Rules of Engagement

by Hurley, Graham

  ‘Certainly, if you think it’s realistic.’ He made another note on his pad, then glanced up. ‘How will you police that?’ he asked.

  ‘Small flotilla. Men I can trust. There’s plenty of them around. We’ll base in the dockyard, and run twenty-four hour patrols.’

  ‘And offenders? The people who won’t play ball?’

  ‘Jankers,’ he said, ‘in Haslar.’ The harbour master named the Naval Hospital, comfortably within sight of the harbour. ‘There’s a secure wing on the western side. We’ll use it if we must. It’s for their own good, at the end of the day.’

  He paused and blew his nose. Goodman, to his relief, sensed that they were coming to the end of the list, that the storm within him was beginning to blow itself out.

  ‘Anything else?’ he enquired.

  The harbour master tucked his handkerchief back into his pocket and gazed out of the window, and for a moment Goodman had a glimpse of the empty, restless years that would await this man after retirement. He thrived on problems. He took life by the throat and shook it hard. He’d be lost without an office, and a uniform, and something to complain about. The harbour master sniffed, struck by a final thought.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘This dispensation business’ – he looked around at them – ‘needs to be rigorous. Very rigorous. We’re – you’re – creating a tricky situation here. Dispensations will be extremely valuable. I need hardly say how valuable.’ He paused, arriving at the nub of it all. ‘So who’ll dispense the…ah…dispensations? Who’ll be in charge of it all?’

  ‘You will,’ Goodman said at once. ‘And you’ll have sole control.’

  ‘Good.’ The harbour master stood up and extended a hand. ‘Then I take it we have an agreement. Shall I minute this conversation? And send you a copy?’

  ‘No need.’

  ‘Are you quite sure?’

  He frowned at them both. Clearly he wanted the exchange in print as soon as possible. Copies for the file. Copies for Home Command. Copies for the ferry companies. And copies for anyone else who needed to know how important he’d just become. Goodman retreated gracefully.

  ‘By all means send me a minute,’ he said, ‘let’s have it down in black and white.’

  The harbour master grunted, as graceless as ever, and left the room. Davidson and Goodman strolled slowly after him, Davidson chuckling at the man’s abrasive self-importance. The upper reaches of Whitehall had once been full of similar figures, he said, but the Thatcher administration had seen most of them off.

  By the lift, Goodman looked at his watch. At six o’clock, he’d agreed to do a live interview on Wessex TV. Duggie Bullock had phoned at midday, and he’d accepted the invitation at once, a decision that Davidson had blessed with an approving nod of the head. There’d be nerves to calm, rumours to squash, tempers to soothe, hands to hold, and television was by far the best way of doing it. He hated the box himself, but there was no denying its power.

  Now, by the lift, Davidson snapped open his briefcase and extracted a thin manila file. He’d be off for a couple of hours, he said, on a little private business. But in the meantime, there was yet more reading for Goodman to add to his file. Highly confidential. Goodman took the file, and opened it. He began to frown.

  ‘What’s this?’ he said.

  ‘Spot of background,’ Davidson said easily. ‘On your minder.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On your minder. Your bodyguard. We thought it prudent, once things warm up. Nice lad called Evans. Serving Marine on attachment. He’ll double as your driver. Knows the city inside out.’ He smiled. ‘Discreet, too. In case you were wondering.’

  Harry Cartwright arrived at the Ensign at half-past three, parking his black Jaguar beside the rows of articulated lorries waiting to load fresh produce from the Channel Isles. The container boats from St Helier and St Peter Port were still running, and the working area was thick with spillage from the busy fork-lift trucks.

  Harry got out of his car, and began to walk towards the pub. Mick had seen him coming and met him by the door. On Albie’s suggestion, he’d abandoned the Stella for tomato juice.

  ‘Drink, Harry?’

  Cartwright shook his head. He rarely drank, and never before six.

  ‘I’ve got fifteen minutes,’ he said pointedly. ‘You’d better be serious.’

  Mick nodded, unusually deferential. He’d spent the last hour refining the idea, pushing it downstream on a tide of enthusiastic spiel that had even begun to convince Albie. Turning his back on the pub, he took Cartwright by the arm, the cherished uncle, and began to walk him slowly along the quayside. Below them were the lines of fishing smacks, and seagoing yachts, and assorted other craft that used the dock as home.

  The two men paused by a bollard, and Cartwright shook his head. Mick’s theories about the city being cut off left him far from convinced. Why should the authorities give themselves so much aggravation? What would they stand to gain?

  These objections Mick had anticipated, and he dismissed them at once. There were certain people, he said, friends of his, who were in the know. They’d passed on bits of information, tips, hints, guesses. They worked in the dockyard. They knew a thing or two. And they’d been kind enough to share their little secret.

  Cartwright looked at him, still unconvinced.

  ‘OK,’ he said reluctantly, ‘let’s suppose you’re right. The city’s cut off. What then?’

  Mick grinned at him, and nodded at the boats below.

  ‘Two grand a berth,’ he said, ‘maybe even three.’ Cartwright followed his pointing finger. The water was slack, the boats barely moving amongst the oily wrack. He frowned.

  ‘For what? Precisely?’

  ‘The works. The package deal.’ He bent close to Harry, confidential, intimate. ‘We dress the thing up. We market it properly. Small baggage allowance. Family valuables. 20 per cent discount for kids. Safe passage to the west coast of Ireland. Portugal. Some place like that. Fallout-free destination of your choice. Bunk in a cottage. Guaranteed fresh water supply. You name it.’ He paused for breath. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Three thousand? For that?’

  ‘For survival? Sounds cheap to me.’

  Cartwright looked at him, appraising, ever sceptical.

  ‘How many people do you know in Portugal?’ he said, ‘or the west coast of Ireland for that matter?’

  ‘None. But I can find some.’

  ‘How?’

  He shrugged. ‘Dunno,’ he said, ‘but there’ll be a way.’

  Cartwright nodded. ‘And how do they get there? These clients of yours?’

  Mick drew Cartwright to the edge of the quay. The handful of fishermen still working on the smaller inshore boats looked curiously up at them. Mick returned their stares. Earlier, he’d counted more than a dozen boats that might, at a pinch, qualify for the scheme, from the tiny two-man twenty-footers, to the sturdy, deep-draught, broad-beamed ocean-going trawlers that disappeared to sea for days on end.

  ‘Look around you, Harry,’ he said. ‘It’s been a lousy year. Talk to any of these guys. They’re on their uppers. Offer them cash, they’ll take you anywhere. Especially now.’ Mick paused. He could see that Cartwright, in spite of himself, was beginning to warm to the idea. But there was still the big question to come. Cartwright stepped back from the edge of the quay.

  ‘And how do you propose to fund this little enterprise?’ he said. ‘Assuming they want cash up front?’

  ‘Ah…’ said Mick, ‘…now that’s the point.’ They began to walk again, Mick saying nothing, Cartwright waiting for some kind of answer.

  ‘Well?’ he said.

  Mick stopped again, and looked Cartwright in the eye, partner to partner.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘it’s simple arithmetic. We take, say, a hundred people. At three thousand a pop, that’s three hundred grand. You can take your fifty grand off the top. Then there’s another, say, fifty grand for exes. That still leaves two hundred grand. Give or take. Tha
t’s nearly a quarter of a million quid. Easy, innit?’ Cartwright conceded the point with the briefest smile. Then the frown, and the questions, returned.

  ‘And what happens if the world blows up?’

  ‘Then we won’t be around to worry.’

  ‘And if it doesn’t?’

  ‘Halfeach.’

  Cartwright looked away, running the figures through his head, checking the sums. Then he lowered his gaze, down to the boats beginning to tug against their moorings on the first of the flood tide. Mick chuckled and squeezed his arm. Cartwright shook himself free. He hated being touched.

  ‘OK,’ he said at last, ‘but why me? Why talk to me about it? Why not just do it?’

  Mick smiled, nearly there.

  ‘Three reasons, Harry,’ he said easily. ‘First, you’re right. We need some money up front. Second, we need a certain class of punter. Your type of punter. All those fat cats you do business with…’

  ‘And third?’

  ‘Third, we might need a little official help.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Mick gestured around. The boats. The fishermen. Even the ferries.

  ‘They might close the place down,’ he said. ‘The Navy might take over. Anything could happen.’ He paused. ‘The bad news, Harry, is that we might need one or two of those friends of yours. To get us out to sea…’

  Cartwright nodded.

  ‘And the good news?’

  ‘We could double the price.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because in that case nobody could move.’ He smiled again. ‘Except us.’

  Gillespie found Jenner up a step-ladder in his office, detaching a large, framed print from a hook on the picture rail. Gillespie walked into the office, uninvited, and held out his hands, ready to take the picture. Jenner, unfamiliar with step-ladders, was starting to wobble.

  ‘Mr Jenner,’ Gillespie said. ‘Here.’

  Jenner looked back over his shoulder, recognizing Gillespie’s voice.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘How did you get in?’

  ‘The door was open,’ Gillespie said reasonably, ‘and the bell still doesn’t work.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh.’ He paused, frowning. ‘Must be the electrics again.’

  He swung the big picture carefully around the steps, and let Gillespie take the weight. Gillespie put it carefully on the floor, beside a large tea-chest. There was another tea-chest in the corner, and a collection of cardboard boxes. A table and Jenner’s desk were piled with books. Jenner clattered down the steps, and wiped his hands on the sides of his trousers, a big, rumpled man who’d never quite managed to throw off the habits of adolescence. Gillespie looked at him, then nodded at the tea-chests and the clutter around the office.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you’re off.’

  Jenner nodded. He looked tired.

  ‘ ’Fraid so,’ he said.

  ‘What are you calling it? Holiday?’

  ‘Life insurance.’ He pulled a face. ‘I know it’s terribly cowardly but I’ve a horrible feeling we’re in for a bit of a pasting. Not the Russians necessarily. I don’t suppose it’ll get that far. But all the rest of it. Power to the people. Aux barricades. You know the way it goes.’

  ‘No,’ said Gillespie, ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Demos. Punch-ups. Wild mobs.’ Jenner rolled his eyes. ‘There was a bit of a do this morning. At the War Memorial.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. CND were at it with their placards, and our football friends arrived. I happened to be running the wife to the shops. We had a grandstand seat. Danced all over the car. Scared the wife witless. Poor love. Shaken rigid.’ He paused, smiling to himself. ‘Actually, it would have amused you. I counted four of our clients in the enemy. So much for gratitude.’

  Gillespie grinned. Jenner’s notions of social justice had reached deep into the city’s toughest areas, and he’d recently defended a number of young thugs charged with riot and affray offences after the local football team had lost a fifth-round cup tie. Gillespie shook his head.

  ‘Too bad,’ he said. ‘What about the rest of your clients?’

  Jenner beamed at him, and indicated the contents of the nearest tea-chest.

  ‘They’re coming with me,’ he said. Gillespie peered into the tea-chest. The chest was three-quarters full of files.

  ‘What’s in there?’ he said.

  Jenner frowned, trying to remember.

  ‘House deeds,’ he said, ‘covenants, insurance agreements.’ He paused. ‘Wills.’

  Gillespie nodded. ‘Handy,’ he said drily.

  There was a silence between the two men. Jenner looked uncomfortable, and sniffed, and wiped his nose on the back of his hand.

  ‘You came for a reason,’ he said. ‘You’re a busy man.’

  ‘Actually I’m not. Quite the reverse.’

  ‘Ah…’ he nodded, ‘…then you want work.’

  ‘Afraid so.’

  Jenner gazed around at the office.

  ‘You any good with vans?’ he said.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Scilly Isles. First thing tomorrow morning.’

  Gillespie shook his head.

  ‘Not that far,’ he said.

  ‘Staying put?’

  ‘Yeah. For the time being.’

  ‘Then I can’t help you, my friend. People have a lot on their minds just now,’ he said. ‘They don’t need solicitors.’

  Gillespie looked at him, an expression close to disbelief.

  ‘Nobody’s been round?’ he said. ‘Nobody at all?’

  ‘Nobody I can help.’ He looked at the pile of papers on his desk. ‘I had a couple of calls this morning,’ he said, ‘about that business at St Ursula’s.’

  Gillespie frowned. St Ursula’s was a large, red-brick psychiatric hospital on the eastern fringes of the city, a big, cavernous Victorian institution, a dumping ground for the area’s mentally ill.

  ‘What happened at St Ursula’s?’ he said.

  Jenner looked embarrassed.

  ‘I’m not quite sure,’ he said. ‘They appear to have shipped some of the…ah…inmates out. Just released them.’ He nodded at the telephone. ‘It’s the relatives who call me. What are we to do with Uncle Frank? Daft as a brush and nowhere to go?’ He shook his head, another of life’s little tragedies. ‘You can imagine how I feel, poor souls. Still,’ he shrugged, ‘not very much I can do about it. Times like these.’ He paused, then turned to Gillespie, struck by an idea. ‘Why don’t you enlist?’

  ‘Enlist?’

  ‘Yes. Special Constable. I understand the police are opening the books tonight. Background like yours. I’m sure they’ll be delighted.’

  Gillespie looked thoughtful. ‘They pay well?’

  ‘No idea, old friend. Go and ask.’ He paused and wiped his hands on his trousers again. ‘Otherwise you might try the removals business. Do you know how much they’re charging now? Since it all started?’

  ‘Yeah. I can imagine. Blood money.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Jenner began to collaspe the step-ladder, trying to make sense of the sliders on the side. Gillespie watched him, marvelling that the man had managed to keep a business together for so long. He’d never met anyone so clumsy, so absent-minded, so totally uninterested in the smaller print of life.

  ‘So you’ve got nothing?’ he said.

  ‘ ’Fraid not.’ He prodded his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. ‘Though if anything comes up in the next few hours, I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Gillespie hesitated a moment, wondering if, after all, he shouldn’t offer to go to the Scilly Isles. He shuddered to think what would happen once Jenner got behind the wheel of a loaded van.

  ‘Listen…’ he began.

  Jenner gave him a small, bleak smile and shook his head. He was much shrewder than he looked.

  ‘No,’ he said, anticipating Gillespie’s of
fer, ‘you stay. You must stay. You should stay. We all should.’ He extended a limp hand. ‘Good luck.’

  Gillespie shook his hand.

  ‘You too,’ he said. ‘Drive carefully.’

  Jenner nodded, and peered around, already at a loss to know quite what to do next. Gillespie paused by the door. For the first time, he realized that he might never see this man again. The thought saddened him, and he was about to say something else, something warm and direct, a thank-you for two good years, but Jenner turned away, thinking he’d already left, and so he didn’t bother.

  Martin Goodman stood at the window of his office on the fifth floor, and watched the rain falling on the flagstones below. At the kerbside stood his new official car, a black Rover. At the wheel, barely visible, the man called Evans. He had a newspaper propped on the steering wheel. He was eating a bar of chocolate. He didn’t appear to be wearing uniform.

  Goodman turned away from the window and walked slowly back to his desk. Fiona, his secretary, had typed out a schedule for him, a list of meetings that would occupy him for most of the following day. The first of the meetings was scheduled for eight o’clock. He had to create a Secretariat for the allotment of passes in and out of the city, some mechanism whereby individuals with a genuine need – food suppliers, key workers in the handful of firms still operational, GPs, inhabitants or relatives returning from away – could negotiate the roadblocks which Davidson’s plan would inevitably require. Davidson had yet to announce a date for the implementation of the plan, but Goodman suspected that it would be sooner rather than later, perhaps even two or three days’ time.

  The roadblocks, he’d already concluded, would have to be sited on the southern side of the twenty-metre creek that separated the city from the mainland. There were only three roads off the island, plus a footbridge or two, and the operation seemed perfectly feasible, but thousands of people moved in and out of the city every working day, and he anticipated problem after problem in deciding who should qualify for a pass. What about the city’s undertakers, for instance? The municipal Crematorium happened to be sited on the mainland. Was he really going to deny the bereaved the chance to incinerate their loved ones before the Russians obliged? Or should he say no, they must be buried, or embalmed, or stored in fridges pending developments, thus provoking more representations, more telephone calls, more wasted time? He shook his head. One of a million issues, none of them easily resolvable.