by Graham Marks
‘That was clever, Rob.’
‘I didn’t know he was there, did I? Wasn’t where I put the little shit!’
Paul grunted as Rob took his frustration out with a kick.
‘Leave it out, will you, Rob?’
‘Did anyone see?’
‘Don’t think so…’
Paul felt the tape on his wrists being cut, hands, gentler ones this time, rolling him on to his back. He stared up at the shadowy figure of the girl he now knew was called Terri; glancing sideways he saw Rob, crouching, with his back to him, to his right. And Rob looked like he was rifling through his gear. Paul looked back at Terri as she leaned forward, reaching out with her right hand.
‘This is going to sting like shit…’ she said, as she ripped the tape off his mouth, almost pulling him up from the floor.
And she was right.
As he sat up, eyes shut, one hand clamped over skin that was red hot, it felt like his lips had been pulled off, along with whatever stubble the glue had stuck to.
‘So, who the hell are you?’
Paul blinked and looked at Terri, squatting on her haunches in front of him.
‘Were you following me?’
Paul took a deep breath and shrugged. What would be the point of lying now? Somehow they’d sussed what he was doing. They knew.
‘Yeah,’ he nodded. ‘I was.’
‘Why?’
Another shrug.
‘I just looked in his backpack, Terri… he’s got a Manifesto. He knows who we are. So who’s paranoid now, sis?’
Terri sat down, cross-legged, and started rolling a cigarette. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Paul… Paul Hendry.’
‘Well, Paul Hendry, what gives? I mean, what are you up to?’
‘Nothing. I just saw you last night, in Grainger, doing that camera.’
‘And you followed us out here? How’d you manage to do that?’
‘I didn’t… it was an accident, right?’
Rob punched Paul’s arm, hard. ‘Accident? How can you follow someone by accident, man?’
‘Yeah, Paul.’ Terri flicked a disposable lighter and lit her roll-up. ‘Explain that one.’
Paul looked from Terri to Rob, then glanced around the back of the Transit. Outside, in the world beyond this white metal box, life was carrying on like normal. If he hadn’t been so stupid he’d probably be on his way to London by now, not stuck here with gaffer tape wrapped round his ankles and feeling like a total prat. Explain what he’d done? How could he? He’d no idea himself. He sighed and shook his head.
‘Like I said, I saw you guys last night. I was in some doorway, sleeping rough, and you woke me up, OK? When you’d gone I went and got one of the leaflets.’ Paul leaned forward. ‘Can you cut the stuff round my feet, too?’
Terri shook her head. ‘Later… carry on, Paul Hendry.’
Paul frowned.
‘The rest of the story, man.’ Rob pushed him.
Paul shouldered his hand off. ‘OK! Gimme a chance, right?’ This Rob guy was getting on his nerves. So he waited for a moment before carrying on. ‘I was on my way to hitch a lift to London when I saw you.’ He nodded at Terri.
She blew smoke at him. ‘And?’
‘And… you know, I’d read that Manifesto thing.’ He did not want to say something as lame as he’d followed her because he thought she looked fit. Then, it seemed like even before he’d thought them, the words just sort of fell out of his mouth. ‘And I was, you know, kind of wondering how you joined.’
‘Joined?’
‘Omega Place?’
Paul couldn’t believe he’d said it, and Terri and Rob didn’t look exactly convinced either. What was he on? Maybe that’s what happened when someone cracked your skull.
Rob snorted. ‘You read one pamphlet you pick up in the street and you want to drop everything and go to the front line? Where are you coming from, man?’
‘Didn’t take Sky long to convince you to come along for the ride, Rob, the way he tells it.’
‘I was out there already, me.’
Terri ignored the comment and waved her plastic pouch of tobacco at Paul. ‘Smoke?’ He shook his head. ‘Been on the street long?’
‘Not long.’ Which was true.
‘And you’re on your way to London… how old are you?’
‘Eighteen.’ Well, nearly.
‘Anyone after you, cops and stuff?’
‘No.’ Hopefully not. But there was no knowing what his mam had done.
‘And you fancy getting into some radical action.’ It was a statement, not a question, and Terri wasn’t looking at him as she spoke. ‘Rob?’ she said, nodding towards the rear door as she got up.
‘Want me to put some tape back on his trap?’
Terri stopped as she opened the door. She glanced at Paul. ‘Make a sound and you’ll get a kicking.’
Rob smirked at him as he got out, pushing the door to and leaving him on his own again. What were they up to now? Deciding his future? One of the reasons he’d never got on with Mike Bloody Tennant was that he was always trying to give him advice and tell him what to do. If he’d wanted advice he’d have asked for it…
Paul started picking at the frayed end of the silver-grey tape wrapped God knew how many times round his ankles. Would he get a kicking if he took the stuff off? Once he’d got rid of it he’d give Rob a good kicking if he tried anything else on. He would. Cursing himself for still biting his nails, he worked small bits of the gaffer tape up until he had enough to get a hold of and then he started pulling.
As the tape unravelled he wondered where he was. Concentrating on listening as hard as he could to see if he was able to work anything out, he ripped the tape back. There was a bit of traffic noise, not much, and not very near, and just something about the sounds from outside that he’d picked up the couple of times the van door had opened that made him think they were somewhere exposed. The top of a multi-storey car park, maybe. Somewhere nice and high they could throw him off.
Which was when the handle on the van door turned and Paul, with a couple of feet more tape to undo, looked up to see Terri, one eyebrow raised, looking back at him.
‘Pins and needles?’ he said, hoping he sounded convincing. ‘My feet’ve gone to sleep.’
Terri got in. No sign of Rob. ‘Wait a sec…’ She got out a clasp knife and cut through the remaining tape.
‘Thanks.’ Paul pulled the tape off his jeans and waggled his feet. ‘Better.’
‘I’m sure.’
Paul allowed himself to relax slightly. ‘What… you know… what’s going to happen?’ ‘Good question. What d’you want to happen?’
‘Me?’
Terri nodded.
‘Until this morning, I just wanted to get to London. Get a job driving a van or something and –’
‘You got a licence?’ Terri took her Golden Virginia out again. ‘Full?’
‘Yeah.’
She nodded to herself. ‘So you go to London, get a job, and…?’
‘And I dunno. Then I read that leaflet and I thought maybe what you’re doing would be good.’
‘Maybe or really?’
‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why all the questions?’
‘Because…’ Terri finished making the cigarette and lit it. ‘Because I think we need an extra face, and you might be it. You could fit.’
The realisation that he had absolutely no idea what he was letting himself in for blossomed in Paul’s head. He didn’t know these people from a hole in the ground and here he was seriously thinking about going off with them.
‘What does Rob say?’
‘Rob? Rob thinks you’re a waste of space, but he thinks everyone but him’s crap. I don’t believe our Rob has ever had a moment’s self-doubt in his entire life.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Finding somewhere to take a piss.’
‘Where are we?’
‘Now? Up by that
big statue, the one with the wings.’
‘The Angel of the North?’
‘Yeah, there.’
‘So why d’you need an extra face, and why d’you think I could be it, then?’
‘You look like you can handle yourself. And you’re disposable, like the rest of us.’
‘I am?’
‘True. You’re out here on your own, no ties, invisible. Just the kind Orlando looks for… I’m sure he’ll like you.’
‘Who’s Orlando?’
There was a loud click and the side door of the van slid back to reveal a grinning Rob. Behind him, on top of a gentle, green rise, Paul saw the Angel, huge ribbed wings outstretched and facing south. The way he wanted to go.
‘Orlando’s the boss, man.’ Rob climbed in and pulled the door shut behind him. ‘And he’s gonna spit bricks if we turn up with you in tow.’
‘We’ll try him out in Leeds, on the way back.’ Terri looked at Paul as she stubbed her cigarette out on the metal floor. ‘If he’s no good, we’ll leave him there.’
5
Wednesday 26th July, Southgate, north London
The hush of very early morning noises – distant bird calls, the whine of a milk float’s electric motor, the occasional passing car – was jarred by the sharp, brittle sound of the pane of glass in a suburban front door being shattered by a hammer. Nearby a dog started barking in response.
‘Was that completely necessary, Drake?’
Tony Drake looked down at the short, overweight man standing next to him. His arsey client, Derek Taylor, the owner of the property. He’d hired Drake Security Services, in their capacity as bailiffs, to get the house back off the poxy squatters who’d taken it over a few months before.
‘They’ve had a notice of eviction, knew we was coming, and they’ve gone, Mr Taylor. And they’ve changed all the locks… so we had to break something to get in, didn’t we?’ Tony looked over at the two uniforms who’d turned up the same time they had. ‘Why’d you get the law involved?’
‘Better safe than sorry. You never know, do you?’
Tony knew all right. Derek Taylor was a Mason and one of his pals at the local Lodge must have done him a favour. Look after their own, that lot. He glanced at the house, a not-so-neat-any-more end of terrace he also knew was part of Taylor’s extensive, if low-rent, property portfolio. Squatters were what went with the territory if you let anywhere like this stay empty for too long.
‘Are you coming in, Mr Taylor?’ Tony gestured towards the house, its door now pushed open; his two men had gone inside and he ought to be there himself to check everything was A-OK and to see the locks were changed again, the glass replaced and the place was properly shut up tight before they left.
‘No.’ Taylor shook his head, turning to the two policemen. ‘Sergeant?’
One of them looked his way and then they both walked over.
‘We’re constables, actually, sir.’
‘Would you mind just giving the place the once-over? I’m sure Mr Drake will be grateful for the extra eyes.’
Tony walked off, the two plods in tow on their make-work task, thanking whoever it was up there in the cosmos looking out for him that he didn’t have a stupid twat like Derek Taylor as a landlord.
6
Friday 28th July, Thames House, London
Deputy Section Manager Jane Mercer picked up the note attached to the folder she’d just been sent by the Director of Internal Affairs at MI5, Alex Markham, no less, and read it again. ‘Your thoughts. ASAP.’ She opened the folder and looked at its contents – a handful of black and white stickers with the characters ΩP printed on them in one plastic bag and a couple of orange A5 leaflets that declared themselves to be something called ‘Manifesto 3’ in another, plus a report from Steven Pearce in Threat Evaluation. Her thoughts, as soon as possible. So she’d better get started. Reaching for the report, she began reading.
The stickers and the pamphlets had been found in a squat up in Southgate on the morning of the twenty-sixth, two days ago. A couple of uniforms had gone in with the bailiffs, although no reasons given as to why that had been deemed necessary, and the contents of the folder had been found behind a chest of drawers in an upstairs room that appeared to have been used as a print shop. The computers and laserjets had gone, but the discarded cartridges and spilled toner dust had been a dead giveaway.
The whole of the house had been cleaned out, and appeared, so the report said, to have been wiped down. Which was odd for a squat.
One of the uniforms, obviously destined for greater things, had given the place an extra going-over, just because it was so strange to see a squat that had actually been cleaned up. If they were trying so hard to hide something, maybe they’d been careless and left something behind. It was good thinking and had turned up the stuff in the plastic bags.
As soon as the contents of the leaflet had been read, the whole thing had been wrapped up and sent to MI5, and then to Threat Evaluation, which did exactly what it said on the box… evaluate threats, grade them and then tell the people who actually dealt with the face-to-face stuff whether they had anything to worry about. And at first glance, on a scale of one to ten, Mercer did not think there was too much sleep to be lost over Omega Place. It all looked a bit amateur hour and she’d yet to see quite why Markham had got involved. But she’d be thorough, like the constable, and see what she could tease out of the material that had been sent down to her.
She picked up her phone and dialled an internal extension, frowning as voicemail kicked in. Replacing the handset she fished her mobile out of her bag and speed-dialled a number.
‘Ray, will you stop chatting up the blonde from the fourth floor… OK, the brunette, whoever. Fag break over, Mr Salter. I need your expertise and I need it now.’
Mercer snapped her phone shut and, while she waited for her assistant, fiddled with the mouse on her desk until the screen of her computer cleared. Just because she hadn’t heard of Omega Place didn’t mean they hadn’t already been caught and logged by another part of the MI5 web.
She keyed in her password and had searched through a couple of databases, with no results, by the time Salter, and a haze of peppermint-flavoured tobacco smoke, came into the room.
‘Do you only go out with women who smoke, or are your charms enough to make them forget you smell like a mentholated ashtray?’
‘I’ve told you before, I only smoke so that at least one of us is up to speed with office gossip, boss.’ Salter pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘Otherwise we’d have to rely on internal emails, and we both know there’s nothing interesting in them as they’re all scanned by the über-spooks. So, what’s up, Doc?’
‘While I ferret around on the web, I want you to take these over to the forensic guys and see if there are any prints, any anything, in fact, on them.’ Mercer pushed the folder containing the plastic bags across her desk.
Mercer sat back and picked up the copy of Manifesto 3 she’d kept. After reading it through a couple of times she put it back down on her desk and stared out of her window. It was hard to argue with the fact that there was a lot of CCTV, but it was there for a reason and she could definitely argue with the author’s reasons – twisted logic, more like – for opposing it.
There was only one thing that really niggled. How the hell did these people know about the RPAs? The remotely piloted, camera-carrying drones were experimental. To all intents and purposes, they and the test programme that was underway didn’t exist. For that reason alone, this lot were worth a good look.
But, whatever Omega Place was, it didn’t have much of a presence, which in Mercer’s experience either meant it was small and insignificant, or that it was a big organisation that was trying to look small and insignificant. The minimal amount of info she’d been able to glean pointed towards the former, with it possibly being some extreme civil liberties outfit. What an old boss had once described as the three ‘U’s – under-funded, ultra-left and up their own arses. She had found some ev
idence on the Net that they’d been active in various parts of the country, which might, of course, mean a number of cells were operating, but, then again, might not.
Sometimes her job drove her mad.
She wasn’t a big fan of blue-sky thinking, coming up with ideas based on little more than conjecture and gut feeling. She liked facts. Hard facts, and the more of them the better.
She was on a fishing expedition, out in the unpoliced badlands of the Net, where anyone could post anything and there was no absolute way of differentiating lies from the truth, when Ray Salter knocked on her office door and came in without waiting for an answer. He was smiling.
‘You have news, and by the smirk on your face I’d say you’re classifying it as Good News.’
Salter nodded as he sat down. ‘There were some prints, in fact a couple of fairly clean ones.’
‘And?’
‘And one of them has a name attached to it.’
‘Which is?’
‘James Baker.’
Mercer rubbed her eyes, gritty from staring for too long at a screen. ‘So… James Baker. Apart from the fact that, at some time in his life, he did something that got him arrested, what else have you got to tell me? Who is he and why did he get picked up by plod?’
‘Riot Squad, actually.’
‘Riot Squad?’
‘Yeah, he was nabbed during the poll-tax demos, back in 1990.’
Mercer sat up, frowning. ‘Any more details?’
Salter took a couple of sheets of paper out of the folder he was carrying and scanned them. ‘Not a lot. Born in 1968, in Slough… makes him, um…’
‘Thirty-eight.’
‘Right, thirty-eight… so, born in Slough, where he lived until ’86 when he went to Birmingham to study politics. He was arrested somewhere off Trafalgar Square on March the thirty-first, 1990… suspicion of looting, aggravated assault and various other charges under the Riot Act.’ Salter held up a very grainy black and white photo of a chaotic street scene, baton-wielding police and demonstrators in what looked like an aggressive stand-off. ‘James Baker’s in there, somewhere, apparently. Anyway, he was kept on remand so long that by the time his case came up he’d been inside longer than if he’d been sentenced.’