Two should get off with treatment at the Institute for Social Responsibility...'

  'With a spell in one of the new Adult Rehabilitation Centres?'

  'Possibly,' she confirmed, beginning to pour him another drink. 'Now, I'll give you the details, but not on tape.'

  The columnist pulled out his notebook.

  'This is for publication tomorrow,' she pointed out.

  'And the other?'

  'I'll give you that tomorrow. After this one's appeared.' She detailed her department's haul efficiently, listing names, addresses, ages and official charges.

  There were completely opposite reactions in the independent newspaper office and the PCD headquarters to the appearance of the two consecutive front page leads.

  Tim Greaves was trumpet blowing. 'Beautiful, beautiful! Poetry!'

  Herbert Skardon was livid. 'Our Liverpool coup undone at a stroke,' he shouted at his deputies and the Chief Emigration Officer sitting before him as he ranted on, looking faintly aggrieved as usual. He slammed a stack of newspapers with a paperweight. 'Here they all are following Kyle about the Liverpool arrests and he has to come up with this bilge about illegal emigrants getting out as unskilled workers on package holidays. It makes us look like idiots.'

  Delly Lomas' face was bland and even Tasker seemed unperturbed. 'At least none of them have been able to take out any capital except the holiday allowance,' he offered, short-sightedly.

  His boss choked, eyes bulging and veins swelling, 'That's a great consolation. They've had to leave their houses and furniture and motor cars. But they're out, Tasker! The bastards have got out!'

  His heavy breathing rasped through the following pause, until Delly decided it was time she created a good impression. 'I want to know who gave Kyle today's story,' she said, in simulated pique. 'After all the work I put in on him to get yesterday's.'

  'I intend to find out, Delly, don't you worry,' the Controller nodded towards her with grim determination. 'This is my department and it makes us look stupid. It makes ME look stupid!' He had turned to glare at Nichols. 'You have nine thousand emigration officials and it's my bet that it's one of them who's blabbed!'

  Jack Nichols drew himself up, affronted. 'There's not a shred of proof that it's one of my men.'

  Skardon tossed him a mean look and thumped his fist dramatically on the heap of newspapers. 'Work on Kyle, Delly,' he directed, thrusting out his jaw. 'I want to know where he got this garbage. I want him put in line. If it's that traitor among us he calls Faceless...!' The consequences for Faceless obviously defied description.

  His woman deputy gave a relaxed smile and stood up, 'I'll call Kyle now.'

  'That might not be so easy,' put in Tasker.

  'What?' rapped his boss.

  'I checked with the location room just before I came here. He went off their screen an hour ago.'

  Pure hatred twisted the Controller's face, before he brandished a fist at them dismissively. For a moment, Delly Lomas felt almost sorry for him.

  She might even have begun to pity herself had she been able to watch Kyle's activities at that moment. He had returned to the scrap yard, where Cursley was waiting with a van.

  One by one and surreptitiously, the rejects picked out at the Ombudsman's hearing arrived; the aggressive young manager, the aerospace designer, the girl student and, finally, Alan Vickers.

  The men carried nothing, not even overnight bags. The girl carried a small handbag. All four looked frightened, but resolute, as Kyle directed them into the rear of the van, shaking hands with each, before locking the rear doors and banging on the metal roof. At the signal, Cursley put the vehicle into gear and drove away.

  When it arrived at the heliport, the van was carrying a number of perforated alloy containers, each stamped with a stencilled destination in France. As they were being carefully unloaded and set out near the helicopter's cargo door for checking, Dave Brett arrived in a hurry. He looked edgy, his eyes darting over them.

  'There's trouble,' he muttered. 'They've changed the bloody duty roster. Gorman's been sent to inspect some yacht in Chichester.'

  'Let's get 'em back in the van,' exclaimed Cursley.

  'There's no time,' the agent replied, indicating two emigration officers already crossing the hardstanding towards them. One was the man who had helped with the Scholes escape. The other was unknown, but of about the same age and seniority.

  'Isn't he with us?' murmured Cursley. Brett shook his head. 'Oh Jesus!' He turned to help unload the last container from the van, working noisily in an effort t
o cause distraction.

  The first officer caught Brett's eye and moved to put quick crayon ticks against two of the perforated crates, but the other reached the third container and stood over it with obvious interest.

  Dave Brett's fists knotted against his side. If they had all been up an alley instead of in the middle of the open heliport, the unknown E.O. would have stood no chance.

  As it was, the agent tried to put over the usual explanation with assumed calmness, 'Chemicals. They need ventilation.' But this was a hard-faced old hand, with no intention of being put off.

  'I know this stuff. It's O.K.,' the first emigration officer asserted, his eyes betraying his concern.

  The other hesitated, then swung round on the agent. 'Open it up!'

  'I told you. They're O.K.,' the first said again, lamely.

  'Ninety nine out of a hundred usually are,' responded his colleague, before repeating, 'Open it up!'

  'These chemicals shouldn't be exposed to the weather,' Brett blurted in desperation.

  'And yet they need air?' the emigration officer pounced, then pointed at the container again. 'Open it!'

  There was murder in the agent's eyes as he beckoned to the loader-checker. The first officer moved towards the other, 'Come on, Bill. Take my word for it.' But it was no use. The new man shook his head and insisted. The crate had to be opened.

  The loader-checker paused over it, a large screwdriver clenched in his hand like a weapon. For a moment, it looked as though he might plunge it into the inspector, but at last he bent, slowly unlocked the six screws and lifted the lid.

  Crouched inside were Doctor Vickers and Carol Harper. The young woman glared up at the emigration officers in anger, no sign of pleading in her eyes now. Dave Brett moved in, flourishing a wallet stuffed with PS50 notes. There was a very long silence.

  The official looked from the couple in the container to his colleague and Cursley, then, finally, to Brett. 'You can put that away,' he nodded at the wallet.

  Carol Harper shifted to stand up. The new emigration officer put a gentle hand on her head and pushed her down again.

  The relief all round was unbearable, wordless, each participant in the scene mentally reeling. Then the men on the tarmac caught a last glimpse of Vickers and the girl, tears in her eyes, as the lid was replaced and the new emigration sympathiser ticked the container with his crayon, even before the screws were finally tightened.