Rules of Engagement

by Hurley, Graham

  His wife met him at the front door. She was wearing a light blue track suit. She looked gaunt, and didn’t smile when he bent towards her and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

  ‘Darling …’ he said, automatically.

  ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘London.’

  He stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him. The place smelled of fresh coffee and burnt toast. The door to the lounge was open, and he could hear the low hum of an electric fire inside. His wife was still looking at him.

  ‘Whereabouts in London?’

  ‘Clive’s place.’ He smiled at her again, trying not to sound guarded. ‘I know, I should have phoned. I’m sorry. It all got rather late.’ He put his briefcase on the small occasional table by the door.

  ‘So I drove down this morning.’ He began to unbutton his coat. ‘Kids OK?’

  His wife looked at him, ignoring the question.

  ‘I thought you’d be at the Apollo, like you said. Or the Novotel.’

  ‘No,’ he hesitated a moment, ‘Clive was at a conference, and we had one or two drinks afterwards, and …’ he shrugged, ‘he’s just across the river at Kennington so there seemed no point in going to a hotel.’

  He glanced at himself in the mirror over the telephone, smoothed his hair with one hand, turned back to his wife.

  ‘My love … I’m truly sorry …’

  She looked at him a moment, confused, began to say something, then shook her head, dismissing it all.

  ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘there’s a man …’

  Goodman frowned. ‘What man?’

  ‘A man from London. I think he’s Government. He’s come down to see you.’ She nodded towards the lounge. ‘He’s in there, having coffee.’

  Goodman looked blank for a moment.

  ‘In there?’

  ‘Yes. I think maybe you’d better say hello. He’s been there since five this morning.’

  ‘Five?’

  ‘Yes. That’s when I started phoning the hotels.’

  She offered him a small, bare smile, trying to keep the reproach out of her voice. Goodman looked at her a moment, nodding slowly, remembering the black Rover parked in the road outside.

  ‘I see …’ he said, ‘no wonder. Poor you.’

  He crossed the hall towards her, all sympathy, but she stepped quickly towards the kitchen.

  ‘I’ll put some more coffee on. I don’t suppose you’ve had anything, have you?’

  ‘No.’

  He watched her disappear down the hall, wondering how much damage he’d done, how plausible it all sounded. Then he turned towards the mirror again, straightened his tie, and went into the lounge.

  The lounge was a large, L-shaped room, the best in the house, full of light. Joanna had decorated it herself, shades of yellow and beige, with brown fleck carpet, and carefully sited wall lights, and a huge gilt mirror over the big marble fireplace. French windows on the south side opened onto a stone flagged terrace. Steps led to half an acre of lawn, and there was a sandpit at the bottom of the garden with a swing Goodman had built for the kids.

  Goodman paused, and coughed. Standing in front of the french windows was a man in a dark suit. He turned back into the room. He was about 45, medium height, quietly dressed, with neatly trimmed hair, and a face devoid of expression. He wore rimless glasses, and there was the faintest hint of dark blue handkerchief tucked into the breast pocket of his suit. He stepped towards Goodman and extended a hand. Despite the air of careful neutrality, the man exuded authority.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said, ‘Oliver Davidson. Home Office.’

  Goodman nodded and shook hands. For the second time that morning, he did his best not to sound defensive.

  ‘Morning. Martin Goodman.’

  There were the beginnings of an awkward silence. Goodman indicated an armchair by the fireplace.

  ‘I’m sorry you’ve had to hang around,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid you caught us on the hop.’

  Davidson settled into the armchair and glanced up at him. The smile was shy.

  ‘We did try and find you …’ he said, ‘but I’m afraid you got the better of us.’

  ‘My pager was out.’ Goodman patted his breast pocket. ‘Battery problem.’

  ‘Ah, I see …’ Davidson permitted himself the subtlest of pauses. ‘London, I gather.’

  ‘Yes. DOE. Conference. What to do about the Poll Tax. Bane of our lives, I’m afraid. Local Government was never simple. But this …’ he pulled a face, ‘it’s a nightmare.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ Davidson said, pausing again, the same inflection, the same chill edge to his voice. He picked a thread of cotton off his immaculately pressed trousers. Then he looked up. ‘I’m sorry about your Mr Moody.’

  ‘Eric?’ Goodman’s voice dropped a semitone. ‘Yes, it’s not good news.’

  ‘Coronary, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. The second, I’m afraid.’

  Another silence settled between them. Eric Moody had been Chief Executive for nearly eight years, a plump, choleric man with a photographic memory and an affection for malt whisky. His first heart attack had put him in hospital for three weeks, but he was back at his desk the following month, ignoring orders to rest, and reclaiming the key files from Goodman’s in-tray. His wife, a tired looking woman in her early fifties, had confided to Goodman that she expected her husband to be dead by Christmas. But he’d confounded her, and wrong-footed the medics, and his system had survived another two years of punishment before he felt the same agonizing pain scorching across his right shoulder and down his arm. The ambulance had arrived at the Civic Centre within minutes, but this time it was a massive attack, and he was lucky to survive the three-mile journey to the new hospital. Goodman had been to see him only a couple of days earlier in the tiny private single-bedded room off the ICU. He looked grey and beaten, and the consultant had already confirmed that his professional life was probably over.

  Now, for the second time in two years, Goodman was Acting Chief Executive, but this time there was a good chance the job would be for keeps. From his sickbed, Moody had extended a pale, flabby hand, and wished him good luck, but the expression on his face told a different story. He’d always resented the younger man, with his competence, wit, and effortless charm, and had done what he could to ensure the job went elsewhere. But mortality had intervened, Goodman was home and dry, and both men knew it.

  Davidson cleared his throat and reached down for the briefcase beside his armchair. There were a pair of combination locks and he began to revolve the tumblers. When he spoke, he didn’t look up.

  ‘May I assume you’ve read the briefings?’

  Goodman gazed at the briefcase. ‘Briefings?’

  ‘Yes.’ Davidson looked up. ‘The Civil Defence briefings.’

  Goodman blinked, remembering the morning’s breathless radio reports from Oslo and Hammerfest. He knew about the crisis in Europe, everybody did, but he’d no idea it had got this far. A year ago, the talk had been of glasnost and perestroika. Now, barely a year after Gorbachev’s death, Europe was evidently on the edge of war. He looked Davidson in the eye. Perhaps the man was talking about yet another exercise, something Eric Moody would have kept close to his chest. Typical. Goodman nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ he said easily, ‘I’ve read the briefings.’

  ‘Then this will hardly come as a surprise.’ Davidson snapped open his briefcase, brisk, businesslike. He reached inside and produced a thick sheaf of documents. Goodman got up quickly and fetched a small coffee table. He placed it carefully between the two chairs. Davidson laid the documents on the table. The top sheet of paper had the texture of parchment, and the word Proclamation was embossed in heavy black type at the head of the page. Davidson looked at him over the tops of his glasses.

  ‘This is material available to Controllers only,’ he said. ‘I need hardly tell you it’s highly confidential. In the … ah … regrettable absence of Mr Moody, you’ll be Controller-Designate. If and w
hen the time comes.’

  Goodman nodded. He could feel his pulse quickening, a warmth spreading upwards from his belly. He was vague about the specific powers of Controller, but he knew they were absolute.

  ‘I see,’ he said quietly.

  Davidson produced another document from his briefcase, a single sheet of paper, and handed it across to Goodman.

  ‘You have a pen?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Davidson indicated a dotted line at the bottom of the page.

  ‘Signature, please, for safe receipt. Oh,’ he indicated another space, ‘and the date.’

  Goodman nodded and bent to the paper. While he scribbled his name at the bottom of the page, Davidson glanced at his watch. Time was evidently moving on.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s a great deal to do,’ he said. ‘You’ll need a strategy conference. Your key officers. The ones on the “A” list. Heads of Departments. Emergency Services. Transport Executives. That should happen PDQ. Preferably this morning.’

  Goodman screwed the cap back on his pen. His signature sat well on the document, with its august phrases about ‘defence of the realm’ and ‘appropriate constitutional amendments’.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘of course.’

  ‘And then there’s the media. You’ll want to keep things as calm as possible. If you have friends in the media, television especially, it might be wise to call in the odd favour.’ He paused. ‘Before that though, you and I should review the transition arrangements. Procedures. Protocols. Who does what. Formalities, I’m afraid, but vital none the less.’

  Goodman handed back the receipt.

  ‘Transition to what?’ he said.

  Davidson checked the signature briefly, and folded the document in half. Then he looked up again. The tone was quite neutral. The expression opaque.

  ‘To war, Mr Goodman.’

  Goodman gazed at him. ‘Is it that serious?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid it is.’

  He got up and began to tidy the documents into a neat pile before sliding them back into his briefcase. Goodman remained in the armchair for a moment longer. Through the big french windows he could see a cloud of gulls over the city’s new Marina. Upstairs, there was the splash of water from the bathroom and the sound of children laughing. He looked up at Davidson but he could think of nothing to say. Davidson reached for his coat.

  ‘Your office, I’m afraid,’ he said briskly, ‘pleasant though this is.’

  Gillespie sat in his kitchen, watching Annie fill his kettle from the tap. Next door, in the living room, he could hear the film crew moving furniture around. Judging by their conversation, they’d decided to shoot against the back window. Something to do with the texture of his venetian blind.

  Annie had arrived half an hour after the crew. She’d found them sitting in the big Volvo, the windows furred with condensation, listening to Desert Island Discs. She’d enquired tartly what the fuck they thought they were up to, and when the PA had explained it all, she’d gone straight in to Gillespie, and shut the kitchen door behind them, and refused to take ‘no’ for an answer.

  At first, Gillespie hadn’t even bothered to argue. It was his house, his war, and his memories. He was under no obligation to share any of it with anyone. But Annie, as ever, had persisted, a dog with a bone, and when she walked out of the kitchen and back down the hall and opened the front door to the crew, he’d simply let them get on with it. Too bad if they had to pack all their equipment up again. Too bad if she didn’t get her precious interview.

  Now, though, for reasons he couldn’t quite fathom, he found himself defending his right to silence. Annie carried the dripping kettle to the gas stove, and lit one of the front rings.

  ‘Well?’ she said, blowing out the match and flicking it, inch perfect, into the bin. ‘What’s it to be?’ Gillespie looked at her. By rights, he should have thrown her out an hour ago. Yet here she was, easing herself onto the corner of his kitchen table, fingering the remains of his breakfast, boxing him in with her incessant questions.

  Much against his better judgement, he had to admit to a certain admiration. However lost the cause, she never gave up. He smiled at her.

  ‘Well?’ she said for the second time.

  ‘Tea,’ he said, ‘with two sugars.’

  ‘I meant the interview.’

  ‘There won’t be an interview.’

  ‘Why not?’

  He shook his head, more disbelief than disapproval.

  ‘Love, I can’t.’

  ‘Won’t.’

  ‘Yeah, won’t. Can’t and won’t.’

  She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why not?’ he repeated. ‘Why not? Have you seen what’s happening? Are you deaf or something? Blind? Have you seen the news? The last coupla weeks?’

  Annie shrugged, and dug her hands deep into the pockets of her bomber jacket.

  ‘Sure,’ she said, ‘I read the papers.’

  ‘So you’ll know.’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘We’re going to war.’

  Gillespie turned away, his case stated, the argument over. Annie watched him carefully.

  ‘Tell me something, Dave,’ she said. ‘Why did you agree to do it in the first place?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘The interview.’

  ‘I didn’t agree.’

  ‘Yes, you did. You said we’d get round to it.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Yes.’ She paused. ‘So why did you say that?’

  He shrugged. ‘I dunno.’

  ‘Because I asked? Nicely?’ She let the insinuation rest between them for a moment. He could feel her goading him. Their nights together. Her eager, expert ways. She leant forward across the table, suddenly urgent, intense.

  ‘Dave …’ she said, ‘you told me you were sick of all the pretence, all the flannel, all the instant TV experts. That’s what you said.’ She paused, letting the phrases, his phrases, sink in. ‘You said it was horrible out there most of the time, just like every other bloody war. And you said it wouldn’t do any harm to know the truth, for a change.’ She paused again, and then came back at him, softer, more muted. ‘That’s when I asked you what happened on the mountain. And that’s when you told me.’

  Gillespie listened to her, trying not to admit the justice of her argument. He shook his head.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I know how much it means to you, but there’s a time and a place, love, and it ain’t now. Not with this going on. No way. No matter what it would do to your precious bloody career …’

  Annie came very close, her face almost touching his.

  ‘OK,’ she said, ‘I admit it. I’m ambitious. My work matters to me. I want to do something half decent for a change. Is that a crime?’

  ‘Of course it’s not. But there are bigger things at stake just now. And you know it.’

  Annie withdrew across the table. The expression on her face had changed. Part mockery. Part contempt.

  ‘Like patriotism?’ she said.

  Gillespie smiled at her. He liked the word. Felt easy with it.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘like patriotism.’

  The phrase hung between them for a moment, then Annie turned away, reaching up to the cupboard over the sink. She began to take mugs from the bottom shelf, lining them up like soldiers on the dresser. Gillespie watched her.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he said.

  ‘Making the coffee.’

  ‘Why do you want six cups?’

  She glanced round and smiled at him.

  ‘Why do you think?’ she said, heading for the door.

  Martin Goodman returned to the city at half-past nine, sitting beside Davidson in the front of the big Rover. The man from the Home Office drove fast. He was inscrutable, as if his face had somehow earned a dispensation from the normal wear and tear of life. He said very little, tuning and retuning the radio for the latest updates. The Russians were tak
ing the submarine issue to the Security Council, citing the Cuba crisis as a justification for their decision to board and search the boat. The Americans, meanwhile, were assembling a Task Force to intervene. They expected to be with the stricken submarine within the next three days. Goodman shivered. Given the crisis in Scandinavia, the implications were suddenly all too obvious. He thought briefly of Suzanne. The touch of her fingertips. The curl of her tongue. That, at least, was simple.

  They drove on down the hill, across the creek, and joined the motorway into the city. There was a convoy of Navy flat-bed trucks in the slow lane, with bulky cylindrical shapes under the flapping canvas tarpaulins. Goodman eyed them as they sped past, remembering Davidson sitting in the armchair, spelling it all out, emotionless, matter-of-fact, the phrases lifted from some Civil Defence handbook or other. Transfer of Powers. Regional Commissariats. Sub-Regional HQs. When his wife came in with fresh supplies of coffee, Goodman had made his excuses and gone upstairs for a change of shirt. Already, this morning had become quite unreal, a succession of curious events removing him further and further from the life he knew and understood. When his daughter had suddenly appeared from the bathroom with shaving foam all over her face, he’d stood on the stairs for a moment or two, blinking at her, before he reached out and accepted her clammy, pine-scented embrace. She’d asked about the man downstairs. He’d said it was someone from the office. She’d laughed and blown foam in his face, dancing away down the landing, taunting him to catch her, the disappointment showing in her face when he strode into the bedroom.

  Now, driving into the city, he sat hunched in the passenger seat, with his black cashmere coat pulled tightly around him, and his briefcase between his ankles, while the rest of the world prepared to blow itself to pieces.

  ‘What about the legislation?’ he said. ‘When does it all happen?’

  Davidson said nothing for a moment, beginning to slow to join a queue of traffic several hundred yards before the roundabout which marked the end of the motorway. The outside lane had been coned off. The convoy of Navy flat-beds swept past, a pair of police motorcyclists riding twenty yards ahead. Davidson eyed the rear view mirror.