The Gated Trilogy

by Matt Drabble

  “The woman, Sir?”

  “She… she knows something… I think.”

  “What?”

  “I DON’T KNOW!” Tolanson roared with total rarity. He swept his arm across the office desk, sending a myriad of stationery scattering.

  “What would you like me to do?” McDere asked, unconcerned by the outburst.

  “There’s… a field… no, wait… a farm. Here…” Tolanson scrawled down some directions on a piece of paper that he quickly retrieved from the floor.

  “What would you like me to do?” McDere asked.

  “Just sort it. Just… just sort it, okay? For Christ’s sake, must I do everything myself?”

  McDere simply nodded and took the directions.

  “There’s something else as well, something with the policeman and maybe… I don’t know.” Tolanson sighed heavily. “I thought that I had enough left to do this, my friend, but I can’t afford to waste my energies on anything that is not essential.”

  “Can they hurt you?” McDere asked, concerned.

  “No… I don’t think so… but who can tell any more. We can win this, can’t we?”

  McDere was momentarily struck dumb. He couldn’t ever remember Tolanson asking him his opinion before, not once, but now the man looked tired and the aura of invincibility was cracking. It was a tiny hairline fracture, but it was there and it scared him badly.

  “We’ll finish the game, Sir,” he finally replied.

  “Ah, my friend, but will we win?”

  McDere didn’t have an answer. He felt like a son discovering that his father was only human for the first time.

  He walked out of the office with his head held high enough to challenge anyone to meet his gaze and say something about the noise from Tolanson’s outburst. No one did.

  ----------

  Avery walked into the office and looked around nervously. The bug in her car had been planted by someone, but right now she had no idea who. There was way too much strangeness happening at the minute for her to feel comfortable with: Debbie’s cryptic phone call; that reporter, Lomax - first he’d stalked her then approached her at the funeral; not to mention the death at the studio and a bug in her car.

  The office was unusually quiet and faces were buried in work as she passed through. The atmosphere was strange and strained and everyone looked nervous. Mrs Wilberforce saw her coming and stood up from her desk in a formal fashion as was her way.

  “Good afternoon,” her assistant greeted her, with perhaps just the faintest touch of reproach over the time.

  “Mrs Wilberforce.” Avery nodded. “What’s happened?”

  “I’m sorry, dear?”

  “The office feels like a morgue.”

  “Oh yes. I’m afraid that there has been an unfortunate incident involving one of our junior members of staff,” the older woman replied sadly.

  “Who?”

  “Did you not hear?”

  Avery bit her tongue. The woman could be impossible at times, almost as though she was being deliberately obtuse. “I’m afraid that I don’t have time for much outside of the campaign. What happened and to whom?”

  “Young Raymond,” Mrs Wilberforce said, taking out a small handkerchief from her pocket and dabbing her eyes with it.

  Avery was suddenly struck by the strangest feeling. She just knew that if she checked the woman’s perfumed handkerchief right now, snatched it from her hands after she’d wiped away the tears, it would be bone dry.

  “What happened to him?”

  “Best not to concern yourself with such matters, my dear. I’m sure that you have much to do,” Mrs Wilberforce said, patting her on the arm gently.

  “I think that I’ll be the best judge of what does or does not concern me,” Avery bristled.

  “Perhaps we should talk in your office?”

  Avery was about to dig her heels in and stand firmer in her ground, but she suddenly noticed that the office’s attention was now aimed in their direction.

  She brushed past her assistant and entered her office, slinging her bag down. “So what happened?” she demanded.

  “To be honest, my dear, no one quite knows,” Mrs Wilberforce replied infuriatingly.

  Avery clenched her fists under the desk and breathed deeply. “What do we know?”

  “Raymond apparently injured himself after possibly injuring someone else?”

  “Injured?”

  “You know…” Mrs Wilberforce drew a finger across her throat to illustrate death; it was a simple gesture but one that Avery suddenly found utterly bone chilling.

  “What’s being done?”

  “About what, dear?”

  “Raymond!” Avery snapped infuriatingly. “He worked here, didn’t he? Surely he will be linked to the campaign sooner rather than later?”

  “I don’t think so,” Mrs Wilberforce replied confidently.

  “Well I do. Get me Jones at The Times, then Gordon at The Post and then Yates at The Daily!” Avery ordered, taking charge. There was no way that she was going to let something like this derail them so close to the election.

  “Well?” she barked as her assistant hadn’t moved.

  “I don’t think that’s wise, dear, not in my opinion.”

  “Well then, it’s a good job that I don’t give a damn about your opinion.” Avery smiled broadly but coldly. “Just do as I’ve told you.”

  Mrs Wilberforce hopped from one foot to the other, her hands clasped together.

  “Mrs Wilberforce, will you give us a moment?” Tolanson said, suddenly appearing at the door behind her.

  The assistant looked eternally grateful and turned and almost ran out of the office, closing the door behind her.

  Avery looked at her boss and, not for the first time, wondered if there was something seriously wrong with him.

  There had been times in the past few weeks where she suddenly saw him looking desperately tired, almost ill. But the next day he would be full of life and vigour again and she’d just put it down to the strain of the campaign. He’d been out on the trail, crisscrossing the country on the Battle Bus, shaking hands and giving speeches and winning the public over.

  “Sir, are you okay?” she finally asked.

  “Hmm?”

  “You look… a little peaky, Sir. Perhaps you’re not feeling well?”

  Then Tolanson gave her the strangest look. All at once it was tired, angry, sad and frustrated. “You’ve got Craven in about 20 minutes,” he finally said.

  “Craven… what? We need to get out in front of this whole Raymond mess - that has to be priority number one, Sir, surely?”

  “Who?”

  For a moment she thought that she was stuck in the same conversation as with her assistant, an endless time loop of banality.

  “Raymond, Sir - he worked here, found dead, ring any bells?” She couldn’t keep the frustration from her tone but fortunately it didn’t register in his expression.

  “No… that’s all fine.”

  “Sir, with all due respect it’s far from fine. This could sink us if we’re not careful. We’ve been running you as the answer to hope and change, the change that people want, that voters want. We can’t afford to have your name suddenly mired in controversy or even the very appearance of it. Now, I have a decent relationship with several editors; I’m sure that we can head this off.”

  “Craven,” Tolanson reiterated.

  “Sir, please… you have to let me do my job,” she pleaded.

  “DAMMIT, I SAID CRAVEN! What the hell is it with you people today? I suddenly have to explain myself to the bloody help? Raymond was a volunteer, he wasn’t on the payroll, he wasn’t out front in any official capacity, no one outside this office even knew he worked here.”

  “Right, so what happens when one of them talk?” she demanded, cocking a thumb towards the outer office.

  Tolanson was starting to get to her again. His attitude was beginning to grate and his smile to slip. She had felt that perhaps there was more
to him than the inspirational politician that she had wanted to follow, but what if it wasn’t anything good? He was giving off an aroma of anger now and his eyes were hard and his expression cruel.

  “You think that any of them would talk out of school?” he sneered.

  “Are you willing to risk an election on it?” she asked, backing up a few steps as he was starting to scare her now, her own anger giving way to fear as quickly as it had risen.

  In that second she felt like he was going to launch himself at her, much in the same way that she’d known that Mrs Wilberforce’s tears hadn’t been real. Tolanson stared at her hungrily, his hands clenched fiercely by his sides and hatred radiating from him in dizzying waves.

  Her back hit the window at the rear of the office and she could retreat no further.

  Tolanson leaned in so close that they were almost kissing, but his intentions were far from amorous. His eyes half closed and suddenly he shuddered, breathing deeply.

  “Craven… 20 minutes,” he said, struggling to speak much above a growl as though he was concentrating every fibre of his being on controlling himself. “Get the debate sorted.”

  “Okay,” she stammered and sighed with relief as he started to back away from her.

  He left her alone in the office, and as soon as the door closed behind him, she rushed over and jammed a chair under the door handle. Only then did she breathe easy again.

  ----------

  Douglas pushed his plate aside across the dining room table. He’d moved the table into the kitchen after Sheila had passed. The dining room seemed so lost and empty now he was alone. He knew that Junior wanted him to sell the farm but he also knew that he never would. His beloved had lived and died here; to leave the farm would be to leave her.

  He checked his watch and wondered where Junior was. The boy might have inherited his mother’s brains, but his work ethic was that of his father.

  He raised himself from the table and deposited the leftovers in the recycling bin. He kept a fastidiously neat home, another hangover from Sheila. She had always demanded that the dirt of the farm be left at the door.

  The night was closing in fast and his internal clock was telling him that bed was fast approaching. Still puzzled, and now a little concerned, he pulled on his boots and a jacket and went out to look for his son.

  Junior often lost track of time when he had his head in a problem and the combine harvester had been acting up lately. He knew that his son would never leave a problem unsolved, regardless of the time or effort.

  He walked out into the chill of the night air. He opened his mouth to shout for Junior but something closed it almost immediately. It wasn’t anything he heard or saw, more just a feeling in his bones. He wasn’t a superstitious man by nature but something just felt off about the night.

  The barn that housed the machinery was located around the back of the farmhouse and he headed there first. The accompanying sound of silence only served to heighten his uneasiness.

  He reached the barn and shoved open the small door that led inside. The inside was devoid of sound and he would have expected Junior to either be working loudly or cursing equally so, but only silence greeted him.

  The barn was cast into darkness and he used the switch on the wall next to the door to shed a little light on the subject. He braced himself for what he might see in the sudden illumination, but the barn was empty.

  He paused to think. While it was possible that Junior had left without saying goodbye, it was highly unlikely. A quick sweep of the area, though, soon confirmed that his son hadn’t left; the boy’s case was still sitting on a bench close by and Junior never went anywhere without it.

  Something moved at the back of the barn and Douglas almost leapt out of his skin. He cursed himself for his foolishness. It had been a lifetime since he’d jumped at shadows. It was probably just a rat and he made a mental note to set some traps. Something moved again and he knew in that instant that the sound was far too big to be a rodent.

  “Who’s there?” he demanded in a gruff voice fuelled by more than a little alarm, but there was no answer.

  “Junior? Is that you?” he tried again, but again without success.

  A farm could be a dangerous place even for those who knew it. There were multiple accidents just waiting to happen as the whole place was lined with machines possessing sharp metal teeth.

  Chiding himself for his ridiculous fears, he snatched up a torch hanging on a hook next to the workbench and strode forwards into the gloomy shadows.

  The torch beam lit his way and he swung the light from side to side as he heard the noise again. It was a creaking sound with a sense of movement and he desperately tried to find the source.

  He moved steadily, still wary of the noise and the dark. In that moment he felt like a small child again, creeping in the shadows and searching for a way out. He had never been a man with much of an imagination - logic and reason had always guided him - but the small child that lay dormant in all of us was frantically trying to have his say.

  The creaking seemed to be louder and Douglas swung the torch in what he hoped was the right direction. The darkness was impenetrable and he squinted his eyes against the blackness, trying to pinpoint the sound.

  The torch started to fail and he slapped it several times before the flickering light steadied. He hadn’t used the torch in quite some time and no doubt the batteries were corroded and almost useless.

  The barn was long and he rarely ventured this far in past the machinery and work area.

  The torch started to flicker again and suddenly he knew that he didn’t want to be caught in here in the dark.

  Something moved to his right and he spun in that direction. Fighting his scared inner child, he ran forwards blindly.

  The creaking got louder and suddenly something struck him hard in the back and he stumbled forwards. The torch fell from his hand and clattered onto the hard ground. The light beam spun around and around in an dizzying motion, momentarily lighting up different sections of the barn floor as the beam of light flickered in and out of life.

  Douglas had almost screamed upon being knocked to the ground and now he scrambled for the dying torch. He snatched up the cold metallic source of light and swung it around to see what had struck him, only to find his son.

  Douglas Junior was hanging from one of the barn’s beams with a rustic rope noose around his neck. His face was bloated and swollen. His eyes were bulging out grotesquely and his expression was one of pure terror.

  It was at this point that Douglas Senior did finally scream.

  He climbed back to his feet and ran forwards. His brain knew that his son was dead but still he tried to support the boy’s weight and free him from the hangman’s knot. He shoved Junior’s feet up so that the noose was no longer taut and he held his son clumsily, too deep in shock to process what he was looking at.

  Something else moved behind him but he barely registered the sound as he desperately fought to save his already dead child.

  “He didn’t suffer - well, not much anyway,” a deep voice told him from the shadows.

  The man who stepped forwards dwarfed him. He had pretty much always been the largest man in any room but the intruder stood at least a foot taller and infinitely wider. The giant looked young and powerful and every instinct Douglas had was to run, but still he supported his son.

  The man’s voice was strangely neutral, as though murder was an everyday occurrence.

  “Who are you?” Douglas demanded.

  “McDere,” the giant answered politely.

  “You killed my boy,” Douglas choked.

  “A necessary evil.”

  “He never did anything to anyone; he was a good boy,” Douglas said as he started to sob, the words making the reality hit home.

  “He had information that I required,” McDere said as he stopped a few feet away.

  “What? What could my son possibly know to deserve this?”

  “The woman that was here thi
s morning. I’m afraid that this is her fault. She should never have come and you should never have opened your door to her. Without your hospitality, none of this would have happened,” McDere said with a touch of genuine regret.

  “I don’t know her! We don’t know her. She broke down and my son fixed her car, that’s all.”

  “That’s not quite all, is it? Your son found something that he shouldn’t have and now I’m here to clean up the mess.” McDere shrugged. “I assure you, it’s nothing personal.”

  Douglas tried to process what his eyes and ears were telling him, but it was all too much to comprehend. He was still supporting his dead son’s weight as McDere stepped forwards.

  Grief and shock were slowly giving way to anger now and Douglas felt an unholy rage surging through his body, making him shiver with adrenaline. He had helped some young woman with car trouble and his son had got her back on the road, and for this good deed they were going to die.

  He released Junior and sank to his knees as McDere walked to him.

  “I’m very sorry about all of this,” McDere said as he reached him. “But I assure you that it’s all in a greater cause and you shall be rewarded for your sacrifice.”

  Douglas waited until the man stood just in front of him. The man in front of him appeared relaxed as though Douglas being on his knees could offer no threat. McDere reached out and placed one powerful hand on top of his head, the spread fingers reaching out over his entire head.

  “This will only hurt for a second,” McDere promised as he tightened his grip.

  Douglas swung the torch upwards with every ounce of his own considerable strength.

  The heavy metallic object smashed into McDere’s groin, driving the breath from his body with a loud whoosh.

  Douglas leapt to his feet as McDere collapsed to his knees clutching his injured privates.

  Douglas swung the torch again with all of the power that he could generate, this time connecting with McDere’s temple. The metal canister took the full impact, sending shockwaves up to his shoulder. The glass in the torch shattered and the light died completely as the skull caved in beneath the blow. He felt sick at the damage he’d done to another man, however much he might deserve it.