The Gated Trilogy

by Matt Drabble

  “Look, if we can draw his power elsewhere at the same time then hopefully he won’t have enough.”

  “Won’t he just back off if he can’t get the job done?” Donovan asked.

  “No,” Avery answered for Lomax while shaking her head. “His ego won’t allow him to walk away. He’ll just keep pushing and pushing until he wins or he loses, but he won’t back down.”

  “Avery goes to her opposite number,” Lomax continued.

  “Parker Craven,” she responded. “I think he’s a good man, but I know he’s good at his job.”

  “She gives him the right buttons to push during the debate.”

  “He’ll give Knowles the right advice because even if he’s suspicious, he wants to win more,” she finished.

  “The deaths at the campaign headquarters and the police station will give him enough power to finish his plan. Before the debate even starts the studio audience could all be flooded with his control, his people, his disciples,” Lomax went on. “It takes influence to hold them all together. We need to take the fight to them and draw his power away. Knowles hits him with the right questions on live TV until the whole dam breaks open.”

  “Am I really the only one here who would like to know just how this guy is so sure of all this?” Donovan demanded as he jerked a thumb towards Lomax.

  “I must admit the question had occurred to me, Mr Lomax,” Sutherland admitted. “We all have our own experiences with Mr Tolanson, but you seem to have some kind of inside track here, far more than any reporter could dig up.”

  “Look, no one asked you to come here, did they?” Lomax asked. “Think about it, do you really believe that this is all just some kind of coincidence? That we are all here tonight together? The only four people who know what he is and are prepared to do something about it? Does that not strike any of you as odd?”

  “So what are you saying?” Sutherland asked. “That this is some kind of divine intervention?”

  “A divine what?” Donovan said, puzzled.

  “That we were all brought here by God or some other power for goodness,” Avery explained. “That’s what you think, isn’t it, Mr Lomax?” she stated.

  Lomax looked around the room at all of them for a long time before speaking. “I know what I know,” he said firmly. “How I know isn’t really important. If any of you want to walk away then I wouldn’t blame you, but I can’t and I won’t. Tolanson has to be stopped, once and for all.”

  “You think that we can?” Sutherland asked pertinently. “I mean, really? I’ve seen Tolanson do a lot of crazy stuff over the years, but one thing I’ve never seen him do is lose.”

  The question hung in the air and Lomax didn’t have a definitive answer; in truth, none of them did.

  ----------

  Tolanson couldn’t rest. It had been a long time since he had enjoyed anything close to a normal sleep, but now he was deeply unnerved by the pit of empty blackness that awaited him every time he closed his eyes.

  McDere drove around the city as the people slept. Houses were dark as residents slept on regardless of their onrushing fate, or at least a fate that he wished upon them.

  The car drove on through the commercial districts, which had only just closed their doors to the night-time crowd. Here, buildings were turning off their neon lights and vomiting the drunk and desperate out into the night. Young men and women stumbled their way into brightly lit taxi ranks or into safely enclosed parking structures. Their spirits were happy and well fuelled from a night of revelling, and the next day’s working shift was still a lifetime away.

  They moved through the brightness of the well lit and maintained area until they reached the long dark shadows of the disenfranchised.

  As with most cities, they never entirely closed and these streets were still partially occupied by those who sought the shadows and ducked out of sight as soon as the car’s bright headlights rounded a corner threatening to expose them.

  He liked this time of night. He found that the inhabitants were at their most honest. These were the night dwellers, people whose motives were always dark, and if you were in their world at this time of night then you were either predator or prey.

  The faces on the street corners touting for business grew older and more embittered the further in they ventured. Bodies used and abused for a handful of notes had all reached their sell-by dates and now only the desperate worked these streets.

  Young men stood with pockets full of dreams to sell and no doubt a swift violent retort to those who sought to take their corners.

  Tolanson opened the window and stuck his nose out like a dog smelling the air. The aroma of despair and loss was thick like a heavy fog descending from the heavens. He could feel the pain and liked the taste, his tongue flicking out over his lips like a serpent.

  A young man caught his eye. The man was hard faced in spite of his tender age, his body language aggressive and challenging as the expensive luxury car drove past slowly.

  Tolanson held the man’s gaze and tapped the front seat headrest so that McDere pulled to a stop at the kerb opposite the man.

  The young man approached without fear, his walk a strut and one hand hovering near his waistband where Tolanson knew he kept a switchblade that he wasn’t afraid to use.

  “You 5-O?” the young man asked, copying one of the American movies he no doubt devoured.

  “Do I look like the police?” Tolanson smiled back warmly.

  “Then you buying?”

  “Not today, Maurice,” Tolanson answered.

  “How you know my name?” Maurice immediately demanded, his face creased with suspicion.

  “I know a lot of things, my child.” Tolanson smiled back. “I know that you slit your stepfather’s throat when he was sleeping. I know that he used to visit you in the night when you were just a tiny little boy and the horrible things that he used to make you do.”

  “The fuck you know!” Maurice barked as he snatched out the blade.

  “Yes, that very knife, Maurice. I understand; believe me, my child, I do,” Tolanson said and a single tear rolled down his cheek, startling him badly.

  He had intended to talk to the boy but he didn’t know why. He just assumed that the child would be of some use to him, but not this, not to open wounds best kept sealed. His own childhood had been full of a father’s dark desires and he did not intend to open that box ever again.

  He started to close the window, intending to tell McDere to drive away as quickly as possible.

  “Who are you?” Maurice asked as a tender moment formed between them, despite everything that Tolanson was doing to shut it down.

  “McDere, drive on,” Tolanson tried to order but his voice was so tiny that it was barely a croak stuck in the back of his throat.

  “He used to make me do things,” Maurice said as he started to cry. “Bad things. I just wanted him to stop, that’s all. I begged him but he wouldn’t listen.”

  Tolanson now felt powerless before the young man’s confession and he didn’t understand what was happening here. He didn’t understand why he’d stopped or even spoken to the child, but now Maurice held him motionless with only the pain in his eyes, a pain that Tolanson had once known only too well.

  Maurice reached in through the still open window and grabbed his arm, the physical contact only strengthening the bond between them.

  “Are you here to help me?” Maurice asked in a small childlike voice.

  Tolanson tried to rip his arm free but all strength had left him. All of a sudden he felt like the abused child that he had once been centuries ago: small and powerless with guilt, and shame ransacking his mind.

  “Are you here to set me free?” Maurice begged.

  Tolanson’s mind fought against the intruding force and battled it back to the edges with some difficulty. The boy that he had once been had been buried under a mountain of power and destruction. He was no longer a victim; now he was the monster that others feared and ran from screaming.

 
With great difficulty he shook his arm free and the spell broke between them. McDere turned around in the driver’s seat, suddenly aware of the confrontation, but Tolanson held up a hand to stop him.

  Tolanson stared hard at the quivering young man standing outside the car. “Put your hand in your pocket, Maurice, and take out your medicine,” he ordered.

  Maurice reached in and took out a small bag of mixed pills. The drugs were his business but their quality was poor, although his customers weren’t likely to complain as long as they got their buzz, however short-lived.

  “It’s going to make you feel better, Maurice,” Tolanson said soothingly. “It’s going to make the nightmares go away and make you all better, I promise.”

  He watched on as the young man stuffed handful after handful of drugs into his mouth as his eyes wept tears of sorrow and gratitude until foam poured through his dry lips and he fell to the ground.

  Tolanson watched the young man overdose before him and then die. He expected to feel better, but all he felt was hollow inside. Soon he instructed McDere to drive on and they left the dead man by the kerb. As they pulled away, Tolanson noticed that Maurice had a small smile etched across his face, and in that brief second, he envied him.

  CHAPTER 29

  LIGHTS, CAMERAS, ALMOST ACTION

  The day of the debate arrived and the country was uncharacteristically gripped by election fever. Politics had long been the reserve of the few, those with enough time on their hands to take an interest, while the rest merely concentrated on getting through another day. Work was scarce and what did exist was hard and poorly paid.

  The imminent election had taken most pundits and commentators by surprise with the increase in demand for details. Those in the know put it down solely to the emergence of a genuine new face and a fresh approach.

  Christian Tolanson had the looks and natural charisma to charm even the hardest and most cynical of hearts. He was an underdog that had risen quickly and everyone loved to root for the little guy. The old ways were tired, and although the people often clamoured for change, change rarely appeared. But now they had their great hope for the future. The winds were sending out a different message, that this was a different kind of politician and the people were biting.

  Laurence Wayne oversaw the setting up of the debate. It was his job as director to make sure that everything at base camp went smoothly and that nothing was left to chance.

  He had handled several debates in the past but he had never known interest like this and, much to his dismay, the glitz and the glamour were threatening to overtake the solemn duty of the process.

  His bosses had managed to gauge the public’s demand and now the set was looking more and more like some kind of TV game show than the setting for a serious political discourse.

  Laurence was 62 years old now and his life had been spent trying to fight the slow erosion into mediocrity that his country found itself on the path to, but it was a losing battle. He held out little hope for the future generations of his country and knew that their leaders would soon be voted in via some kind of perverse reality television experiment. The youth of today had short attention spans and demanded little of their leaders, save for them to do something outrageous.

  The set had been finished last night but he was still inspecting every nook and cranny to make sure that nothing was left to chance.

  He had met with the prime minister’s people early this morning and was pleased with their conduct. Parker Craven he knew from several debates down the years, and while Craven was a shark, he was a predictable one. Tolanson’s people, however, had yet to make an appearance which as far as Laurence was concerned was tardiness of the highest order.

  The whole Tolanson campaign seemed to be run with a staggering lack of size and scope. Knowles was fighting a war with an overwhelming show of force. His army was huge and his finances were provided by the usual big business lobby. As far as Laurence had been able to ascertain, Tolanson’s campaign had been funded privately with no visible ties to any future favours to be paid back.

  Tolanson was riding high in the polls and the momentum was all going his way, but Laurence knew that this was the big stage, the time when the men were separated from the boys. Knowles was an experienced politician and a seasoned debater. Everything was pointing towards Tolanson crashing and burning on live television. While the prospect might have excited his bosses, Laurence was not looking forward to the coliseum style slaughter.

  He checked his clipboard again. He didn’t trust the electronic devices that so many of his staff favoured. A woman called Avery Grant should have been here by now. She was Tolanson’s campaign manager and the word was that she was a real up-and-comer, but she’d have to be.

  The clock on the wall was accurate but he still checked it against his watch. Avery Grant was late and that didn’t set well with him; he could only assume that she was young or scared or both.

  ----------

  Mallory Davis went over the camera equipment once again. She had already done so more times than she could remember but there could be nothing left to chance; this was far too important.

  It had been her idea to document the upcoming monumental events and she was damn proud of it. This was a day that would be burned into history, a day that would last forever, and a day that would be looked upon in the future as the day when the world changed.

  The campaign headquarters was packed even though it was still some time before the actual debate kicked off. She checked the camera one last time before finally forcing herself to leave it alone. Instead, she busied herself with the catering tables and seating area.

  The large open-plan office space had been stripped of the temporary partitions along with the desks and tables. The personal touches of the largely volunteer staff were all gone and now the whole place was filled with chairs situated facing the large screen television that had been fitted for the occasion.

  People were already arriving and everyone was buzzing. Faces were excited and voices were too loud as everyone could barely contain their excitement for the upcoming main event. But Mallory was one of the few that knew about the real night’s main event.

  Once she’d run through her checklist and was satisfied that everything was on schedule, she returned to her small private office situated off the main area. She was one of the very few staff assigned an office and she rarely used it for anything other than storage.

  She opened the door just enough to slip inside and closed it quickly behind her before anyone got too curious. There was a heavy wooden trunk by the far wall and she checked behind to make sure that no one could see into the room before she opened it. Her eyes lit up with the array of sharp silver blades that lay in wait for the evening ahead and she smiled at the thought.

  Tonight she was tasked with leading the charge towards the great man’s immortality. Tonight she was to lead those few chosen ones - the special people, the true disciples - into battle. She thought that when the day finally arrived she would feel the cold stab of fear, but in truth she felt calm and blessed.

  Ever the office manager, she did a quick mental calculation to make sure that she had ordered enough of everything for the viewing. Enough food, enough drink, enough chairs and enough knives. There would be just the 3 of them tasked with the sacrifice and 8 others that had to fall first. Once their blood had been shed in his name, the chosen 3 would then turn the blades upon themselves and die willingly; today was truly a great day indeed.

  ----------

  Superintendent Chambers stared out of the window at the early morning’s start to a brand new day. This dawn would be his last but only his last in this existence; after tonight, when he next opened his eyes again, it would be in the glorious paradise.

  His dress uniform hung neatly on the back of the office door and was freshly laundered and pressed. His silver buttons were polished and gleamed and his ribbons stood out colourful and proud. He stared at the uniform, feeling proud to be selected, proud to be chosen b
y the hand of God, and he would have the courage to see the job done in his name.

  “You’re in early, Sir,” his secretary, Roberta Harris, said, poking her head around the door. “Is everything okay?” she asked a little haughtily.

  “It’s fine, Roberta,” he responded feeling like he could already see the halo perched atop her head.

  His secretary had requested today off but he had cancelled her leave, hence her slight attitude. Roberta had been with him for almost 25 years and there was no way that he would be able to look himself in the eye if he denied her this chance to ascend.

  She left him alone and he closed his eyes and let the sense of wonder and destiny flow over him. He had his dress blues ready to go, his shoes were shined to within an inch of their life, and his service revolver sat in his drawer freshly cleaned and oiled.

  His one regret was that he’d had to share this glorious duty with others, but he was in command here and he was the real chosen one; it was just that every general needed an army.

  There would be 12 people on duty that evening and 3 angels tasked with the magnificent assignment of setting a god loose upon the world to flood it with his love.

  He heard Roberta slamming files down on her desk with anger. He knew that it was her granddaughter’s birthday today and there had been an extravagant family party planned. But he also knew that she would weep tears of joy when she came to realise just why he had insisted she be present today. Even though she would depart this world first, he would soon follow her and he would have eternity to hear her thanks.

  ----------

  Avery was glad to find that Tolanson hadn’t arrived at the debate studio before she had. She’d been dragging her feet all morning, hoping to put off standing face to face with him for as long as possible. This was in spite of Lomax pressing upon her that she had to do everything to appear normal today; it was a near impossible task.

  All morning she had feared having to face him but she was trying to keep Debbie’s face in her mind; her best friend had died at Tolanson’s hand, however direct or indirectly.