The Man Who Sold His Son (Lanarkshire Strays)

by Mark Wilson

“Is that okay with you, love?” Robert asked.

  “Huh? Oh, sorry, Mr Hamilton, I was miles away. What was that?”

  Robert smiled warmly at her and explained the procedures they’d go through the next day at a colleague’s office. Robert was as big in person as he looked in the photo she’d seen of him. What hadn’t come across in the photo was how gentle the big man was. Looking sixty, rather than eighty years old, he carried himself with a lightness – grace people used to call it – and, if anything, was even more composed and calm than Tom himself. He was powerfully built for his age: Christ, he was powerfully built for a man in his thirties. Robert looked like he’d been a power-lifter but moved like a dancer. He had exactly the same intelligent, irreverent wit as Tom. She saw instantly why the men had been lifelong friends.

  Robert had explained to her that he’d settled in Ann Arbor years before after his friend Kim took him in. “Saved my life and taught me how to fight,” Rob had said of Kim. It was obvious he still missed the woman who’d apparently got him into the intelligence business. Sarah was having a difficult time picturing anyone having to teach the man-mountain to fight.

  “Okay, we’ll go see my man in the morning and get the ball rolling. Until then, you can stay here in Ann Arbor with me.”

  “Are you sure, Mr Hamilton? We wouldn’t want to place you in any difficulty.”

  “Call me Rob, please, and it’s no problem at all. Besides, until your new identities and home is arranged, my house is the safest place you could be.”

  Rob left the table and went over to where Tommy was chatting with the waitress and the kids. They all seemed to know Robert and were delighted to hear Tommy’s accent, so similar to Robert’s.

  “He’s a good man, Tom,” Sarah said.

  Tom smiled over at Robert who’d lifted little Tommy over his head. The kid was squealing with delight, marvelling at how high he was.

  “He’s the best,” Tom said softly. “Are you holding up okay, love?” he asked.

  “Yes… just y’know, I just hope I can manage.” She busied herself stirring her coffee.

  Tom placed a warm, strong hand over hers. “You’ll manage, ‘cos there’s nothing else for it. That’s what your boy needs and that’s what you’ll do. Besides, you’re not alone.”

  Five Years Later….

  15

  UKBC News: Sunday 19th June 2061

  “On screen we have images live from the Centre for Special Children where our reporter, Val Brown, is now.”

  “Thank you. Yes we’re here for a tour of one of the most important humanitarian projects of our time. The need for this Centre had been debated for years before the Bronson Bill was passed by the World Government almost five years ago. Since the passing of the Bill, Randoms have been coming here in search of security and a sense of belonging.”

  The screen changed to stock images showing various children leaving or being escorted by their parents, as well as some young adults making their way through the gates of the newly-built Centre five years ago.

  “We all recall these touching scenes. Children and young people leaving families to start a new life amongst their own kind, each of them now free to escape persecution and limited opportunities, thanks to the pre-emptive insight of the Bronson Act.”

  The images changed again to show footage of the inside of the centre.

  “No current footage exists since the residents have a right to their privacy, after all, but we have images on screen for you now from the tour of the facility taken by media and government representatives a few days before the first resident walked through the gates.

  “I was privileged to represent the UKBC on the tour and remember feeling awestruck by the living conditions in the facility. More a small town than a single building, the complex contains self-sustaining farms, a school, a hospital. The Randoms have access to every entertainment they could expect outside the facility and, some may argue, a more natural environment, free from the persecution that comes from being a minority in the outside world.”

  Val paused for a moment, smiling with pride into the camera, before continuing.

  “With us today we have a man who has worked tirelessly for humanitarian projects around the world, and none more so than the facility whose anniversary we celebrate today. Welcome Mr Ennis.”

  “Thank you, Val. It’s a pleasure to be here.”

  “Mr Ennis, you were initially one of the loudest voices against establishing a facility of this type. In the intervening years, the programme seems to have won you over.”

  “Absolutely, Val. It’s no secret that I had my concerns when the new legislation and the existence of this facility were first proposed. Anyone who had been even a casual observer of history would naturally shudder at the prospect of a minority group being segregated.”

  Val nodded along without interrupting.

  Ennis continued, “Having accepted that a new approach was needed, following the serious assault on young James Sheehan in Ireland in 2055…”

  Val interrupted. “Our viewers will recall the vicious beating of the twenty-one-year-old street-cleaner being the catalyst for the legislation finally being passed.”

  An image of James in his hospital bed appeared on screen whilst Ennis took up the narrative.

  “Yes, exactly so. The assault on James convinced me that we had to at least try the approach, for the safety of this very vulnerable minority. Over the years I’ve been delighted with the progress made by all of the residents, whom I’m pleased to say are much happier and much safer amongst their own kind.”

  “As a prominent member of the scientific community, Mr Ennis, is there any truth in the rumours regarding standard testing of people under the age of thirty to determine if any Randoms who didn’t come forward five years ago are still out there in need of assistance, but too afraid to reveal themselves?”

  Ennis painted a sympathetic expression on his face and turned his eyes straight to the camera. “Yes, Val. My understanding is that a period of testing will take place to identify any young people still in need of government assistance or rehousing.”

  The camera moved in for a close-up of Val.

  “So, another successful year for the Centre for Special Children, which has gone from strength to strength each year of its existence. Mr Ennis’s role in housing some of our most vulnerable citizens from all over the world cannot be understated. Surely the most worthy nominee for the Nobel Peace Prize 2061. Val Brown, reporting from the Centre for Special Children, Rio de Janeiro.”

  Sarah lifted her mug of coffee and took a long chug. Mostly to hide the look of disgust on her face.

  “Any chance you could turn that over?” she asked the barista in French, nodding at the Holo.

  “Oui,” he replied.

  Despite the bilious reaction she always had when Ennis’s face appeared on the Holo-News, especially when he was playing the patron saint of Randoms, Sarah felt a glow of satisfaction at not being asked where she was from. She and Tommy had worked hard on their Parisian accents these past few years and were beginning to sound like natives. Tom, despite having spent a great deal of time in the city over the years – he had a personal connection to Paris going back to the 1990s – had never felt the need to disguise his accent despite speaking French fluently.

  Packing up her belongings she pressed her thumb to the payment pad before leaving.

  €10 Sarah McGuire

  Sarah did a subtle double-take – she always did – when the still-unfamiliar name flashed up on the little Holo-image floating above the pad. Then she continued out onto the sidewalk. Strolling along the Champs-Élysées, Sarah slipped her sunglasses on to shield her eyes from the low winter sun and performed her usual routine of checks and detours.

  Five years had passed since she’d flown to Tom in New York completely devastated, lost without her husband or any notion of what the future held for her little family. After spending a few days with Robert Hamilton in Ann Arbor, and being introduced to a seri
es of Robert’s acquaintances – each introduced as an old friend before a new document was manufactured – her new family of three had left the States with new names and all of the biometric and physical evidence of their identities adjusted to facilitate who they had to become. Robert had made it clear that the process could be repeated again, easily, if required in future.

  They had been the McGuire family for almost five years now. The money was carefully hidden across more than thirty different accounts to which Sarah had access via a dozen aliases Robert had created for her. Terrified to record any of the details of the myriad of identities and accounts, Sarah had committed every detail to memory, and travelled frequently as one of her aliases, moving from city to city, searching for her husband or evidence of his work.

  Although mostly in China, Sarah had retained private investigators throughout the world hunting for Alex in all the most likely centres for scientific research in her husband’s field. None of the investigators knew her real identity or the address of her home in Paris, which had become their base a year after leaving Ann Arbor, following some criss-crossing across Europe. To date, of her thirty or so agents looking into Alex’s whereabouts, not one had turned up a trace of her husband. It was an expensive strategy, but money wasn’t a problem: she had plenty of that. Patience – that she was running short on.

  Tommy had adjusted quickly and well to life on the move initially and then life in Paris once they’d settled there. He went to Institut Notre Dame in Saint Germain, a private Catholic school in the city, and excelled in the sciences. He was a popular kid who made friends easily and only rarely cried at night for his father anymore.

  Tom and Sarah had pressed upon young Tommy the need to rein in his natural exuberance whist amongst his peers in school, lest his status as a Random become noticed by his friends or the staff. It galled Sarah to stifle the boy. With his passion for studies and sports and his outgoing personality, he was very much his father’s son. However, the family had grown sick of moving around and were happily settled in Paris. With the current climate and prevalent attitude toward Randoms. Tommy simply had to stay off the grid, or they’d have to start over someplace else. None of them wanted to leave Paris as it was home now, so Tommy supressed his natural urge to push himself and performed just well enough to be as good as he could be in his studies, and in life generally, within the expected limits of his peers.

  Occasionally, perhaps once every six weeks or so, Sarah would take both Tommys on a trip somewhere sunny, somewhere peaceful and, most of all, somewhere remote where they could be themselves for a week or two. Often, Sarah arranged for Alex’s mother to fly to those locations to meet them and spend some time with her father and her grandson. They had a peaceful life, a happy life, and did their best to ignore the Alex-sized gap in their souls.

  Of late the lack of progress had frustrated Sarah, but there really wasn’t much else she could do at present to locate her husband. For all they knew, Alex was dead. Late at night, when the sounds of the world were muted, she found it difficult to ignore the voice in her head telling her that they’d never see him again; that Ennis would eventually locate her son and lock him away.

  She really had no idea whether or not Ennis had any interest in Tommy anymore. He certainly seemed to be doing a thorough job – behind the scenes, of course – of corralling all of the Randoms and relocating them to his Centre. That didn’t necessarily imply that he had any special interest in Tommy since he’d certainly got what he needed from the family merely by threatening them. However, Robert had encouraged her to never take it for granted that they were safe. Not a nice way to live, but with a man like Ennis, someone whose motives one couldn’t predict, living this way, looking over one’s shoulder, was a necessity. How hard could she push to find Alex without placing herself and Tommy in harm’s way? That was the question.

  Robert Hamilton offered to help, but despite the man’s apparent health and vigour, he was an old man, well into his eighties. Sarah couldn’t put him at any risk.

  Strolling along beside the Seine, feet crunching in the snow, Sarah watched the mud-coloured water slip past and sent her love to her husband silently. Catching a familiar movement in her peripheral vision, she leaned over the nearby barrier and moved her head slightly so that she could take a look at the person whilst appearing to be still watching the river. Narrowing her eyes to guard from the low sun, Sarah noticed a young lady nearby, unmistakably, despite her sunglasses, watching her. It wasn’t the first time Sarah had seen the woman around Saint Germain.

  In her late twenties, she was slim and wore her very-dark hair long. The woman was strikingly pretty and looked like she’d been a model or something glamorous, but she moved with purpose. Sarah let go of the barrier and walked along the wide pathway of the Avenue de New York, then wound her way back towards the Champs-Élysées. Stopping at the window of one of the many motorcycle shops, she pretended to lean in for a close look at a jacket, but stole a glance behind her, catching the woman’s image in a reflection. Once again, she was behind, following at a respectful, perhaps a wary, distance through the zigzag route that Sarah had taken back to the main thoroughfare.

  Sarah walked casually away from the store-front and continued along the busy street. After passing a few side streets, Sarah selected one she knew well, the Rue de Berri, and strolled along for a few minutes, once again stealing glances at her pursuer in restaurant windows. Slipping down Rue de Ponthieu, Sarah made a series of sharp turns through a network of alleys that only someone very familiar with that part of the city would be able to navigate.

  Emerging back onto the Rue de Berri, behind the woman, she watched from a distance as the young lady searched around for her, gave up and strolled off back towards the Champs-Élysées. Sarah let out a breath she hadn’t realised that she’d been holding.

  Half an hour later Sarah arrived at the family’s apartment in Saint Germain. Tom, sitting at the dining room table, lifted his head from the book he was reading.

  “Hiya, love. Good day?”

  “Not really,” Sarah said. “We have a problem.”

  Interlude

  “Another one, Jim?” The bartender tapped at his customer’s glass.

  The old man nodded, a single curt nod. Normally he’d have cut off a customer who’d had quite so much to drink as Jim had, but the old man had been a regular for around twenty years and was a committed alcoholic. As such, he could function on volumes of alcohol others would find intolerable. Besides, Jim bought the most expensive whiskey, and he bought a lot of it.

  The bartender filled his short glass, eliciting a grunt of thanks, and turned his attention to the Holo-screen behind the bar. There’d been a lot of discussion on the news that day about re-homing Randoms. Some journalist was interviewing that billionaire guy, Ennis, about the project.

  The bartender smiled in admiration of Ennis as he spoke passionately about the Random relocation project. Ennis was an easy man to admire. Self-made, reputedly a fantastically generous employer, champion of human rights – the guy had a lot of respect; respect he’d earned not inherited. That went a long way with folks.

  “Good guy, that Ennis,” he said to no one in particular.

  Turning to see Jim’s reaction, he noticed that the old man had risen from his stool and was glaring at the Holo-image. His drink was untouched. Ennis was explaining the virtues of the project to the presenter in the background.

  “You all right, Jim?” he asked. The old man was rigid with fury and he’d never seen him this way. Old Jim was the same every time he came to the bar, which was a lot: calm, respectful, courteous.

  The bartender shook his head dismissively. Probably fuckin’ constipated.

  “Sit down and have yer drink, Jim.”

  The old man shoved the glass across the width of the bar, back to the bartender.

  “Stick yer whiskey up yer arse,” he slurred. With a straight back and purposeful stride, he left the bar.

  16

 
“Fuck!”

  Alex suppressed a smile. Gayle so rarely swore, but when she did, in her posh accent, it made him grin. Turning to lift a questioning eyebrow, he already knew the reason for the uncharacteristic outburst.

  “Same result again... Fuck it,” Gayle offered.

  Alex did smile this time, letting her see it.

  “I don’t know what you’re so pleased about,” she said. “It’s your fault.”

  “How’s that?”

  Gayle shrugged and jabbed a finger at her Holo-screen. “It’s your bloody uncooperative DNA.”

  She was only partly joking.

  Gayle sighed. “Okay, let’s try protocol number three-two-four-four-seven.” Peering into an incubator, she added, “We’ll need some samples, Alex.”

  Retrieving an IV and an array of differently coloured culture tubes, Gayle placed the tubes beside her on her workstation and waited whilst Alex took a seat opposite her, rolling up his shirt sleeve. Exposing a bruised and track-marked forearm, he wound a tourniquet around his elbow and bent his arm a few times.

  Gayle slapped at the skin and paused as she pressed the needle to the surface. “Try not to pass out this time,” she said.

  “Once that happened. Once in five yea… Ouch!”

  “Sorry,” Gayle said quietly.

  As much as they’d joke about the process of extracting Alex’s blood and his DNA from the white cells, neither of them had lost the sense of discomfort they felt at Alex’s tissue being harvested for their work.

  “S’okay. I’ll survive.” Alex glanced over at a Holo-image of Tommy and Sarah on his workstation opposite where he sat and scanned their faces as Gayle busied herself with filling her various tubes.