The Gated Trilogy

by Matt Drabble

  This should have been the proudest day of her life but in reality it was simply the most terrifying. She wanted to keep on telling herself that this was all about Debbie, that this was about finding justice for her best friend, but there was also only so long that she could lie to herself.

  She was going to have to come to terms with the fact that if she and the others failed, then she could very well be responsible for unleashing a monster upon the country. She had taken a no-hoper and propelled him into the national limelight and now he was only one step away from becoming the most powerful man in the country.

  She stood in the hallways of the television studio. On the surface she looked as impeccable as ever, but inside she was a mess. Her mind was full of what the day ahead may hold and what she had to do.

  The man that she was waiting for suddenly appeared at the far end of the corridor and she waved him over. Parker Craven eyed her suspiciously and, given their respective jobs, she didn’t blame him but he still walked over.

  “Ms Grant,” he greeted her as he drew close.

  “Mr Craven,” she nodded.

  “Was there something that I can help you with?” he asked and she realised that she’d remained quiet for several seconds too long.

  “I thought that we might talk,” she replied finally.

  “About?”

  “The future.”

  “Yours or mine?” he asked with a curious smile.

  Avery knew that the following conversation would ruin her career. After this she would be done in this field; it would be professional suicide. But she also knew that that was the least of her worries.

  “Your future or mine?” Craven repeated.

  “Everyone’s,” she finally answered and motioned for him to follow her into a side room away from prying ears.

  ----------

  The rest of the day passed by interminably slowly for everyone who was waiting for the show to begin. Both Mallory Davies and Superintendent Chambers wore trails in their respective carpets as they couldn’t keep from pacing up and down as the countdown clock ticked ever slower.

  ----------

  McDere stood guard outside of Tolanson’s room like a sphinx, silent and motionless but deadly all the same should his master be disturbed. The big man was dressed smartly for the upcoming night’s events and he could feel Tolanson’s worry even through the closed door and wished that he could do something to allay the great man’s fears. But all he could do was to stand guard and be prepared to kill and, if necessary, to die for the cause.

  ----------

  Sutherland kept to the evening shadows and out of sight. He had expected to feel scared or crazy or something approaching a normal response to his current activity, but inside he felt calm, like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

  He had left the Barrett apartment that afternoon as soon as dusk had settled comfortably in preparation for the night’s approach. He knew that his mind should have been full of questions and scepticism, but somehow he just trusted Lomax. He’d expected Donovan to kick up the biggest fuss, but even the young hothead had simply gone along with his orders.

  Lomax had laid out what he expected Tolanson’s plan to be and, as insane as it sounded, he had found that the whole room had finally accepted it as fact. They all had their parts to play and they all had their varying reasons for sticking around, but none of them were going to walk away.

  He waited until the last day shift exited the police station and the night crew moved in.

  Donovan had disappeared for a couple of hours in the morning before returning with a couple of handguns and spare ammunition. He didn’t ask where the kid had gotten them and right now he didn’t much care. While Lomax had been certain that some of those inside the police station would turn on their comrades, he didn’t know how many; the same was true of the campaign headquarters.

  He looked up at the darkened building and estimated that there would be somewhere around 20 people inside. There were firearms locked away securely in the basement but they could only be accessed with Chambers’ consent. He had to pray that the superintendent wasn’t part of Tolanson’s order.

  Time was pressing on, and after the day passing so slowly, it was now rapidly accelerating to the point where he would have given anything for a little more time.

  He checked his watch and saw that it was worryingly close to kickoff. He found it hard to believe that he was about to storm a building where he had worked for years and possibly have to kill people that he knew. A large part of him prayed that it was all a mistake and that the night would end with him under arrest and no casualties, but that felt like the hopes of a child not willing to face reality. He was far from a child and his accounts were stuck firmly in the red; all he could really hope for was to pay a little back off his debts.

  He breathed deeply and prepared to rush in through the back service door praying that his ID card would still work. He steeled himself, and just as he started to move forward, someone leapt from the shadows behind him too fast for him to react. The figure was male and strong and Sutherland found himself knocked to the ground with his arms pinned behind his back and what little hope he’d had suddenly evaporated as he was caught before the night had even begun.

  ----------

  Donovan pulled up outside the campaign headquarters and saw that the lights were blazing. He had been hoping that the place would be dark and deserted, but he’d had no such luck.

  He’d stolen the car he was driving, figuring that the cops would soon have their hands full when what Lomax had told them came to pass. He was still having trouble understanding just why he believed the guy, but he did. He’d even tried to convince himself that the man was full of shit, that he’d nod along to the crazy-ass plan and then leave and not look back, but he hadn’t.

  If it had just been him to worry about then he was pretty sure that he would have just left - got on a plane, a boat, whatever he could find first and get the hell out of the country. The trouble was that he carried a small photograph of a little girl in his wallet. He’d worked hard to keep her away from his world and had so far succeeded, but if he ran then she would be left behind and subject to God only knew what.

  He was under no illusions about his own character. He made no excuses for the things he’d done in his life and the people that he’d hurt.

  He was sure that some headshrinker would find some reasons in his abject childhood, but that was all bullshit. He was a bad man pure and simple. But the one tiny piece of goodness that he may have possessed had produced an angel and he believed Lomax when he said that the country would fall if Tolanson won and so he chose to fight. Not for himself as he already knew that he was far past saving. No, he’d fight for his angel.

  He took her photo from his wallet and slipped it into a small chest pocket in his shirt. The gun felt cold in his hand as he left the car but he felt her warmth in his heart and prayed that he might be able to see her again, just one more time.

  ----------

  Lomax took his seat in the studio audience. Avery had come through with a pass for him and as he sat down he could already feel the air charged with excitement, one that must have seemed alien to the political commentators attending.

  The people around him were fidgeting nervously, waiting for the show to start. It felt more like a rock concert than a political debate and he found their enthusiasm more than a little disconcerting.

  He’d had to leave his gun behind with some reluctance as in this day and age, with so many important people gathered in one place, security had been tight. Everyone had been searched on the way in, even people with passes like his. As he sat amongst the audience, he wondered just how many here were in Tolanson’s pocket or, worse still, were his disciples.

  The studio normally seated around 100 people in the audience and was apparently normally used for some sitcom that he’d never seen. But now, with the increased set size and the requirement to reduce the risk to the prime minister and his potential s
uccessor, that number had been cut to around 50. He guessed that when the debate had been booked no one had anticipated the interest that it would have generated by this point.

  He wanted to feel anger, or fear, or anything really to get his blood pumping, but all he felt now was serene. It had been a long journey and he could feel that the end was in sight; he just couldn’t tell which way the whole thing was going to fall. All he could do now was sit and wait and pray that whatever happened he’d make them proud.

  ----------

  Avery waited backstage as people flew past her in a mad rush as the time ran closer and closer to running out. Officious people with clipboards bullied their way through the throng, everyone seemingly desperate to show their importance.

  Knowles was already in his dressing room surrounded by his top advisers. She knew what they would be telling him, just like she also knew that their traditional plans would be of little use tonight.

  She had been standing here in the corridor for a while now, hoping to catch sight of Craven again but the man had disappeared from sight; she didn’t know if that was a good or a bad sign.

  He had listened to her with eager - but suspicious - ears and for that she couldn’t blame him. She had laid out the few weaknesses that Tolanson had when it came to the debate, but she had obviously stayed away from any of the truth that would have sent him running from a seemingly disturbed woman.

  She had decided to take the approach that might convince him the most and appeal to his keen sense of arrogance and greed. She had told him that Tolanson had been taken as far as he could but she knew that whatever happened tonight, when it came time for people to vote they would stick to the tried and trusted.

  She’d tried to convince him that Tolanson was simply a new face at the right time, when the people thought that they wanted change. In short, she had told him everything that she thought he already believed. That Tolanson could only succeed in embarrassing the prime minister tonight before his inevitable polls defeat. She’d also told him that she had proven herself on the battlefield but now it was time to switch to the winning team.

  Craven had looked her up and down carefully, not quite knowing what to make of her, but she could see that he was hoping she was on the level. She had stuck to the truth as much as possible when discussing Tolanson and his debate flaws.

  She had told him about Tolanson’s ego and his inability to hold his temper when pressed. She told him to make sure that Knowles went on the attack whenever possible, to challenge Tolanson over facts and figures, whatever they may be. She told him about Tolanson’s mock debate explosion when she’d talked over him, talked down to him and insinuated that his single lifestyle should be called into question.

  Hopefully she’d given the performance of her career. Considering that it would undoubtedly be her last, she had given it everything. Now all she could do was to hope that Craven bought her traitorous act and took her suggestions straight to Knowles.

  If Lomax was right then they were going to need to hit Tolanson from all sides in order to sap his already waning strength. She had glimpsed, well… she wasn’t quite sure what she’d glimpsed in the campaign headquarters when she’d rounded on Tolanson. But she felt that she had almost seen the monster behind the man and if they were to bring it all the way out then what better place to do it than on live television.

  ----------

  Tolanson sat in the back of the car as McDere drove him to his destiny. As he rode under the cover of tinted windows with plush leather under him, he sought to focus his mind for what lay ahead. For a man who dealt in illusions, he was not under any; everything that he was, and could become, was tied to tonight.

  If he failed then there was a real possibility that he might just simply cease to be. He might well be snuffed out of existence live on stage when his batteries ran dry; it was certainly enough to focus the mind.

  The streets passed by outside and he could feel the history in his surroundings radiating down the centuries. This was an old country, older than his original mortal shell, but not as ancient as the forces that had once surged through his veins but had now almost deserted him completely. Decade upon decade had taken their toll and his strength had almost failed him.

  Those that he had served did not tolerate failure and now he could feel their eyes watching him as he fought desperately to win back their favour. He didn’t know if his success tonight would be enough to regain his former glory, but if this didn’t then nothing would.

  For all the years and lives that he had lived, he still didn’t feel ready to leave, at least not on these terms.

  He watched through the window as the dark night threatened to seize him and swallow him whole. It might have been his imagination but the streets seemed quieter tonight than usual and the pavements were deserted.

  Something loomed into view and he abruptly turned his attention towards to it. Suddenly, he tapped McDere on the shoulder.

  “Stop!” he ordered.

  “Sir?”

  “Pull over here.”

  “But we’re already late, Sir,” McDere offered nervously.

  “I don’t care,” he snapped in reply as his eyes stayed glued to the huge building that dominated the skyline.

  McDere pulled over and Tolanson was out of the car before it had reached a complete stop.

  The church was a Gothic monster and all it was lacking was a flash of lightning overhead to finish the scene.

  He barged through the large iron gates and strode purposefully up the stone path through the gravestones, which watched his approach with the eyes of the dead.

  He hadn’t set foot on consecrated ground for some time and it had been even longer since he’d actually entered a house of God.

  The doors opened with a loud creak and he wasn’t surprised to find them unlocked.

  “Expecting me?” he asked aloud to the empty church.

  His voice echoed off the stone walls and he could feel the cold damp seep into his bones. The stained-glass windows depicted various saints in colourful poses. The pews were lined up neatly for worship and polished with care.

  He walked towards the front, down the centre aisle, his footsteps booming out to announce his arrival. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected: maybe that he’d burst into flames or maybe that he’d have been unable to enter the building at all, but all was quiet and serene.

  There was a large statue standing behind the huge altar and Jesus looked down with an expression of love and compassion. Columns donned the walls and opulent artwork spoke of devotion.

  “You do so love your show of wealth and power, don’t you?” Tolanson asked of the statue. “You do so love to have your worshipers follow you on their knees.”

  His voice echoed loudly but still there was infuriatingly no response.

  “Tell me, do you still offer forgiveness? Is there nothing that you will wipe clean, given contrition?” He started to shout. “Are we all your children? Am I?”

  He walked up to the statue and stood before it, his blood starting to boil now and he wasn’t entirely sure why.

  “You save them, you save those who promise you devotion, but what happens to those who don’t? What happens to those who refuse to kneel? When you’re sending tornados to wipe out towns and villages, is that because they didn’t pray hard enough? Were they not worthy?”

  He was yelling now; he felt tears starting to form in the corners of his eyes and he tried to blink them away.

  “What about the innocents that you let suffer? What about the children, what were their crimes? What could a young boy have done to make you spite him so? WHAT DID I DO?” He roared now, sobbing.

  He picked up a golden goblet from the altar and hurled it at the statue. There was a remnant of red wine inside and the dark liquid splattered against the white porcelain.

  “I was a child,” he sobbed. “I was just a little boy; how did I displease you? Why was I made to suffer at the hands of my father while you stood by and did nothing? Did yo
u not love me? Did I not deserve love?”

  He stood in the house of his maker, the one true father, and begged for answers.

  “Is that what you foresaw for me?” he asked in a choked voice. “Was I always destined to become what I am, or am I what you made me? If you’re omnipotent, then aren’t we all what you intended us to be?”

  He sank to his knees now and knelt before the statue as his legs no longer held enough strength to keep him upright. His entire body felt racked by exhaustion. He had never felt so tired in his whole long existence and he just wanted to sleep.

  “Where is my love, Father? Where is my mercy? Where is my forgiveness? Answer me now, please,” he begged. “Answer me, answer me, ANSWER ME!” he screamed, seemingly loudly enough to wake the heavens, but there was no answer.

  “Then damn you, damn you and all of your children. I curse them all, Father. I curse every last one of them and I spit on your name. What I’ve done before, what I do tonight, every drop of blood that I spill is on your hands, do you hear me? It’s on your hands, it always was.”

  He rose to his feet, fighting the fatigue that racked his very bones deep down to his very soul. He summoned every last vestige of strength that he had and, through sheer force of will and spite for his abandonment, he turned and left.

  The stone statue only stood motionless and watched him leave. As the door slammed and the church was left empty again, a few droplets of red wine from the goblet that he’d hurled now ran like tears down its cheeks.

  CHAPTER 30

  SHOWTIME

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” Reginald Cooper announced to the audience in the studio and the watching millions at home.

  He was an experienced presenter and moderator but this debate was a whole new ball game for him. The projected viewing figures had given him more than a little cause for concern and, for the first time in his long and distinguished career, he was nervous.

  If the buzz amongst the audience in front of him was anything to go by then he could only imagine what the people at home were making of it. Part of him had always longed for this type of national exposure, for politics to finally make a dent in the consciousness of the mass public, but now he was starting to wonder if this was really what he wanted.