Rules of Engagement

by Hurley, Graham

  They drove north, at speed, along the eastern edge of the harbour. The road was empty. Up ahead, where the road crossed the creek, and joined the east-west motorway, she could see activity: Land-Rovers parked up on the verge, a couple of three-ton trucks and an Armoured Personnel Carrier slewed across the tarmac. Sappers in Army fatigues were erecting a roadblock in front of the trucks, wooden trestles supporting baulks of heavy timber, rolls of razor wire, oil drums, sandbags, and a thicket of powerful floodlights mounted on poles. She’d seen the technique in Northern Ireland: whole areas of West Belfast isolated in five minutes or less, the roadblocks cleverly echeloned to slow approaching traffic, and permit passage only through a sequence of sharp, right-angled turns. As an essay in control, it had a certain functional beauty. More to the point, it offered the marksmen in combat gear, already dug into firing positions on either side of the road, perfect targets.

  Annie slowed the car, and stopped at the kerbside fifty yards short of the roadblock. The reporter looked across at her, and she saw the apprehension in his eyes. Maintaining his subscription to the New Statesman and a variety of left-wing pressure groups was one thing. This was quite another. Annie nodded at the tape recorder he’d dumped on the back seat, the standard Uher, shoulder-slung, broadcast quality.

  ‘Now’s your chance,’ she said, ‘death or glory.’

  She got out of the car and opened the boot. At the bottom of her bag was the tiny Sony Handycam she used for scouting locations. It took 3-hour, 8-mm video cassettes, and could record half-decent pictures in virtual darkness. She checked the batteries, and removed the lens hood, in readiness.

  The reporter was out of the car by now, threading a new roll of tape onto his Uher. As yet, there were no police in evidence, only the soldiers. Annie paused a minute, recording a long wide shot, the whole scene, then a tighter pan across the sappers, bent over the portable generator, a couple of officers conferring together, the squaddies manhandling the heavy sandbags across the road, and finally the point where the razor wire and the trestles ended, and the formless hump of the tussock at the road’s edge gave way to the inky blackness of the harbour.

  They began to walk forward again, approaching the roadblock. One of the two officers broke off from his conversation, and stepped towards them, into the pool of light from the overhead lamps. He looked, if anything, embarrassed.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he said.

  The reporter introduced himself, and lifted his microphone. Annie saw the spools revolving on the tape recorder, and began to film. The officer frowned and took a pace back. The reporter followed him. He was murmuring a running commentary on what he could see around him: the sappers uncoiling the razor wire with their thick, heavy-duty gloves, the Corporal kneeling beside the radio, muttering co-ordinates into a lip mike, the flanking marksmen, up on their elbows, making final adjustments to the bulky night sights. The reporter extended the microphone towards the officer.

  ‘What’s happening?’ he said. ‘What’s going on?’

  The officer shook his head, refusing to comment. The reporter repeated the question. The officer glanced over his shoulder and barked an order. A soldier ran towards him, and saluted. Annie moved in with her camera, determined to catch the exchange between them.

  The officer began to say something. The soldier’s eyes flicked left, towards Annie, by now only feet away. The officer turned on her, angry at the intrusion, at his authority being so obviously ignored in the presence of one of his men. He held out his hand.

  ‘Give me that,’ he said nodding at the camera.

  Annie continued to film, closing the shot a little, head and shoulders, rimlit by the lights behind. Nice. Dramatic. The real thing. The officer reached out for the camera, trying to sieze it. Annie stepped back. There were headlights down the road, moving at speed towards them. The officer was distracted, shielding his eyes, stepping back towards the kerb, motioning the soldier forward. Annie swung round with the camera in time to focus on the approaching car. A big, black Rover drew up. One of the rear windows purred down, and a hand extended a pass. She recognized the Home Office seal, embossed above the small colour photo. She zoomed on the face at the window: a blur at first, then more and more distinct as the automatic focus adjusted. Middle aged. Pale. Rimless glasses. Suit and tie. The face glanced up at the officer, said something she didn’t quite catch, and then looked directly into the lens with what she instinctively recognized as the beginning of a smile. She never felt the blow, but remembered only the darkness, a thick black woolly blanket of nothing that took her by surprise, and stole the face away.

  Martin Goodman sat at the long conference table that dominated the centre well of the city’s Command Bunker. To his left, raised above floor level, the glassed-in two-man cubicle he’d be sharing with Davidson: a couple of desks, a big grey filing cabinet with a combination lock, and two telephones, one a direct line to County HQ, the other patched through to the bunker’s main switchboard. To his right, behind a locked door, the Telex room with hardened lines to the Wiltshire quarry complex which would shortly serve as the UK’s centre of government. At his feet, the hastily packed holdall in case, as Davidson put it, the main feature went on a little longer than originally advertised. By the big grey government issue clock on the wall over his head, it was still only half-past two. Except for a couple of technicians from Naval Support, the place was empty.

  Goodman rubbed his eyes. Davidson had woken him an hour earlier, using the car phone in the official Rover parked outside his front door. He’d been half asleep, only too conscious of the body of his wife beside him, silent, barely breathing, her eyes wide open, staring up at the bedroom ceiling. He’d twice tried to talk to her, to reassure her, to tell her that it would, in the end, be all right. That they’d both survive. But the more he tried to soothe her, to find those precise words that would get to the heart of it, the deeper the ambiguities became. He knew what she was really talking about, they both did, but admitting it was far too complex and far too dangerous a risk for either of them to take. Their world was teetering on the edge of disintegration, and if anything saved it that night, it was probably Davidson’s phone call.

  Goodman had packed the holdall in the light from the landing. Socks, pullovers, shirts, items pulled at random from his chest of drawers. He’d collected the rest of the stuff, the bare essentials, from the bathroom. A toothbrush. A razor. A half-flattened tube of Mintyfresh. He’d stepped briefly into each of the children’s bedrooms, stooping low over their sleeping bodies, kissing them softly on the cheek. Already, in his new pyjamas, James looked like a stranger, someone else’s child. Caroline’s eyes had briefly opened, gazing sightlessly up, her warm sweet breath on his face, before she’d rolled over again, sound asleep. Charlie was flat on his face, the sheet around his mouth moist. To each child, he murmured a phrase or two, told them how much he loved them. These, he knew, were farewells. He was leaving home.

  Joanna came downstairs with him, to the door. He’d opened it, not wanting to prolong the scene, but she’d reached beyond him, pushing it back against the latch, a brief gesture, a screen between their world, and Davidson, waiting outside in the big black car. She’d looked up at him, grieving, and taken his face in her hands.

  ‘I still love you,’ she’d said. ‘And we’re still here.’

  He’d tried to say something in return, some small crumb of comfort, some tiny down payment on a joint future, but all he’d managed in the end was an official pass which would get her back into the city if she needed to.

  ‘Take it,’ he said. ‘It might come in handy.’

  Now, in the Bunker, he tried to empty his mind of it all. Davidson was briefing him on the roadblocks, his hands moving quickly over the map of the city, unfolded on the table before them. The operation, he said half-apologetically, had been initiated on direct orders from Whitehall. Speed and surprise had been judged essential. Such a task had never before been attempted in mainland Britain, and there was significant anxiety
in certain quarters about the outcome. The situation was thought to be volatile. Anything might happen.

  Under the circumstances, though, the operation had gone remarkably well. The roadblocks were all in place. By dawn, the police would be in position on the mainland, diverting traffic away from the city, long before it got anywhere near the roadblocks. In the city itself, a similar operation, more police screening the approach roads, filtering traffic out into the maze of side-streets that criss-crossed the island, defusing situations before they became a problem. Local TV and radio editors were already being briefed for their morning broadcasts, what to say and what not to say. The official line was very clear – the national interest was paramount – and it would be the broadcaster’s job to peddle the Government’s various messages with as much flair and conviction as they sold any other commodity. Since midnight, and the hasty passage of the second Emergency Powers Act, editors no longer had the right to comment, or to raise questions of their own. Second guessing the official line had become an offence, punishable by summary arrest. Journalism, in any meaningful sense, no longer existed.

  Goodman listened to Davidson’s easy exposition, recognizing the planning that must have gone into it, but asking himself time and again what would really happen in the morning, when years of careful organization collided head on with reality. Amongst Davidson’s careful phrases, there was no room for doubt, for anger, for fear, for panic. People, even hundreds of thousands of people, were simply walk-ons in an elegant script, masterminded from offices seventy miles away, choreographed by men in uniform who’d simply do what they were told. For the first time, Goodman truly understood the real power of Government, the enormous reach of the animal that lurked in the recesses of Whitehall, and it frightened him.

  A door slammed. A figure burst into the room. Goodman looked up. It was Nigel Quinn. The policeman strode across the room. He was white with anger. He stood in front of Goodman. There was another man with him, younger, sandy hair and watchful eyes, the uniform of a Chief Inspector. Quinn looked at the map for a second or two, getting his breath back, regaining his composure. Whatever was wrong, it was plainly Goodman’s fault.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ he said at last, ‘what on earth is going on? The place is thick with troops. No warning. No consultation. Nothing. We can’t even access their command net. What sort of war is this? Who are we fighting?’

  Goodman looked at him, and then at Davidson, deflecting the question. Quinn turned his anger on Davidson, putting his hands on his hips, no nonsense, man to man.

  ‘Well? Do I get any answers?’

  Davidson, imperturbable, picked up a phone and dialled a number. Quinn gazed at him, momentarily nonplussed. A voice answered, female. Davidson murmured a name. There was a pause, then another voice, male, deep. Even a couple of feet away, Goodman recognized the blunt Yorkshire tones of the county’s Chief Constable. Davidson murmured something else and offered the phone to Quinn. Quinn had recognized the voice, too. Goodman could see his face beginning to sag, his self-righteousness and indignation draining away. He took the phone.

  ‘Quinn, sir,’ he said.

  The voice at other end spoke for perhaps a minute. Quinn nodded several times, deflated, compliant, his master’s servant. Then he put the phone down, and glanced at his watch.

  ‘We ought to talk,’ he said gruffly, ‘there’s a hell of a lot to do.’

  Gillespie re-cued his ansaphone and listened to the message for the second time. A woman’s voice. Middle-aged. Middle-class. Slightly breathless. Slightly anxious. No name. No return number. Just the beginnings of an enquiry, a request for help, before the second sentence ran out of steam, and there was a pause, and the sound of a child crying, and the click of the receiver as the phone went dead.

  He frowned, and glanced at his watch. Eight o’clock. He’d woken, as usual, at six, aware at once that something was wrong. Instead of the news on his radio alarm, there’d been a religious address from some tame vicar or other. The man had spoken of the gravity of the situation, and of the need for prayer, and of the benevolence of Our Lord. He’d urged listeners to recall, once again, the days of their youth, their dependence on their mothers and their fathers, the sanctity of the family unit in times of dire emergency. And he’d ended by proclaiming the beauty of God’s works, and the warm assurance of the life to come.

  For a moment or two, lying in bed, Gillespie wondered whether the war had actually started, whether the T-80s were even now rumbling into the heartland of the Bundesrepublik, but then the broadcast had cut to the familiar voice of the BBC’s early morning announcer who apologized for the reorganization of programmes, added a word or two about the day’s expected weather, and introduced a concert of lesser-known Viennese waltzes. At that point, with Gillespie, the penny began to drop. They’ve taken over, he thought approvingly, they’re going to sort the whole thing out.

  On a whim, minutes later, he’d abandoned his usual morning route, and run inland, away from the beach and the promenade, through street after street of terraced houses, towards the Guildhall Square and the civic offices. If he wanted hard evidence, incontestable proof that his hunch was right, then he knew he’d find it here, in the city’s administrative nerve-centre. Sure enough, as he rounded the corner by the new insurance block that had replaced the city’s Victorian theatre, he ran into the first of the clues. Nothing elaborate, nothing obvious, just a couple of squaddies with a local policeman. They were standing on the blind side of the corner, in front of a pub, conferring over a map, their conversation punctuated by the ceaseless chatter of voices from the policeman’s lapel-mounted radio. Gillespie hesitated for a moment, pausing for breath, wondering whether to approach them. But then he caught sight of the removal vans parked beyond them, in the shadow of the Civic Centre. Men in overalls were humping plastic crates full of paperwork out of the building, and down the steps, and into the vans. The vans were blue, a commercial firm, Freeman & Co. There were more squaddies, armed, on the pavement, and a small command post had been established in the shadows to the left of the main door. Gillespie smiled, wiping the sweat from his brow, recognizing the tall whiplash aerial and the backpacked radio. He’d been right, after all. The administration was leaving town.

  Now, back at home, he picked up the remote TV control box and fingered his way through the channels. The national morning chat shows were evidently intact – familiar faces on the same old studio sofas – but when he paused to listen for a minute or two, he knew at once that something profound had indeed happened. The endless hours of review and analysis had disappeared completely. No more studio pundits dancing round maps of the Barents Sea. No more retired admirals pontificating on inherent flaws in nuclear submarine technology. No more tasteless interviews with pretty young US Naval wives in Savannah or King’s Bay, with their tacky assumption of imminent widowhood. Instead, there were figures from showbiz talking about their latest exercise fads, over-long gardening items, lengthy profiles of popular sporting heroes, and ceaseless promotions for re-runs of evergreen sit-coms and favourite game shows. Someone had been at the broadcasters. Someone had barged into all those studio centres, and torn up their transmission schedules, and told them what to do. The result, on the evidence of five minutes’ viewing, was bizarre. The world was very evidently on the point of blowing itself up. And yet life, at the nod of a Ministerial head, had become one long Saturday night: a feast of game shows, and sit-coms, and gales of canned laughter. Gillespie shook his head, amazed, and blanked the screen. Not with a bang, he thought. Not even with a whimper. But with drawn curtains, and a six-pack or two, and a whole evening of Game For A Laugh. Pathetic.

  He looked again at the ansaphone. Maybe the woman would phone back. She might have work, something quick and easy, and he could certainly do with the money. He’d give her until ten, at the latest. Then he’d get himself organized. Sort out Sandra and the boy. Look for fuel. And head west.

  By nine o’clock, Annie had got over the worst. When she f
irst came round, flat on her back in a strange room, she hadn’t a clue where she was. A pocket inside her head was heavy with pain, a constant pulsing hammerblow that made her want to vomit, and when she groaned, and reached out into the darkness, there was a hand there at once, a voice she recognized only dimly, a man’s voice, the young radio reporter. He’d guided her head over a bowl, and she’d thrown up, retching with the pain, and then collapsed back onto the bed, her face covered with sweat. Sleep, said the voice, take it easy, and she’d muttered her gratitude, and complied at once, not because she’d wanted to, but because her body left her no other choice. Consciousness hurt too much. Better, for now, to sign off.

  Now, daylight spilling round the curtains, she felt a little better. She looked around, let the room swim into focus, looking for clues, half remembering the voice, an hour or two earlier, the young reporter. The room was small, cluttered with furniture, a bookcase, pictures on the wall, something Parisian, a woman’s touch in the hanging basket by the window.

  Annie rolled slowly over, trying to stifle the groan. The door opened. The reporter stooped over the bed. Annie looked up at him, not knowing quite what to say. He had ash blond hair, cut fashionably short. His face was bruised over his left eye, and there was swelling around his mouth. He smiled at her.

  ‘OK?’ he said needlessly.

  Annie pulled a face. Pain flooded up over her skull. She felt sick again, shutting her eyes.

  ‘What happened?’ she said.

  The young reporter sat down on the bed. He was wearing a dressing gown over tracksuit bottoms. Distantly, elsewhere in the house, Annie could hear the whistle of a boiling kettle. The whistling stopped.